Chapter 3

O winter of our discontent! Your reign was for a day; Behold! a scene of wonderment, A thousand tongues are eloquent, For spring, in bud and bloom and scent, Is on the way.

Christmas-Tide.

Let working-clothes be laid aside, And Industry in festal garb arrayed; Let busy brain and hand from toil and trade Relax at Christmas-tide.

As moments pass by dial, so Let gifts go round the happy circle where In giving and receiving each may share, And mutual kindness show.

The meaning deep, like mystery, That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe, May thousands never fathom--yet who know And hail the Christmas-tree.

So strong a hold on human thought Has this glad day that seasons all the year With the rich flavoring of hearty cheer, It ne'er shall be forgot.

It is the milestone on life's road Where we may lay our burdens down, and take A look at souvenirs, for love's dear sake So prettily bestowed.

Upon its shining tablet we may write-- If, like the good Samaritan, in deed-- A record that the angel band shall read With impulse of delight.

And this is why on Christmas morn The world should smile and wear its brightest glow: Because some nineteen hundred years ago A little child was born.

January, 1885.

These winter days are passing fair! As if a breath of spring Had permeated all the air, And touched each living thing With thankfulness for such a boon-- Discounting with a scoff The almanac's report that "June Is yet a long way off!"

We quarrel with the calendar-- For May has been misplaced-- And doubt the tale oracular Of "Janus, double-faced;" For this "ethereal mildness" looks Toward shadowy delights Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks, Of coming thermal nights.

Let robes diaphanous succeed Dense garments made of fur, And overcoats maintain the lead-- Among the things that were! The wisely-rented sealskin sacque, By many a dame possessed, Be quickly relegated back To its moth-haunted chest!

While every portly alderman, In linen suit arrayed, Manipulates the palm-leaf fan And seeks the cooling shade; And he perspires who not in vain Suggests his funny squibs, By poking his unwelcome cane In other people's ribs.

Who dares to fling opprobrium On January now? As to a potentate we come With reverential bow, Because it doth not yet appear That Time hath ever seen The ruler of th' inverted year In more benignant mien.

O Boreas! do not lie low-- That is, if "lie" thou must-- Upon our planet; do not blow With fierce and sudden gust, But come so gently, tenderly-- As come thou surely wilt-- That we may have sweet dreams of thee, Beneath "our crazy quilt!"

Sweet Peas.

By helpful fingers taught to twine Around its trellis, grew A delicate and dainty vine; The bursting bud, its blossom sign, Inlaid with honeyed-dew.

Developing by every art To floriculture known, From tares exempt, and kept apart, Careful, as if in some fond heart Its legume germs were sown.

So thriving, not for me alone Its beauty and perfume-- Ah, no, to rich perfection grown By flower mission loved and known In many a darkened room.

And once in strange and solemn place, Mid weeping uncontrolled, Upon the crushed and snowy lace I saw them scattered 'round a face All pallid, still, and cold.

Oh, some may choose, as gaudy shows, Those saucy sprigs of pride The peony, the red, red rose; But give to me the flower that grows Petite and pansy-eyed.

Thus, meditation on Sweet Peas Impels the ardent thought, Would maidens all were more like these, With modesty--that true heartsease-- Tying the lover's knot.

The Summer House.

Midway upon the lawn it stands, So picturesque and pretty; Upreared by patient artist hands, Admired of all the city; The very arbor of my dream, A covert cool and airy, So leaf-embowered as to seem The dwelling of a fairy.

It is the place to lie supine Within a hammock swinging, To watch the sunset, red as wine, To hear the crickets singing; And while the insect world around Is buzzing--by the million-- No wingèd thing above the ground Intrudes in this pavilion.

It is the place, at day's decline, To tell the old, old story Behind the dark Madeira vine, Behind the morning glory; To confiscate the rustic seat And barter stolen kisses, For honey must be twice as sweet In such a spot as this is.

It is the haunt where one may get Relief from petty trouble, May read the latest day's gazette About the "Klondike" bubble: How shanties rise like golden courts. Where sheep wear glittering fleeces, How gold is picked up--by the quartz-- And all get rich as Croesus.

Here hid away from dust and heat, Secure from rude intrusion, While willing lips the thought repeat, So grows the fond illusion: That happiness the product is Of lazy, languid dozing, Of soft midsummer reveries, Half-waking, half-reposing.

And here in restful interlude, Life's fallacies forgetting, Its frailties--such a multitude-- The fuming and the fretting, Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew, The happy soul at even May walk abroad, and interview Bright messengers from Heaven.

To Die in Autumn.

The melody of autumn Is the only tune I know, And I sing it over and over Because it thrills me so; It stirs anew the happy wish, So near to perfect bliss, To live a little longer in A world like this.

The sound was never sweeter, The voice so nearly mute, As beauty, dying, loses Her hold upon the lute; And like the harmonies that touch And blend with those above, Forever must an echo wake The heart of love.

Her robe of brown and coral And amber glistens through Rare jewels of the morning, The opals of the dew, Like royal fabrics worn beneath The tinselry of pearls, Or diamond dust by fashion strewn On sunny curls.

If I could wrap such garments In true artistic style About myself departing, And wear as sweet a smile And be as guileless as the flowers My friends would never sigh; 'Twould reconcile them to my death To see me die.

And why should there be sorrow When dying is no more Than 'twixt two bright apartments The opening of a door Through which the freed, enraptured soul From this, a paradise, May pass to that supremely fair Beyond the skies?

Oh, 'twere not hard to finish When earth with tender grace Prepares for her dear children So sweet a resting place; And though in dissolution's throe The melody be riven, The song abruptly ended here Goes on in Heaven.

Apple Blossoms.

Of all the lovely blossoms That decorate the trees, And shower down their petals With every breath of breeze, There is nothing so sweet or fair to me As the delicate blooms of the apple tree.

A thousand shrubs and flow'rets Delicious pleasure bring, But beautiful Pomona Must be the queen of spring; And out of her flagon the peach and pear Their chalices fill with essence rare.

Oh, is it any wonder, Devoid of blight or flaw, The peerless blooms of Eden Our primal mother saw In redolent beauty before her placed So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?

But woman's love of apples, Involving fearful price, And Adam's love for woman That cost him Paradise, By the labor of hands and sweat of brow, Have softened the curse to a blessing now.

If so those pink-eyed glories, In fields and orchards gay Develop luscious fruitage By Horticulture's way, Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes, Shall luxury follow the apple blooms.

Without a Minister.

The congregation was devout, The minister inspired, Their attitude to those without By every one admired, And all things so harmonious seemed, Of no calamity we dreamed.

But, just in this quiescent state A little cloud arose Portentous of our certain fate-- As everybody knows; Our pastor took it in his head His "resignation" must be read.

In every eye a tear-drop stood, For we accepted it Reluctantly, but nothing could Make him recant one bit; And soon he left for distant parts, While we were left--with broken hearts.

And next the "patriarch" who led For nearly three-score years Our "Sabbath school"--its worthy head-- Rekindled all our fears By saying, with a smile benign, "Since it's the fashion, I'll resign!"

And so he did; but promptly came Forth one, of good report-- "Our Superintendent" is his name-- Who tries to "hold the fort" With wisdom, tact, and rare good sense, In this, his first experience.

The world looks on and says, "How strange! They hang together so, These Baptists do, and never change, But right straight onward go While other flocks are scattering all, And some have strayed beyond recall!"

Indian Summer.

Is it not our bounden duty Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell, Wild, ambitions schemes repel, And to revel in the beauty Of this Indian summer spell, Bathing forest, field, and dell As with radiance immortelle?

None can paint like nature dying; Whose dissolving struggle lent Wealth of hues so richly blent That, through weary years of trying, Artist skill pre-eminent May not copy or invent Such divine embellishment.

Knights of old from castles riding Scattered largesse as they went Which, like manna heaven-sent, Cheered the poverty-abiding; But, when 'neath "that low green tent" Passed the hand benevolent, Sad were they and indigent.

Monarchs, too, have thus delighted Giving unto courtiers free, Costly robes and tinselry; And, as royal guests, invited Them to sumptuous halls of glee, Banqueting and minstrelsy, Bacchus holding sovereignty.

Then, perchance, in mood capricious Stripped and scorned and turned away Those who tasted for a day Pleasure sweet and food delicious; Nor might any say them nay-- Lest his head the forfeit pay Who a king dared disobey.

But our own benignant Giver, Almoner impartial, true, Constantly doth gifts renew; Nor would fitfully deliver Aught unto the chosen few, But to all the wide world through, Who admire his wonders, too.

Never shall the heart be poorer, Never languish in despair, That such affluence may share; For than this is nothing surer-- He hath said, and will prepare In those realms of upper air Glories infinitely fair.

Autumn-Time.

Like music heard in mellow chime, The charm of her transforming time Upon my senses steals As softly as from sunny walls, In day's decline, their shadow falls Across the sleeping fields.

A fair, illumined book Is nature's page whereon I look While "autumn turns the leaves;" And many a thought of her designs Between those rare, resplendent lines My fancy interweaves.

I dream of aborigines, Who must have copied from the trees The fashions of the day: Those gorgeous topknots for the head, Of yellow tufts and feathers red, With beads and sinews gay.

I wonder if the saints behold Such pageantry of colors bold Beyond the radiant sky; And if the tints of Paradise Are heightened by the strange device Of making all things die.

Yea, even so; for Nature glows Because of her expiring throes, As if around her tomb Unmeet it were,--the look severe That designates a common bier Enwreathed in deepest gloom.

And so I meditate if aught Can be so fair where death is not; If Heaven's loveliness Is born of struggle and decay; And, but for funeral array, Would it be beautiless?

Oh solemn, sad, sweet mystery That Earth's unrivaled brilliancy Is but her splendid pall! That Heaven were not what it is But for that crown of tragedies, The sacrifice for all.

So not a charm would Zion lose Were it bereft of sparkling hues In gilded lanes and leas; It would be bright though not a flower Unclosed in its celestial bower, And void of jeweled trees.

Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see, Its name is his who died for me; Whose matchless beauty shows Perfection on its bleeding stem, The blossom-bud of Bethlehem, The Resurrection Rose.

The Beauty of Nature.

Oh bud and leaf and blossom, How beautiful they are! Than last year's vernal season 'Tis lovelier by far; This earth was never so enchanting Nor half so bright before-- But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime, For forty years or more.

What luxury of color On shrub and plant and vine, From pansies' richest purple To pink of eglantine; From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups," With deep cerulean eyes, Responding to their modest surname In violet surprise.

Sometimes I think the sunlight That gilds the emerald hills, And makes Aladdin dwellings Of dingy domiciles, Is surplus beauty overflowing That Heaven cannot hold-- The topaz glitter, or the jacinth, The glare of streets of gold.

In "Cedar Hill," the city Of "low green tents" of sod, I read the solemn record Of those gone home to God; While from their hallowed dust arising The fragrant lilies grow As if their life was all the sweeter For those who sleep below.

And so 'tis not in sadness I dwell upon the thought, When I am dead and buried That I shall be forgot. Because the germ of reproduction Doth this poor body hold, Perchance to add to nature's beauty A rose above the mold.

"All the Rage."

A common wayside flower it grew, Unhandsome and unnoticed too, Except in deprecation That such an herb unreared by toil, Prolific cumberer of the soil, Defied extermination.

Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred By honey-bee nor humming-bird In their corollas dipping; But they from clover white and red Delicious nectar drew instead In dainty rounds of sipping.

No place its own euphonious name Within the catalogue might claim Of any flora-lover; For, in the scores of passers-by, As yet no true artistic eye Its beauty could discover.

The reaper with his sickle keen Aimed at its crest of gold and green With spiteful stroke relentless, And would have rooted from the ground The "Solidago"--blossom-crowned, But gaudy, rank, and scentless.

But everything must have its day-- And since some fickle _devotée_ Or myrmidon of Fashion Declares that this obnoxious weed, From wild, uncultivated seed, Shall be the "ruling passion,"

Effusive schoolgirls dote on it; Whose "frontispieces" infinite That need no decoration Are hid beneath its golden dust, Till many a fine, symmetric bust Is lost to admiration.

Smart dudes and ladies' men--the few Who wish they could be ladies too-- Display a sprig of yellow Conspicuous in their buttonhole, To captivate a maiden soul Or vex some other fellow.

And spinsters of uncertain age Are clamoring now for "all the rage" To give a dash of color To their complexions, which appear To be the hue they hold so dear-- Except a trifle duller.

That _négligée_ "blue-stocking" friend, Who never cared her time to spend On mysteries of the toilet, Now wears a sumptuous bouquet And shakes your hand a mile away For fear that you will spoil it.

Delightful widows, dressed in black, Complain with modest sighs they lack That coveted expression, That sort of Indian Summer air Which "relicts" always ought to wear By general concession;

And so lugubrious folds of crape Are crimped and twisted into shape With graceful heads of yellow, That give a winsome toning down To sombre hat and sable gown-- In autumn tintings mellow.

Alas, we only hate the weed! And think that it must be, indeed, The ladies' last endeavor To match the gentlemen, who flaunt That odious dried tobacco plant At which they puff forever.

My Mother's Hand.

My head is aching, and I wish That I could feel tonight One well-remembered, tender touch That used to comfort me so much, And put distress to flight.

There's not a soothing anodyne Or sedative I know, Such potency can ever hold As that which lovingly controlled My spirit long ago.

How oft my burning cheek as if By Zephyrus was fanned, And nothing interdicted pain Or seemed to make me well again So quick as mother's hand.

'Tis years and years since it was laid, In her own gentle way, On tangled curls of brown and jet Above the downy coverlet 'Neath which the children lay.

As bright as blessed sunlight ray The past comes back to me; Her fingers turn the sacred page For a little group of tender age Who gather at her knee.

And when those hands together clasped Devout and still were we; To whom it seemed God then and there Must surely answer such a prayer, For none could pray as she.

O buried love with her that passed Into the Silent Land! O haunting vision of the night! I see, encoffined, still, and white, A mother's face and hand.

A Leap Year Episode.

Such oranges! so fresh and sweet, So large and lovely--and so cheap! They lay in one delicious heap, And added to the sumptuous feast For each and all in taste expert The acme of all fine dessert; So, singling out the very least As in itself an ample treat, While sparkling repartee and jest Exhilarated host and guest, Of rarity so delicate In dreamy reverie I ate, By magic pinions as it were Transported from this realm of snows To be a happy sojourner Away down where the orange grows; Amid the bloom, the verdure, and The beauty of that tropic land, While redolence seemed wafted in From orchard-groves of Mandarin.

In dinner costume _a la mode_, Expressing from the spongy skin The nectar that ran down her chin In little rills of lusciousness, Sat Maud, the beautiful coquette; Her dainty mouth, like "two lips" wet With morning dew, her crimson dress, A sad discoloration showed Where orange-juice--it was a sin!-- A polka-dot had painted in; Which moved the roguish girl to say Half-ruefully (half-_décolleté_)-- "I'm glad it's Leap Year now, for I--" Her voice was like a moistened lute "Shall wear the flowers, by and by-- I do not like this leaky fruit!" And looking straight and saucily At cousin Ned, her _vis-a-vis_; While Will, who never dared propose, Was blushing like a red, red rose.

The company was large, and she Touched elbows with the exquisite, Gay Archibald, who took her wit And pertness all as meant for him; Who, thereby lifted some degrees Above less-favored devotees, With rainbow sails began to trim His craft of sweet felicity; So mirth in reckless afterlude Convulsed the merry multitude, Who laughed at Archie's self-esteem, And pitied Will's long-cherished dream; While all declared, for her and Ned-- His face was like a silver tray-- The wedding-banquet should be spread Before a twelvemonth passed away. But, ah, the sequel--blind were we To woman and her strategy! For he so long afraid to speak Bore off the bride within a week.

If.

If all the sermons good men preach And all the precepts that they teach Were gathered into one Unbroken line of silver speech, The shining filament might reach From earth unto the sun.

If all the stories ever told By wild romancers, young or old, Into a thread were drawn, And from its cable coil unrolled, 'Twould span those misty hills of gold That heaven seems resting on.

If every folly, every freak, From day to day, from week to week, Is written in "The Book," With all the idle words we speak, Would it not crimson many a cheek Upon the page to look?

If all the good deeds that we do From honest motives pure and true Shall there recorded be, Known unto God and angels too, Is it not sad they are so few And wrought so charily?

Perfect Character.

He lives but half who never stood By the grave of one held dear, And out of the deep, dark loneliness Of a heart bereaved and comfortless, From sorrow's crystal plentitude, Feeling his loss severe, Dropped a regretful tear.

Oh, life's divinest draught doth not In the wells of joy abound! For the purest streams are those that flow Out of the depths of crushing woe, As from the springs of love and thought Hid in some narrow mound, Making it holy ground.

He hath been blessed who sometimes knelt Owning that God is just, And in the stillness of cypress shade Rosemary's tender symbol laid Upon a cherished shrine, and felt Strengthened in faith and trust Over the precious dust.

So perfect character is wrought, Rounded and beautified, By the alchemy of that strange alloy, The intermingling of grief and joy; So nearer Heaven the spirit, brought Bleeding, so sorely tried, Finds its diviner side.

The Miracle of Spring.

What touch is like the Spring's? By dainty fingerings Such rare delight to give, 'Tis luxury to live Amid florescent things.

Through weary months of snow When Boreas swept low, How many an anxious hour We watched one little flower, And tried to make it grow;

And thrilled with ecstasy When, half distrustfully, A timid bud appeared, A tender scion reared In window greenery.

But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom And richness of perfume Comes as by miracle; Then why not possible Within a curtained room?

Ah, no! that everywhere The earth is passing fair, And strange new life hath caught, Is but the marvel wrought By sunlight, rain, and air.

Bermuda.

O charming blossom of the sea Atlantic waters bosomed in! Abiding-place of gayety, Elysian bower of "Cora Linn," The sprightly, lively _débiteuse_ Recounting all she sees and does.

Oh, how it makes the northern heart, With sluggish current half-congealed, In ecstasy and vigor start To read about this tropic field; The garden of luxuriousness, In winter wearing summer's dress.