Chapter 4

With gelid sap and frozen gum In maple trees and hackmatack, While waiting for the spring to come Of life's necessities we lack; And sip the nectar that we find In luscious fruit with golden rind.

But down the street we dread to walk, For all the teachings of our youth Receive an agonizing shock; _Do_ tempting labels lie, forsooth? For "out of Florida," she says, "Come our Bermuda oranges."

To speed the penitential prayer Our rosary we finger o'er, A yellow necklace rich and rare-- 'Twas purchased at the dollar store; But oh, it makes us sigh to see That land of amber _bijouterie_!

Oh, ocean wave and flying sail Shall never waft us to its shore! But if some reckless cyclone gale Should drop Bermuda at our door, 'Twould warm our February sky And bring the time of roses nigh!

The Charter Oak.

I seem to see the old tree stand, Its sturdy, giant form A spectacle remembered, and A pilgrim-shrine for all the land Before it met the storm.

Unnumbered gales the tree defied; It towered like a king Above his courtiers, reaching wide, And sheltering scions at its side As with protecting wing.

Revered as one among the trees To mark the seasons born, To watchful aborigines It told by leafy indices The time of planting corn.

The landmark of the past is gone, Its site is overgrown; A mansion overlooks the lawn Where history is traced upon A parapet of stone.

Shall e'er Connecticut forget What unto it we owe-- How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat, And tyranny, in council met, Outwitted years ago?

Aye, but it rouses loyal spunk To think of that old tree! Its stately stem, its spacious trunk By Nature robbed of pith and punk To guard our liberty.

But of the oak long-perished, why Is earth forever full? For, like the loaf and fish supply, Its stock of fiber, tough and dry, Seems inexhaustible.

Rare souvenirs the stranger sees-- Who never sees a joke-- And innocently dreams that these, From knotty, gnarly, scraggy trees, Were once the Charter Oak!

Blossom-time.

Yes, it is drawing nigh-- The time of blossoming; The waiting heart beats stronger With every breath of Spring, The days are growing longer; While happy hours go by As if on zephyr wing.

A wealth of mellow light Reflected from the skies The hill and vale is flooding; Still in their leafless guise The Jacqueminots are budding, Creating new delight By promise of surprise.

The air is redolent As ocean breezes are From spicy islands blowing, Or groves of Malabar Where sandal-wood is growing; Or sweet, diffusive scent, From fragrant attar-jar.

Just so is loveliness Renewed from year to year; And thus emotions tender, Born of the atmosphere, Of bloom, and vernal splendor That words cannot express, Make Spring forever dear.

Can mortal man behold So beautiful a scene, Without the innate feeling That thus, like dying sheen The sunset hues revealing, Glints pure, celestial gold On fields of living green?

"One of the Least of These."

'Twas on a day of cold and sleet, A little nomad of the street With tattered garments, shoeless feet, And face with hunger wan, Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful, Hedged in by features pinched and dull, Betraying lines so pitiful By sorrow sharply drawn;

Ere yet the service half was o'er, Approached the great cathedral door As choir and organ joined to pour Their sweetness on the air; Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glide With fleetness to the altar's side, Her trembling form she sought to hide Amid the shadows there,

Half fearful lest some worshiper, Enveloped close in robes of fur, Had cast a scornful glance at her As she had stolen by, But soon the swelling anthem, fraught With reverence, her spirit caught As rapt she listened, heeding not The darkness drawing nigh.

'Mid novelty and sweet surprise Her soul, enraptured, seemed to rise And tread the realms of Paradise; Her shivering limbs grew warm, And as the shadows longer crept Across the chancel, angels kept Their vigils o'er her as she slept Secure from cold and storm.

No sound her peaceful slumber broke, But one, whose gentle face bespoke True goodness, took her costly cloak In tender, thoughtful way, And as the sleeper sweetly smiled, Perchance by dreams of Heaven beguiled, O'erspread the passive, slumbering child, And softly stepped away.

So rest thee, child! since Sorrow's dart Has touched like thine the Saviour's heart, Thou hast a nearer, dearer part In his great love for thee; And when life's shadows all are gone, May Heaven reveal a brighter dawn To thee who, unaware, hast drawn Our hearts in sympathy.

Lightning-bugs.

Around my vine-wreathed portico, At evening, there's a perfect glow Of little lights a-flashing-- As if the stellar bodies had From super-heat grown hyper-mad, And spend their ire in clashing.

As frisky each as shooting star, These tiny electricians are The Lampyrine Linnæan-- Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleam Like scintillations in a dream Of something empyrean.

They brush my face, light up my hair, My garments touch, dart everywhere; And if I try to catch them They're quicker than the wicked flea-- And then I wonder how 'twould be To have a _dress_ to match them.

To be a "princess in disguise," And wear a robe of fireflies All strung and wove together, And be the cynosure of all At Madame Haut-ton's carnival, In fashion's gayest feather.

So, sudden, falls upon the grass The overpow'ring light of gas, And through the lattice streaming; As wearily I close my eyes Brief are the moments that suffice To reach the land of dreaming.

Now at the ball, superbly dressed As I suppose, to eclipse the rest, Within an alcove shady A brilliant flame I hope to be, While all admire and envy me, The "bright electric lady."

But, ah, they never shine at all! My eyes _ignite_--I leave the hall, For wrathful tears have filled them; I could have crushed them on the spot-- The bugs, I mean!--and quite forgot That _stringing_ them had killed them.

Of Her who Died.

We look up to the stars tonight, Idolatrous of them, And dream that Heaven is in sight, And each a ray of purest light From some celestial gem In her bright diadem.

Before that lonely home we wait, Ah! nevermore to see Her lovely form within the gate Where heart and hearthstone desolate And vine and shrub and tree Seem asking: "Where is she?"

There is the cottage Love had planned-- Where hope in ashes lies-- A tower beautiful to stand, Her monument whose gentle hand And presence in the skies Make home of Paradise.

In wintry bleakness nature glows Beneath the stellar ray; We see the mold, but not the rose, And meditate if knowledge goes Into yon mound of clay, With her who passed away.

Of sighs, and tears, and joys denied Do echoes reach up there? Do seraphs know--God does--how wide And deep is sorrow's bitter tide Of dolor and despair, And darkness everywhere?

Dear angel, snatched from our caress, So suddenly withdrawn, Alone are we and comfortless; As in a dome of emptiness The old routine goes on, Aimless, since thou art gone.

Oh, dearer unto us than aught In all the world beside Of thee to cherish blessed thought; So early thy sweet mission wrought, As friend, as promised bride, Who lived, and loved, and died.

Thanksgiving.

Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereft Of her supernal charm; And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left, Like crape upon her arm, In boreal hints, and sudden gusts That fan the glowing ember, By multitude of ways fulfills The promise of November.

Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away, Lies the rich afterglow Of Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holiday That antedates the snow: The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer, The festival commotion That stirs fraternal feeling from The mountains to the ocean.

O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden hand In generous dealing, where Is gathered in reunion each long-severed household band, And let no vacant chair Show where the strongest, brightest link In love's dear chain is broken-- A symbol more pathetic than By language ever spoken.

Into the place held sacred to the memory of some Beloved absentee, Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger come And in gratuity Partake of festal favors that Shall sweeten hours of labor, And strengthen amity and love Unto his friend and neighbor.

Let gratitude's pure incense in warm orisons ascend, A blessing to secure, And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extend To all deserving poor; So may the day be hallowed by Unstinted thanks and giving, In sweet remembrance of the dead And kindness to the living.

Receiving Sight.

In hours of meditation fraught With mem'ries of departed days, Comes oft a tender, loving thought Of one who shared our youthful plays.

In gayest sports and pleasures rife Whose happy nature reveled so, That on her ardent, joyous life A shadow lay, we did not know;

And bade her look one summer night Up to the sky that seemed to hold, In dying sunset splendor bright, All hues of sapphire, red, and gold.

How strange the spell that mystified Us all, and hushed our wonted glee, As sadly her sweet voice replied, "Why, don't you know I cannot see?"

Too true! those eyes bereft of sight No blemish bare, no drop-serene, But nothing in this world of light And beauty they had ever seen.

A dozen years in gentle ruth Their impress lent to brow and cheek, When precious words of sacred truth Led her the Saviour's face to seek.

Responsive unto earnest prayers Commingling love and penitence, A blessing came--not unawares-- In new and strange experience.

And all was light, as Faith's clear eye A brighter world than ours divined; For never clouds obscured the sky That she could see, while _we_ were blind.

Oh, it must be an awful thing To be shut out from light of day!-- From summer's grace, and bloom of spring In gladness words cannot portray.

But haply into every heart May enter that Celestial Light That doth to life's dark ways impart A radiance hid from mortal sight.

Revenge.

Beside my window day and night, Its tendrils reaching left and right, A morning glory grew; With blossoms covered, pink and white And deep, delicious blue.

Its care became my daily thought, Who to the sweet diversion brought A bit of florist skill To guide its progress, till it caught The meaning of my will.

When through the trellis in and out It bent and turned and climbed about And so ambitious grew, O'erleaped a chasm beyond the spout Where raindrops trickled through,

Then, in caressing, graceful way, Around a door knob twined one day With modest show of pride; All unaware that danger lay Just on the other side.

An awkward, verdant "maid of work," Who dearly loved her tasks to shirk, While rummaging among Unused apartments, with a jerk The door wide open flung.

And lo! there lay, uprooted quite, The object of my heart's delight-- I did not weep or rant, And yet a grain or two of spite My secret thoughts would haunt.

So when at night her favorite beau Beside his charmer sat below-- That is, _dans le cuisine_-- Occurred, as all the neighbors know, A semi-tragic scene.

The garden hose, obscured from view, Turned on itself and drenched the two-- A hapless circumstance That lengthened out her "frizzes" new, But shrunk his Sunday pants.

Remember this was years agone-- The madcap now hath sober grown And hose is better wrought, And neither now would run alone The risk of being caught.

On the Common.

We met on "Boston Common"-- Of course it was by chance-- A sudden, unexpected, But happy circumstance That gave the dull October day A beautiful, refulgent ray.

Like wandering refugees from A city of renown, Impelled to reconnoiter This Massachusetts town, Each by a common object urged, Upon the park our paths converged.

Good nature, bubbling over In healthy, hearty laughs, And little lavish speeches Like pleasant paragraphs, The kind regard, unstudied joke, His true felicity bespoke.

A bit of doleful knowledge Confided unto me, About the way the doctors-- Who never could agree-- His knees had tortured, softly drew My sympathy and humor, too.

I hoped he wouldn't lose them, And languish in the dumps By having to quadrille on A pair of polished stumps-- But a corky limb, though one might dread, Isn't half as bad as a wooden head.

He censured those empirics Who never heal an ill, Though bound by their diplomas To either cure or kill, Who should, with ignominy crowned, Their patients follow--under ground.

I left him at the foot of "The Soldiers' Monument," With incoherent mutterings-- As though 'twere his intent To turn the sod, a rod or two, And sleep beside the "boys in blue."

In Hartford's charming circles His bonhommie I miss, And having never seen him From that day unto this, I think of him with much regret As lying--with the soldiers--yet.

Woman's Help.

Sometimes I long to write an ode And magnify his name, The man of honor, on the road To opulence and fame, On whom was never aid bestowed By any helpful dame.

To all the world I fain would show That talent widely known, Rare eloquence, of burning glow To melt a heart of stone, That all his gifts, a dazzling row, Are his, and his alone.

But him, of character and mind Superb, alert, and strong, I never study but to find The subject of my song, Some paragon of womankind, Has helped him all along.

He may not know, he may not guess, How much to her he owes, How every scion of success That in his nature grows, Developed by her watchfulness, Becomes a blooming rose.

From buffetings in humble place, And labors ill begun, To proud achievement in the race And laurels grandly won, His trials all she dares to face As friend and champion.

The bars that hinder his advance And half obscure the goal, The stubborn bond of circumstance That irritates his soul, The countershafts of arrogance, All yield to her control.

He builds a tower--she below Is handing up the bricks; His light is brilliant just as though Her hand had trimmed the wicks; He prays for daily bread--the dough A woman deigns to mix.

Tobogganing.

Oh, the rare exhilaration, Oh, the novel delectation Of a ride down the slide! Packed like ice in zero weather, Pleasure-seekers close together, On a board as thin as wafer, Barely wider, scarcely safer, At the height of recreation Find a glorious inspiration, Ere the speedy termination In the snowy meadow wide, Sloping to the river's side.

Oh, such quakers we begin it, Timorous of the icy route! But to learn in half a minute What felicity is in it, As we shoot down the chute, Smothered in toboggan suit, Redingote or roquelaure, Buttoned up (and down) before, Mittens, cap, and moccasin, Just the garb to revel in; So, the signal given, lo! Over solid ice and snow, Down the narrow gauge we go Swifter than a bird o'erhead, Swifter than an arrow sped From the staunchest, strongest bow.

Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen," Silly lovers' paradise! Like the frozen Androscoggin, Slippery, and smooth, and nice, Is the track of the toboggan; And there's nothing cheap about it, Everything is steep about it, The insolvent weep about it, For the biggest thing on ice Is its tip-top price; But were this three times the money, Then the game were thrice as funny.

Ye who dwell in latitudes Where "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes, And the water seldom freezes; Ye of balmy Southern regions, Alabama's languid legions, From the "hot blast" of your breezes, Where the verdure of the trees is Limp, and loose, and pitiful, Come up here where branches bare Stand like spikes in frosty air; Come up here where arctic rigor Shall restore your bloom and vigor, Making life enjoyable; Come and take a jog on The unparalleled toboggan! Such the zest that he who misses Never knows what perfect bliss is. So the sport, the day's sensation, Thrills and recreates creation.

The Woods.

I love the woods when the magic hand Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth; When beauty and song in the gladness of birth Awaken the heart of the desolate land, And carol its rapture to every breeze.

In summer's still solstice my steps are drawn To the shade of the forest trees; To revel with Pan in his secret haunts, To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance, Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faun And fascinate strange wild birds and bees.

I love the woods when autumnal fires Are kindled on every hill; When dead leaves rustle in grove and field, And trees are known by the fruits they yield, And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspire A mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill.

There's a joy for which I would fling to the air My petty portion of wealth and fame, In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow, The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know, To capture squirrels when branches are bare As the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame.

Oh, I long to explore the woods again In my own aboriginal way, As before I knew how culture could frown On a hoydenish gait and a homespun gown Or dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten" Would smile at rusticity's _naïveté_.

I sigh for the pleasures of long ago In youth's sweet halcyon time; When better beloved than the thoroughfare By multitudes trod were the woodlands, where Was never a path that I did not know, Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb.

Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me! For oh, Society's lip would curl, Propriety's self with scornful eye And gilt-edged Fashion would pass me by To know that sometimes I'm dying to be The romp, the rover, the same old girl.

Like Summer.

November? 'tis a summer's day! For tropic airs are blowing As soft as whispered roundelay From unseen lips that seem to say To feathered songsters going To sunnier, southern climes afar, "Stay where you are--stay where you are!"

And other tokens glad as these Declare that Summer lingers: Round latent buds still hum the bees, Slow fades the green from forest trees Ere Autumn's artist fingers Have touched the landscape, and instead Brought out the amber, brown, and red.

The invalid may yet enjoy His favorite recreation, Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy In outdoor sports the time employ, And happy consummation Of prudent plans the farmer know Ere wintry breezes round him blow.

And they by poverty controlled-- Good fortune shall betide them As scenes of beauty they behold, And seem to revel in the gold Which Plutus has denied them; For, ah! the poor from want's despair Oft covet wealth they never share.

Sheridan's Last Ride.

While Phoebus lent his hottest rays To signalize midsummer days, I stood in that far-famed enclosure By thousands visited, Where, in the stillness of reposure, Are grouped battalions dead.

Where, round each simple burial stone, The grass for decades twain has grown, Protecting them in dreamless slumber Who perished long ago, The multitudes defying number, A part of war's tableau.

Along the winding avenue A vast procession came in view; The mourners' slow, advancing column With reverent step drew near, The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn, Above a soldier's bier.

There were the colonels, brigadiers, Comrades in arms of other years, Civilians, true and loyal-hearted To him their bravest man, Who seemed to say to those departed, "Make room for Sheridan!"

Anon, beside the new-made mound, The warworn veterans gathered round, And spake of Lyon and of Lander, And others ranked as high, Recalling each his old commander, One not afraid to die.

Thus, silent tenants one by one Are crowding in at Arlington; Thus Sheridan, the horseman daring, Has joined the honored corps Of those, their true insignia wearing, Who battle nevermore.

Potomac's wave shall placid flow, And sing his requiem soft and low, His terrace grave be sweet with clover, And daisies star his bed, For Sheridan's last ride is over-- The General is dead!

A Bit of Gladness.

As I near my lonely cottage, At the close of weary day, There's a little bit of gladness Comes to meet me on the way: Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated, Innocent as angels are, Like a smiling, straying sunbeam Is my Stella--like a star.

Soon a hand of tissue-softness Slips confidingly in mine, And with tender look appealing Eyes of beauty sweetly shine; Like a gentle shepherd guiding Some lost lamb unto the fold, So she leads me homeward, prattling Till her stories are all told.

"Papa, I'm so glad to see you-- Cousin Mabel came today-- And the gas-man brought a letter That he said you'd better pay-- Yes, and _awful_ things is happened: My poor kitty's drowned to death-- Mamma's got the 'Pigs in Clover'--" Here she stops for want of breath.

I am like the bold knight-errant, From his castle who would roam, Trusting her, my faithful steward, For a strict account of home; And each day I toil, and hazard All that any man may dare, For a resting-place at even, And the love that waits me there.