Part 1

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The Cornflower and Other Poems

BY

JEAN BLEWETT

Author of "Heart Songs," etc.

TORONTO WILLIAM BRIGGS 1906

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand nine hundred and six, by JEAN BLEWETT, at the Department of Agriculture.

TO

Lillian Massey Treble

_A woman with a heart of gold I heard her called before I knew How noble was that heart and true, How full of tenderness untold.

Her sympathies both broad and sure, Her one desire to do the right-- Clear visioned from the inner light God gives to souls unworldly, pure.

A heart of gold that loves and gives, God's almoner from day to day, Of her there is but this to say: The world is better that she lives._

CONTENTS

PAGE NARRATIVE POEMS--

The Cornflower 15

The Quarrel 21

In Sunflower Time 26

The Wooing o' Katie 32

The Old Man's Visit 39

Jack 44

At the Sick Children's Hospital 49

Christy and the Pipers 53

The Stable-boy's Guest 58

Soldiers All 61

As Good as a Girl 64

Fool's Luck 67

The Harbor Lights of Home 72

The Preacher Down at Coles 77

Chore Time 89

A Boy's Trials 92

An April Fool of Long Ago 95

For He was Scotch and so was She 98

The Ploughman 100

Two Monuments 103

The Lonesomest House 107

Daddy's Boy 110

Janet 113

The Lad from Inverness 116

All on an April Morning 119

Billy 121

Sly Boy 124

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS--

Queen Victoria 129

Thankfulness 131

The Native Born 132

The King's Gift 134

The Passage 135

Air Castles 136

Youth and June 136

The Mother 137

Love's Lesson 140

Immortality 141

August 141

A Song of Harvest Home 142

The Usurer 143

Miracles 144

Peace 144

Life's Grandest Things 145

Strength 146

The Time and the Deed 146

Discontent 147

A Prayer of Love 149

Wild Strawberries 150

Spring 151

Madam Grundy 153

The Splendor of the Days 154

God's Warmth is She 155

Her Prayer 156

Decorating the Old Church 158

Envy 159

The Song of the Bells 160

Quebec 161

Men o' the Forest Mark 162

A Song of Cheer 163

The Firstborn 164

St. Patrick's Day 165

Lesley 166

The Tryst 167

A Good Woman 168

Despair 169

Our Dead in South Africa 170

The Barley Field 171

The Imprisoned Lark 172

Woman 174

The Mullein Meadow 175

Living Freshness 176

Life's Day 177

Morning 178

Grace 179

The Way to Dreamland 181

Her Mission 182

Friend or Foe? 183

The Highland Shepherd 184

Christmas Conversion 185

A Bit o' Shamrock 187

Slander 188

Archibald Lampman 189

A Hint 190

Chrysanthemum's Court 191

Her Little Way 192

The Criticism 193

Jessie 195

Poynings 197

Song of the Golden Sea 201

Dawn 202

The Cricket 204

Earth to the Twentieth Century 205

Thail Burn 208

The Lake Shore Road 209

Magdalene 210

My Lady Nightingale 211

The Orchard 212

October 213

St. Andrew's Day--A Toast 214

When Trees Are Green 216

O Radiance of Life's Morning 219

The Idler 220

The Trust 221

When Paganini Plays 223

To-day You Understand 225

Love's Sacrifice 226

When the Dusk Comes Down 229

The Ghosts of Night 231

The Long Ago 233

Forgive and Forget 234

The Argument 236

The Secret 238

Vashti 239

The Treasure Box 241

The Message 244

Estranged 245

The Parting 246

Margaret 247

St. Valentine 248

Two June Nights 249

Remembrance 250

The Emigrant Laddie 251

Love's Service 252

April 254

In Memoriam 255

Narrative Poems

THE CORNFLOWER.

The day she came we were planting corn, The west eighty-acre field,-- These prairie farms are great for size, And they're sometimes great for yield.

"The new school-ma'am is up to the house," The chore-boy called out to me; I went in wishing anyone else Had been put in chief trustee.

I was to question that girl, you see, Of the things she ought to know; As for these same things, I knew right well I'd forgot them long ago.

I hadn't kept track of women's ways, 'Bout all I knew of the sex Was that they were mighty hard to please, And easy enough to vex.

My sister Mary, who ruled my house-- And me--with an iron hand, Was all the woman I knew real well-- Her I didn't understand.

But I'd no call to grumble at fate, Fifty, well off, and unwed; Young as a lad in spite of the dust Old Time had thrown on my head.

I engaged the school-ma'am on the spot, And the reason, I surmise, Was this, she didn't giggle or blush, But looked me fair in the eyes.

The planting over, why, every lad In a space of ten good mile Was off for the school with a sudden zeal That made all us old folks smile.

How she took to our wide prairie After towns with narrow streets! To watch that west eighty-acre field Was one of her queer conceits.

"You planted that corn the day I came," She said, "and I love to go And watch the sun-mother kiss and coax Each slim green stalk to grow."

I called her "Cornflower" when she took To wearing 'em in her belt. The young chaps were all in love with her-- _And I knew just how they felt_.

Oh, I tell you that was a summer, Such sunshine, such dew, such rain; Never saw crops grow so in my life-- Don't expect I will again.

To watch that west eighty-acre field, When the fall came clear and cold, Was something like a sermon to me-- Made me think of streets of gold.

But about that time the new school-ma'am Had words with the first trustee; A scholar had taken the fever And she was for blaming _me_.

That schoolhouse should be raised from the ground-- Grave reason there for alarm; A new coat of plaster be put on That the children be kept warm.

A well--a good one--should take the place Of the deathtrap that was there. "This should all be done at once," she said. Cost five hundred dollars clear!

I told her I couldn't think of it, But, when all my work was through, If the taxes came in middling good, I would see what I could do.

"Remember you're only the steward," She said, "of your acres broad, And that the cry of a little child Goes straight to the ears of God."

I remarked that it wasn't her place To dictate to the trustee, And Cornflower lifted her eyes of blue And _looked_ what she thought of me.

That night as we came up from the fields, And talked of the threatened frost, The chore-boy called out, half pleased, half scared: "The school-ma'am's got herself lost."

I turned me about and spoke no word; I'd find her and let her see I held no spite 'gainst a wayward girl For lecturing a trustee.

For I knew before I found the knot Of ribbon that she had worn, That somehow Betty had lost her way In the forest of ripened corn.

The sun went down and left the world Beautiful, happy and good; True, the girl and myself had quarrelled, But when I found her and stood

With silver stars mistily shining Through the deep blue of the skies, Heard somebody sob like a baby, Saw tears in somebody's eyes.

Why, I just whispered, "Betty, Betty," Then whispered "Betty" some more; Not another word did I utter-- I'll stick to this o'er and o'er.

You needn't ask me to explain, friends, I don't know how 'twas myself, That first "Betty" said I was ashamed Of my greedy love of pelf.

The second one told her I'd be glad To raise the old schoolhouse up, And be in haste to put down a well, With a pump and drinking cup.

The third "Betty" told her I would act A higher and nobler part; The fourth "Betty" told her I loved her-- Loved her with all my heart.

"Ah, well! there's no fool like an old fool," Was what sister Mary said; "No fool in the world like an old fool, You'll find that out, brother Ned."

"Mary," I said, "there's a better thing Than land, or dollar, or dime; If being in love is being a fool Here's one till the end of time."

I should think so, I'm a married man Four years come this Christmastide, And autumn now is flinging her gold O'er the fields on every side.

My wife called out as I drove the cows To the pasture-field this morn, "Ned, please go look for your son and heir, He toddled off in the corn."

And sister Mary must make a joke; "Go find him at once," said she, "You know to get lost in a field of corn Runs in that boy's family."

THE QUARREL.

When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun. No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it fun To have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way, Allude to his temper as beastly, and remark that day by day He proves himself so careless, so lacking in love, so mean, Then add, with an air convincing, she wishes she'd never seen A person who thinks so little of breaking a woman's heart, And since he is--well, what he is--'tis better that they should part.

Now, no man enjoys this performance--he has his faults, well and good, He doesn't want to hear them named--this ought to be understood.

Mary was aggravating, and all because I'd forgot To bring some flowers I'd promised--as though it mattered a lot; But that's the way with a woman, your big sins she may forgive, But little things, not worth mention, you hear of as long as you live.

A few sweet peas and carnations to start a tempest, forsooth! For Mary got in a temper--I did the same, of a truth. I said things that weren't gentle; she pretended not to mind-- But answered back in a manner that left me away behind.

It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days, Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways. And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white, Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight, Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above, Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love.

I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun. Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done. The voice of my brother waked me, crying, "Quickly arise and come; Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!"

'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek, The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speak Some of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest, Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, "Jim, who do you love the best?"

But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own, And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone. And it came to me I could never--never, since Mary was dead-- Say, "Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said." Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and the brightness take their place, Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face.

Not a fault could I remember--she'd been perfect all her days, With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways. Dead--dead in her fresh young beauty--oh, I had an anguished heart At thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part!

When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way, 'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a day When one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake, The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break. It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said-- The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead. We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know, But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below. "Mary," I whispered, "my Mary, no flowers to you I gave, But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave."

A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head, And I awoke, awoke, awoke--I'd _dreamed_ that Mary was dead! I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud. There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud, But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears-- Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years. I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forget That dream in the blossoming orchard--I hear of it often yet. If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: "Oh, you're going to save Your roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?"

And if I lose my temper--a common weakness of men-- The sweetest voice in the world says: "You'll have to get dreaming again."

IN SUNFLOWER TIME.

In the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John, With only the sunflowers looking on.

A farmhouse kitchen is scarce the place For knight or lady of courtly grace.

But this is just an everyday pair That hold the kitchen this morning fair.

A saucy, persistent thorn-tree limb Had sacrificed a part of the brim

Of the youth's straw hat. His face was brown, And his well-shaped forehead wore a frown.

His boots were splashed with mud and clay From marshland pasture over the way,

Where alderbushes and spicewood grew, And frogs croaked noisily all night through.

'Neath muslin curtains, snowy and thin, The homely sunflowers nodded in.

Nan was a picture. Her muslin gown Had maybe a bit old-fashioned grown,

But fitted the slender shape so well. In its low-cut neck the soft lace fell.

Sleeves, it had none from the elbows down; In length--well, you see, the maid had grown.

A labor of love her homely task-- To share it none need hope nor ask,

For Nan was washing each trace of dirt From fluted bodice and ruffled skirt.

Now, few that will, and fewer that can, Bend over a tub like pretty Nan.

The frail soap bubbles sailed high in air As she drew each piece from frothy lair,

And rubbed with cruel yet tender hand As only a woman could, understand.

Then wrung with twist of the wrist so strong, Examined with care, shook well and long,

Flung in clear water to lie in state-- Each dainty piece met the same hard fate.

"'Tis done!" with a look of conscious pride At the rinsing bucket deep and wide.

Wiping the suds from each rounded arm, She turned to John with a smile so warm:

"I've kept you waiting--excuse me, please, The soapsuds ruin such goods as these."

"You're over fond of finery, Nan, Dresses and furbelows," he began.

"Maybe I am, of a truth," she said. Each sunflower nodded its yellow head.

"Ned Brown's growing rich"--John's words came slow-- "That he loves you well you doubtless know.

"My house and acres, I held them fast, Was stubborn over them to the last,

"For when my father was carried forth, And men were asking 'What was he worth?'

"I saw them look and nod and smile As they whispered together all the while,

"'A fine old homestead, but mortgaged so, A foolish thing for a man to do!'

"I said, 'My father's dead and gone, But he's left behind a strong-armed son.'

"My heart was hot with a purpose set To clear that mortgage, to pay that debt.

"I've worked, heaven knows, like any slave, I've learned the lesson of scrimp and save,

"Kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown-- And I've not a dollar to call my own.

"I'm beaten--well beaten; yesterday Everything went to Ned Brown from me.

"My woods, my meadows, my tasseled corn, The orchard planted when I was born,

"The old rose garden my mother loved, My chestnut mare--can't help feeling moved,

"For I'm a beggar, Nan, you see-- Don't think me begging for sympathy.

"The world is wide, I don't care--much. Thank God, health's a thing the law can't touch.

"The happiest man I ever knew Was born a beggar, and died one, too."

Each sunflower, nodding its yellow head, Listened to every word that was said,

As Nan in her slow and easy way, In the farmhouse kitchen that summer day,

Set a great and weighty problem forth, One that no scholar on this green earth

Has been able to solve since things began With Adam--a lone and lonesome man.

Yet very coolly she set it forth: "Tell me the truth, how much am _I_ worth?"

The sunbeams kissing her golden hair, Her cheeks, her round arms dimpled and bare,

Seemed stamping value of mighty wealth On youth, and love, and the bloom of health.

John looked and looked till his eyes grew dim, Then tilted the hat with worthless brim

To hide what he would not have her see-- "You are worth the whole world, Nan," said he.

"Then you're no beggar," said sweet, bold Nan, "You're the whole world richer than any man."

A girl queen wearing a crown of gold Set a precedent, the tale is told,

But no royal prince this world has seen Ever felt so proud as John, I ween,

As he clasped her hands in new-born hope-- And never noticed they smelt of soap.

Only the sunflowers looking on, So he kissed the maid--oh, foolish John!

As he went out through the garden gate Ned Brown was coming to learn his fate.

He was riding John's own chestnut mare, But, somehow, John didn't seem to care.

The two men met at top of the hill, And eyed each other as rivals will.

Ned thought of the home he'd won from John, "Poor beggar!" he said, as he rode on.

John thought of all he had won from Ned, "You poor, poor beggar!" was what he said.

Why? Under the heavens clear and blue Only our John and the sunflowers knew.

THE WOOING O' KATIE.

McLeod of Dare called his son to him. McLeod of Dare looked stern and grim,

For he was sending on mission grave His son, and though he knew him brave

The old man trembled lest he should make In heedless youth a grave mistake.

'Twas not for the country, nor for the king, Nay, 'twas a more important thing