Chapter 3

Where in Summer old trees spreading overhead a leafy roof Flung their shadows, deep and cooling, 'gainst the burning sunbeams proof;

Where in Winter wild winds raving whistled 'round his lonely home, And the swollen torrent rushing struck the rocks with sullen tone--

He a sunnier clime forsaking for the "dark and bloody ground," Where the forest stretched unbroken--there the wanderer rest had found.

All of human-kind deserting, where no din of toil and strife Ever came to break the stillness--there he spent a hermit's life.

All his frugal wants supplying from the storehouse Nature gave, Nevermore his footsteps bending toward where Hope had found its grave.

Striving to forget the false one, dwelling 'neath her sunny skies, Who had left the arrow rankling in his heart with honied lies.

Long ago she was forgotten, and at last surcease had come-- For his heart was stilled forever, and his lips were sealed and dumb.

Long he lay beside the river, flowing sweetly there to-day, Where was found a bleaching skeleton, and a rude hut in decay.

There where briars in tangled network sway above a little mound, Rest the bones of Southern stranger, in the "dark and bloody ground!"

THE "MEDICAL SPRING."

I.

Let tipplers all boast of the pleasure divine That is found in old whisky, in beer and in wine-- But what are all those to a feller who knows Where the "Medical Spring" in its purity flows, And has knelt at its brink and just drank his fill Of the clear, sparkling fluid, from Nature's own still?

II.

How often I've strayed on a hot Summer's day Where it gurgles and gushes, then flows on its way With a ripple as sweet as the music that died When the tones of loved voices are to us denied, And mirrored my face in the "Medical Spring," Where the beetling old cliffs their cool shadows fling!

III.

Not riches, nor honors, nor place do I crave, Ere they lay me at last to rest in the grave, But oh, let me hear its music once more, And drink from its depths while I kneel on its shore-- Then bear me away on the Death Angel's wing While my lips are yet moist from the "Medical Spring!"

AN "IDYL" OF THE BALL.

I.

In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze, She moved with pretty air of grace, And all the ball-room's brilliant blaze Seemed borrowed brightness from her face! O, winsome maid, demure and sweet! I'll ne'er forget when first I met her, And saw the dainty slippered feet Glide o'er the floor at Linnietta!

II.

O, dreams of youth and beauty rare, What rose-hued visions thou canst paint! But none in loveliness compare With her who seemed Love's patron saint! Her pictured image haunts the mind, And, oh, I never can forget her, Nor rarer pleasure hope to find Than dance with her at Linnietta!

III.

Arrayed in softly flowing gown, The love-light flashing from her eyes-- With cheeks aglow like roses blown Beneath the ardent summer skies-- No artist hand could fitly trace The wondrous charm that did beset her, When tripping with a fairy's grace O'er the waxen floor at Linnietta!

DREAMS.

I.

The sweetest dreams, it seems to me, that we can ever know, Are those the fancy brings to us of days of long-ago, When rainbow-tinted pictures all are like a mirage flung Upon the canvas memory weaves--of days when we were young.

II.

The step may falter, eye be dim--the brow may wrinkles wear, And underneath the crumbling mould our friends be sleeping there-- But oh, these visions come to us as to the rose the dew, And while with raptured gaze we look the heart seems ever new.

III.

Oh, when perhaps at last we're left a laggard on life's stage, This is the mellowed draught we quaff our longings to assuage-- As sweet as that from Paradise the smiling Houris hand The Prophet's faithful followers when at its gates they stand!

IV.

If one last prayer were left to me for my declining days, Its form should be that I might hear the chimes that memory plays, And when at last upon my grave the wavy grass had sprung, Some passer-by could truly say "His heart was ever young!"

A TWIST OF "NATURAL LEAF."

Some sing of the lily, some sing of the rose, Some sing of each flower in beauty that blows; But sing me a song that shall render its meed To the fragrance and aroma found in a weed, Which banishes care and mitigates grief-- I mean a big twist of old "natural leaf!"

When sorrow's dark mantle the spirit doth wear, And the heart is oppressed with the demon of care, Then get out your pipe and its magic invoke And all of your troubles will vanish in smoke! O, you who have tried it will know what I mean When the praises I sing of a hank of long green!

Since the days of King James and his old counterblast Its sway of all classes has ever held fast, And its patron saint Raleigh forever will live In remembrance as sweet as affection can give, And the incense we burn is an offering seen In wreaths of blue smoke from a twist of long green!

Now some may advise you and others may swear That nicotine poison your nerves will impair, And if from the weed you'd just kept aloof From heartburn and palsy you'd surely been proof-- For a man who had died at a hundred fifteen Was hastened away by smoking long green!

But a cigar, a pipe, or a good juicy chew Will yield you more comfort than harm they will do, And murder the microbes that float in the air, And make magical dreams in the old arm-chair, If you will remember, and never forget, To just draw the line at a vile cigarette!

GEORGE W. CHILDS.

FEBRUARY 4TH, 1894.

"Gone to his exceeding great reward," The friend of rich and poor alike; And there'll rest not beneath the sward More shining mark that death could strike.

The benefactor of his race-- His noble soul from avarice free; By heaven lent the sordid earth to grace-- A nation's tears sincerely shed for thee!

Thrice blest the one, in lowly lot, Contented with an humble place, Who by thy noble heart was ne'er forgot And knew thy smiling, loving face!

Oh, thus too early snatched away From generous act and loving deed; Thousands will now deplore the day-- Thousands now whose hearts will bleed!

The heaven-pointing shaft for thee Its stately head might never raise; But thy sweet memory would ever be Hymned by thy fellow-mortals' praise!

Oh, thanks to Him who in His image made And to the world this beacon gave; With tears we'll water flowers that never fade And gently drop upon his new-made grave!

THE OLD SPRING-HOUSE.

With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof-- ('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)-- It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears; And though far from it now, I can see it at will-- The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return! Which carry us back in visions and dreams And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams-- Till we see once again, though with tears the eyes fill, The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play, And wade in the branch that flowed on its way Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet, And a gurgle and ripple that sounded so sweet! And the water that helped turn the wheel at the mill Was from the spring-house at the foot of the hill!

And, oh! I remember a pair of blue eyes, With glances as tender and soft as the skies, And a little brown head that was covered with curls, And the laughter that rippled between rows of pearls, Which was changed to a cry of despair and of woe When the craw-fish was clinging to a little pink toe!

Distilled by the heart into memory's wine, 'Tis thus that we drink a draught that's divine, And lighten the burdens which after years bear, And banish with dreaming the demon of Care! O in fond recollection I linger there still, By the old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

Though vanished forever the faces that smiled, And hushed is the laughter I heard when a child-- Yet often when musing they float back to me, And I see them and hear it as clear as can be! And I'm playing again, while the heart strings all thrill, By the old spring house at the foot of the hill!

CAMPING ON THE CUMBERLAND.

Where the Cumberland flows on its way to the South, From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth-- When Autumn has come and tempered the rays Of the hot blazing sun with its soft mellow haze, Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight, When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite, And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole, And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)!

To camp there and fish for a week at a time, And have the four-pounders just tug at your line, Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see When we dream of that home where we all hope to be; And no king in the world who sits on a throne E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone When you throw out your line and it whizzes away, Just cutting the water to foamy white spray!

He darts here and there, dead game to the last, When he feels the barbed hook and finds that he's fast, And plunges and struggles, disdaining to yield, Till exhausted at last to the bank he is reeled, And carefully lifted from out the old stream, While he flounders and gasps and his scaly sides gleam, And you measure his length and guess at his weight-- (Five inches too long and a pound too great)!

And when shadows of evening are gathering around, And the sun with pure gold each hill-top has crowned, Then pick up your trappings and leisurely wend Your way back to camp, above the long bend, Where the cook has prepared a supper, I trow, Ne'er dreamt of in thoughts of Delmonico! And you'll sit there and eat for an hour or more With an appetite keen--and unheard of before!

Now bring out your pipe and fill up the bowl, And loll there and smoke till it seems that the soul Is wafted away like the ringlets that rise As blue as the dome of the star-jeweled skies! Then roll in a blanket with your feet to the blaze, And the croak of the frogs and the ripple that plays Will lull you to sleep with music as sweet As that of the song when the angels you greet!

AN EASTER FLOWER.

I.

The flower that she gave to me Has withered now and died-- But yet with fond fidelity Its faded leaves abide.

II.

The petals that so fragrant then She wore upon her breast-- Still clinging to the lifeless stem, With miser care possessed.

III.

As when in sweetest purity It shed its perfume rare, A symbol dear 'twill ever be Of one divinely fair!

IV.

Plucked by the cruel hand of Death In beauty's youthful bloom-- She perished with his chilling breath, And withered in the tomb.

V.

But I will cherish ever thus The token that she gave When sun-lit skies were over us, Unclouded by the grave!

THE STAGE COACH.

No matter what the weather was, in good old stage coach days, The driver with his ruddy face and spanking team of bays Would spin along the turnpike road, o'er level stretch and hill, That wound away from "Idleburg" to classic Nicholasville.

The depths beneath his seat were filled with leathern sacks of mail, And all the coach's top at times was crowded to the rail With trunks, valises, packages, and bundles by the score, That must have weighed, it seemed to me, five thousand pounds or more.

And strapped within the bulging boot, that hung far out behind, Was added weight enough to make a team of oxen blind; And counting all the passengers that filled the coach within, The load those horses had to drag--I thought it was a sin!

How proud of them the driver was! And often he would brag That they could pull a heavier load and never balk or flag; If all the road was ankle-deep in miry, sticky mud, That was the time his team would show its metal and its blood.

The "ribbons" then he'd gather up, and give his whip a crack, And any team in front of him had better clear the track; He seemed to own the turnpike road, and kept the right of way Unto himself as jealously as bloomers do to-day.

By wood and field he wound along, and by the river's bank, And when he reached the covered bridge the hoof-beats on the plank Were echoed from the cliffs around and from the vale below; And going up the hill beyond he'd let 'em walk and blow.

Then urged into a trot again around the curves they spun Till hove in sight the manor-house of Camp Dick Robinson; And on beyond where Nelson lay, the bravest of the brave, Till Nicholasville at last was reached, to them the reins he gave.

And when the sun was hanging low and slanting shadows fell, Along the streets of "Idleburg" that old familiar yell Would greet the ears of villagers from small boys as they ran With open mouths and lusty lungs a-shouting "Here comes Sam!"

Ah me! The old stage coach, abandoned now, stands in the stable lot, A victim to the tooth of rust, and slow decay and rot; Its whole-souled driver years ago forever passed away, And crumbled now to dust the hand that drove each gallant bay!

DICK'S RIVER.

I.

Rock-sentineled, romantic stream! Thy waters flow with silvery gleam Where glassy pools and visions greet Embosomed in some cool retreat; Then rippling o'er a pebbly bed, With current fleet thy course is led To where, walled in by beetling cliffs, It plunges o'er the hidden rifts.

II.

Past where the meadows gently sweep The limpid waters silent creep, Until, o'erhung with cooling shade, They lave the shores of sylvan glade, And many a wild-flower blooming there Its incense flings upon the air; And spreading o'er each sloping side An emerald carpet stretches wide.

III.

Now gliding out, the waters gleam And sparkle with the sun's warm beam, Reflecting then some mirrored cloud Like specter wrapt in filmy shroud-- Till pouring down with fretful whirl They o'er the mill-dam rush and curl, And foaming round in eddies deep, The circles wide and wider creep!

IV.

Oh, by thy wave I've loved to stray On many a balmy summer's day-- When youth, and hope, and life were sweet-- Thy wooded banks and cliffs to greet! And often back to days of yore My fancy strays along thy shore, And musing thus I fondly dream I see again thy waters gleam!

TO A LITTLE BOY.

I.

Dear little one with eyes so blue, And silken ringlets of flaxen hair! Oh, may life have in store for you Something better than anguish and care! Oh, may thy footsteps guided be In paths of peace and pleasantness! Oh, may those bright eyes never see Much of the cold world's bitterness!

II.

Dear little one with innocent lips, Tasting life's cup at the sparkling brim! Oh, may the dregs that sorrow sips Ever be kept aloof from him! Oh, may the smile on his dimpled face Through the years to come still linger there! Oh, may Time's fingers gently place The silver strands in his flaxen hair!

WHEN THE COAL HOUSE'S FULL.

When the nights are gittin' chilly and the leaves begin to fade, An' the mercury's down to thirty, 'stead o' ninety in the shade, There's a happy kind o' feelin' takes possession o' the soul-- With the smoke house full o' middlin', and the coal house full o' coal!

When the wintry winds are whistlin' through the branches o' the trees, An' the dead leaves are a-flyin' and a-rustlin' in the breeze, You kin feel the vast contentment that over you will roll-- If the barn is full o' fodder, and the coal house full o' coal!

When the 'skeeter's ceased from troublin' and the fly is chilled to death, An' the window-pane is written with the Frost King's icy breath, You kin dream about the Summer-time, an' that old fishin' pole-- If the pantry's full o' victuals, an' the coal house full o' coal!

When your supper's been digested an' you're dozin' in your chair, Or you're tucked between the blankets from the frosty, nippin' air, Why, your dreams will be the sweeter if you've helped some sufferin' soul Whose larder's scant o' victuals, and his coal house minus coal!

DECEMBER.

I.

White-shrouded, latest-born of all the year, In thy cold hands no bud or floweret bearing, Thou comest now to wail above the bier Of thy dead sisters--on thy bosom wearing The icy jewel and the frosted gem-- But on thy marble brow the Star of Bethlehem!

II.

Beneath thy foot-prints lie the Autumn leaves, Mould'ring and hast'ning to decay; And where the drifting snow its mantle weaves The Summer songsters sang the happy hours away. What tho' the birds have flown the blighted stem? There's in thy jeweled crown the Star of Bethlehem!

SOLACE.

One Autumn evening, wandering, when the sun was hanging low, Through a woodland where the music of a streamlet's gentle flow Commingled with the rustling of the yellow golden leaves, And the idling breeze's sighing as it floated through the trees, I heard sweet voices whispering in accents soft and low, That lulled to rest the troubled soul, like those of long ago.

Enchanted thus I lingered, by unseen hands fast bound, My willing fancy captive to the magic of sweet sound, And eagerly I listened to the whispering voices tell Of happy days of childhood, and the tear unbidden fell, As were pictured to the mind again the halcyon scenes of yore, And loved ones that no more I'll meet till on the silent shore!

And as the slanting shadows fell athwart the scattered leaves The language that the voices spoke was formed of words like these: "You may mingle with the sordid world, in eager, restless haste, To struggle for the golden fruit that Mammon loves to taste, But find at last, the end attained, that there are better things To satisfy the longing heart--that sweeter solace brings.

"Thy Springtime, thy Summer, and thy Autumn's mellowed haze, If rightly lived and rightly spent, will bring rare, happy days, That temper with their sunshine the frigid Winter's wrath, When gathering storms are darkling o'er life's declining path, And lend a ray celestial that hoarded gold ne'er gave To lighten all thy journey, from the cradle to the grave."

FRANK L. STANTON.

I.

The sweetest music put in song since Robby Burns's time Is that which breathes its harmony from Georgia's sunny clime, Where the fragrant-scented odor that the climbing jasmine flings Commingles with the melody that gifted Stanton sings!

II.

It may not suit a bookish clan that cannot understand The rhythm and the cadences they never can command-- But what is that to him that knows and touches all the strings Of hearts responsive to his strain when gifted Stanton sings?

III.

We read his songs and hear the notes repeated once again His ear has caught when listening to the mocking-bird's refrain, And interwoven with the sense a mystic something rings That fills the soul with ecstasy when gifted Stanton sings!

IV.

O Sunny South! where blooming flowers and where the whispering pine Attunes his harp till every string gives forth a sound divine! We love you for the many gifts that generous Nature brings, But best of all--we love you for the song that Stanton sings!

THE OLD CHURCH BELL.

It hangs today where it has hung for fifty years or more, But some who loved its silver tones the church-yard covers o'er, And many are the times since then, with deep and solemn knell, Has tolled for dear departed ones the Old Church Bell!

Within a latticed tower it swings, high up above the street, And every Sabbath morn is heard the music clear and sweet Which floats above the village roofs, and over hill and dell, Upborne upon the vagrant wind, from the Old Church Bell!

Full many a change the hand of Time has in the village wrought, And passing years have often been with grief and anguish fraught, Yet age has never changed its tones, and years cannot dispel The magic of the music from the Old Church Bell!

Since it was placed within the tower, in days of long ago, The tempests wild have round it raved, and many a driven snow Has sifted through the slats up there, and mantled as it fell In robes of white its dwelling place, and the Old Church Bell!

Though gone from earth and earthly things--forever passed away-- The faithful ones who loved while here its summons to obey Now rest beyond the tide of Time, with rapture long to dwell, For there their footsteps guided were by the Old Church Bell!

A SUMMER EVENING.

I.

The sun has sunk in the crimson west, And "around the languid eyes of day" The Twilight's dreamy shadows rest And light and shade alternate play; The winds are hushed, nor leaf nor flower Is swayed with motion by their power.

II.

The fireflies with meteor lamps Arise from out the dewy lawn, And there the elfin cricket chants His vespers when the day is gone, And far above, the sky's coquette With all her starry train is met.

FATHER RYAN.

I.

In Southern sunny clime there is a hallowed tomb, Where rest the ashes of a minstrel priest; And soft winds that are laden with a sweet perfume Their requiems for him have never ceased.

II.

We read his songs, and hear again the tread Of armed battalions, marching to the fray, Or see once more the features of beloved dead Whose life blood crimsoned uniforms of gray!

III.

We see the tattered banner that he loved so well Again unfurled and fluttering in the breeze, And once again we hear the "rebel yell" Triumphant wafted o'er the riven trees!

IV.

O, may thy minstrel spirit find eternal rest In some fair clime where nothing can be lost! Where anguish never more can rend thy breast, And fondest hope can ne'er be tempest tost!

THE MEADOW PATH.

I.

It led adown the sloping hill, and through the valley wound, And where the blooming clover shed its fragrance all around, And then between the maple trees, across the little brook, To where the old fence bars let down, a tortuous course it took; And often are the times I've heard the merry, ringing laugh, From rosy-ankled children there, along the meadow path.

II.

Three boys--and a little girl whose hair was chestnut gold-- (She's resting now in dreamless sleep beneath the crumbling mold;)-- But I remember her as when, with innocence and glee, Her laughing eyes looked into mine--for she was dear to me; And thus it is I love to let the fancy photograph The merry group that idled there, along the meadow path.

III.

Adown it oft we used to go at twilight for the cows, Or wander from the beaten track a rabbit to arouse, And watch him as he scampered off, with frightened leap and bound, The while we made the welkin ring and with our shouts resound. The sweetest flowers that bloom for me--a fragrant aftermath-- Are those that in the memory blow, along the meadow path!

THE FOX HUNTERS.

I.

With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack They follow close on Reynard's track, And wake the slumbering echoes round With music of the horn and hound; Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale, They course him in the moonlight pale, And sport they find which brings delight-- These reckless riders of the night!

II.

The game is up! away, away! Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay; They clear them at a single leap, And like the wind they onward sweep! O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch, And heedless all they follow on With ringing shout and winding horn!

III.