Chapter 13

In 1870 his first verses were published in the _Morris Scholastic_ a newspaper published in Grundy county, Illinois. He afterwards wrote for the _Cecil Whig_. In 1875 he wrote "The Patrons of Husbandry," a serial poem, which was published by the Grange organ of the State of Pennsylvania, in seven parts, with illustrations. It was pronounced by competent critics to be one of the "best and most natural descriptions of farm life ever written." It attracted wide attention and received favorable comment from the N.Y. _World_ and other leading papers. He wrote another serial in 1876, entitled "Two Granges."

Mr. Kimble makes no pretensions as a writer and has never allowed his love of literature to interfere with his farm work. In the Winters of 1872, '73 and '74 he taught in the public schools of this county with satisfaction to his patrons.

In December, 1873, he was married to Miss Sarah Teresa Gallagher, daughter of John E. Gallagher, of the Fourth district. They have five children, three daughters and two sons. In 1880, Mr. Kimble moved from the farm near Fair Hill, where he had spent twenty-five years, to Appleton, where he still resides. He is now a frequent and popular contributor to the _Cecil Democrat_.

HIS LAST TUNE.

The shade of death had haunted him Through many a weary day; With dread disease his youthful frame Was wasting slow away. He took his violin and sighed,-- "I am too weak to play."

But, rising in his cushioned chair, He grasps, with trembling hand, The neck and bow, and tunes the strings And thinks of concerts grand; And hears the crowd applauding loud As when he led the band.

Inspired with supernatural power He plays a melody, Forgetting all the terrors of His mortal malady; And, as of yore, his soul once more Is with the gay and free.

Something responsive in the soul Wakes with melodious sound A lively melody that makes The languid pulse rebound, While recollection takes the mind Through many a happy round.

Now fast, now slow, he draws the bow To suit his changing will; A march, a waltz, a polka, and An intricate quadrille, Each in its turn is rendered with An artist's ready skill.

With failing strength he strikes at length His favorite--"Home, Sweet Home;" His dreamy spirit ceases with The pleasing past to roam, And, through the future, seems to rise Up, up to Heaven's high dome.

And mingling with his violin He hears the joyful strains That vibrate o'er angelic hosts, Where song supernal reigns! Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting him Above all mortal pains.

The last sweet note of that sweet tune Within the room has died-- And now he's playing on the harp Upon the other side Of death's dark river, safe and free, Among the glorified.

ADVICE TO AN AMBITIOUS YOUTH.

You look with joy to-day along life's vista clear, And great will be your deeds through many a happy year, And smiling friends will come to crown with glad acclaim A hero, when you reach the glittering heights of fame.

Your life will be above the common herd, I trow, You will not toil and drudge as they are doing now: Success attend your steps; a word I would not say To chill your warmest hopes, or shade your sunny way.

Your mark is high, my child, then aim your arrow straight, The world has need to-day, of heroes good and great, You feel so strong; and wish life's battle would begin, You'll find a chance ere long, to do your best and win.

But may be you will fail, 'tis ten to one you will, And men will laugh, to see your lack of pluck and skill, Perhaps you will not have one mighty thing to do; But many little things will prove if you are true.

To carry brick and stone for someone else's wall, To do the hardest part and get no praise at all, To see a weaker man upheld by circumstance, And find the path hedged high, just when you would advance;

Or, in the jostling crowd, to slip, and fall, and see, How many men will scoff at your adversity, And though your heart may ache, you must not shed a tear, But plan, and push, and work, and smother all your fear.

No darling mother then can sympathize with you,-- No father when you stick, will kindly pull you through; Through years of grasping toil the wealth you gain, and fame, May vanish all, and leave you poverty and shame.

But you need not be lost, all people are not bad, The Lord has servants good, as He has ever had; They'll find you in your grief, and lend a helping hand, And point the road that leads up to the "Better Land."

Remember this, my child, wherever you may go, That God rules over all, though it may not seem so; And what you sow, you'll reap, with joy or misery, If not in time, O, surely in eternity.

TOO LATE.

A dear old friend of mine is very ill, I hear, I have not seen his face for many a weary year. Ah, many toilsome days we've spent with little train, And he was poor and weak, but never would complain.

I knew his fears and hopes, he knew my hopes and fears. We shared each other's joys and wept each other's tears! He had his faults, and I oft sinned in word and deed; But through our troubles all, we seldom disagreed.

And when we did, we soon were truly reconciled; So, while we might have quarrelled, we compromised and smiled. But fortune bade us part; we bid good-bye at last, Each toiled as bravely on as both had in the past.

I've written him, and he has answered prompt and true; But we have never met as we had promised to. For he was busy there and I was busy here, And so our lots were cast apart from year to year.

But when a mutual friend told me this afternoon That he was very sick and wished to see me soon, I left my home at once and on the earliest train I'm speeding to his home across the distant plain.

He looks for me! and I, to reach him scarce can wait, O, for the lightning's speed! that I may not be late. The fields seem spinning round, the trees seem flying past, The engine thunders on, the station's reached at last.

And to my friend I haste, to greet him as of yore, Rejoicing in his thrift, I pause beside his door. A servant asks me in, and there upon his bed, Behold my dear old friend, who sent for me--just dead!

I speak his name once more, and check the rising tears, And kiss his honest face, changed little through the years. "He asked for you," they said, but could no longer wait; Alas! alas! to be but fifteen minutes late.

AFTER THE SHOWER.

After the shower the fields are green, The winds are hushed, the air is cool, The merry children now are seen Barefoot wading the wayside pool, Loitering on their way to school, After the morning shower.

After the shower the farmers walk Around their homes with thanks sincere. The shower is foremost in their talk, See! how it makes their crops appear, The finest seen for many a year. Thanks for the gentle shower.

Westward the dark clouds roll away To vanish in the ether blue, Eastward the curtains light and gay Exclude the glorious sun from view Till, as they shift, he flashes through And lights the charming scene.

Against the melting clouds, behold The lofty arch, the beauteous bow, The sacred sign to saints of old, As bright as when first seen below, How fair the matchless colors glow After the cooling shower.

Washed by the countless, crystal drops, Awhile from swarming insects free, The cattle clip the clover tops Forth wandering o'er the fertile lea, The birds sing with unusual glee After the drenching shower.

Over the hills and valleys green Wild flowers are blooming fresh and fair, In cottage lawns and yards are seen The good results of woman's care, Tulips and pinks and lillies rare Fresh from the timely shower.

A TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.)

I weep for the loss of a leader in thought, Whose lessons of truth, with simplicity taught, Have bless'd and encouraged the humble and poor, Who always were welcomed with joy at his door.

How happy the hours when we gathered around, To hear his solutions of problems profound; And bright through my mem'ry what pleasure returns When I think of his rendering of Byron and Burns.

The "Saturday Night," and "To Mary in Heaven," With true Scottish accent were touchingly given, And reckless "Don Juan's" most comical plight,-- And pathos of "Harold" he gave with delight.

The pages of Hebraic sages divine, Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine; His choice conversation with children and men, Was often enriched with a song from his pen.

In public debate, whosoever arose, His well-grounded argument firm to oppose, Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare, That he was an honorable champion there.

And, those he offended, as everyone must, Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just, With kindness he reasoned all errors to show, And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe.

He owned like a hero the penalty dread-- "By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread," And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows, Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose.

The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared, On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared; And few things delighted him more than to send, A rare little treat to an invalid friend.

He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride, The follies of fashion he loved to deride; But acknowledged true merit wherever 'twas shown, By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne.

His faults be forgotten, we've all gone astray, Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way, Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest, With angels of light, in the home of the blest.

SPRING.

Rosy morn is brightly breaking, Cheerful birds melodious sing, Earth with thankful songs awaking Hails with joy the merry Spring, Silver clouds in sunlight glowing Slowly float the azure dome, Tender flowers are sweetly blowing Round each cozy cottage home.

Dreary winter's icy fingers Have released the bending tree, Genial life reviving, lingers O'er the cold and sterile lea. From the rocky, snow-clad mountains, Where the breath of sunny Spring Has unfettered muffled fountains, Hear the songs of gladness ring.

In the morn of playful childhood, With dear friends 'mid sylvan bowers, O'er the fields and through the wildwood, Culling all the choicest flow'rs; Twining wreaths, each other crowning, Dew-drops bright for royal gems, Ne'er a thought of worldly frowning On the precious diadems.

Marched we on with true devotion, While the scenes of after years, Stirr'd the spirits deep emotion, With alternate hopes and fears. While before us lay life's prizes, Dazzling in the sunlight gleam,-- How we gazed with sad surprises, When they vanished like a dream.

Many happy hearts grew weary, Rosy cheeks grew pale and white, Pleasant paths grew dark and dreary, Swept by storms of withering blight; How the changing years have fleeted, Strewing wrecks on either side, Cherished schemes have been defeated, And the cares of age abide.

But when cheery Spring advances, Crowned with gems of beauty rare, Pleasure like a fairy, dances O'er the landscape everywhere, And the tide of life flows higher, Gloom's dark curtains are withdrawn, And again youth's hidden fire, Thrills me as in life's fresh dawn.

JAMES McCAULEY.

James McCauley was born August 23, 1809, near Mechanics Valley, in Cecil county, and received his education in the log schoolhouse in that neighborhood known as Maffit's schoolhouse. He learned the trade of a cooper with his father John McCauley. After coming of age he taught school for a few years, and then commenced making threshing machines and horse powers, doing the wood and iron work himself. In 1836 he removed to New Leeds, where he has since resided.

In 1841, Mr. McCauley was appointed County Surveyor by Governor Pratt, and served in that capacity for several years and has ever since practiced land surveying with much success in all parts of Cecil county. In 1857 he was elected Register of Wills and served until the Fall of 1863. In 1864 he was elected a delegate to the General Assembly of the State, and served in the session of 1865, and the special session of 1866. Mr. McCauley has always been deeply interested in the cause of education and was chairman of the committee on that subject in the House of Delegates. While in the Legislature he was instrumental in securing the passage of the law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors in Cecil county on election day.

In the early part of 1868 Mr. McCauley was appointed School Commissioner, and soon afterwards Chief Judge of the Orphan's Court, to fill the vacancy caused by the death of the late Levi H. Evans, which he did with so much acceptability that he has since been elected for four terms of four years each.

In 1834, Mr. McCauley married Sarah, the youngest daughter of Hugh Beard, a well-known surveyor of this county. His first wife died in 1846, leaving five children. In 1849 he married Millicent, daughter of Jacob Price, of Sassafras Neck.

Mr. McCauley commenced to write poetry when a young man and has contributed poetry, but much more prose, to the newspapers of this county during the last half century.

HENRY CLAY.

He needs no monument, no marble pile, 'Tis vain thus to commemorate a name That must endure in noble grandeur while His country lives,--the temple of his fame.

VIRTUOUS AGE.

As early youth in brightness vies, With advent of the day, When Sol first opes his golden eyes, And chases night away.

So may the virtuous man compare, In his declining day, With setting sun, in ev'ning fair, Passing from earth away.

And though his face no more we see, He still reflects his light, And shines with glorious majesty, In other realms more bright.

And still his light doth ne'er decline, But gath'ring up fresh store, Through ages yet to come, shall shine, And shine, forever more.

ACROSTIC.

Enraptured thoughts intuitive, Make haste to greet thy page. Melodious with sweet accord, And classic too with age.

And ever may the sacred nine, Lead thee to their embrace, Inspire thy song with themes divine, Choice gems select from nature's mine, Enriched with matchless grace.

Be thine a life of social joy, Removed from care and pain, On earth thy early years employ, With prospect of that gain No mortal here can realize, Eternal bliss beyond the skies.

WORK TO-DAY.

Youth's the time; Youth's the season! Learn and labor while you may, Hear the voice of age and reason,-- Work to-day.

Labor hard in morning's prime, Hasten on without delay, Make the most of early time-- Work to-day.

Up betimes, nor let the sun Find you sleeping or at play, Sleep enough when life is done-- Work to-day.

Cull the sweets from ev'ry flower, Seize the moments while you may, Nor idly pass one sunny hour-- Work to-day.

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

Dear sister, has thy little son, Been snatched from thy embrace, Thy fav'rite child, thy darling one, Has left a vacant place.

His father oft with little John Beguil'd the hours away, To watch his little fav'rite son, Enjoy his childish play;

For there was laughter in his eye, And health was on his cheek, I fancy that he's standing by, And almost hear him speak.

The patt'ring of his little feet, In fancy's ear is heard, The music of his voice as sweet, As singing of a bird.

The objects that we fondly prize, How soon they pass away, And we are left to realize, The emblems of decay.

Dear sister, be resigned then, Nor let your faith grow dim, He cannot come to you again, But you can go to him.

SPRING.

Awake and sing, for early Spring Comes forth with beauty gay, With joy elate, both small and great Now bless the happy day.

Through all the earth comes beauty forth, So sweet, so fresh and fair, And ev'ry sound that echoes round, Comes with a gladsome air.

While from the hill the little rill, Comes trickling down so clear, Its bubbling voice made me rejoice, In many an early year.

Along the mead where'er we tread, Will little flow'rets spring, And through the air in colors rare, Waves many a tiny wing.

Back to their home, the songsters come, And gaily, blithely sing, The sun looks gay, I love the day, The sweet and early spring.

HOPE.

When storms arise, and tumults jar, And wreck this mortal form, There is a bright, a lovely star, That shines above the storm.

'Tis hope that buoys our spirits up, Along the chequer'd way, And when we drain the bitter cup It points a brighter day.

Though all the ills of life stand by, It proffers still to save; And when the shades of death are nigh, It looks beyond the grave.

AUTUMN.

How sad the breath of autumn sighs, With mourning and decay; The woods are clothed in varying dyes, Of funeral array.

Where beauty bloomed of late around, On mountain top and vale, Now wither'd foliage strews the ground, And tells a piteous tale.

And summer birds are on the wing, Bound for a warmer sky, They greeted us in early spring-- They bid us now good bye.

So pass away our early years, Youth sinks into decay, And age, like autumn soon appears, And quick we pass away.

MRS. IDA McCORMICK.

Mrs. Ida McCormick was born at Cameron Park, the family homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion, Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850. She is the daughter of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles; her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham, the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may be found in this volume. She was educated at the Church-side Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the public schools of her native county. She commenced to write poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed to the columns of the _Cecil Whig_.

On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with her husband near that place. In 1876 the family removed to Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals when traveling.

MY FANCY LAND.

I'm roaming to-day in a far-away land Where the roses and violets grow, Where white waves break on a silvery strand, And are lost on the cliffs below. High up in a palace of sparkling gold Where voices are hushed and still, Where lips are silent and hearts are cold, And the days are rich with a glory untold, And no one disputes my will.

The walls are rich with an amber light, And waters in fountains fall, There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright, And servants within my call; There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet, With tender, plaintive chords, Like the patter of tiny innocent feet, Or the voices of joy when loved ones meet And their hearts speak out, their words.

All day from my turret I watch the sails That fleck the sweep of the tide,-- Whose passengers all are joyous and hale, As into the harbor they ride. They enter my golden castle gate,-- They roam thro' my stately halls,-- They rest in chambers furnished in state, Then close by my glory-throne they wait, Until I shall answer their call.

There are faces bright with a merry light And the music of long ago; And others dark as Lethe's night And as cold as the winter's snow. Hands that meet mine in a trusty clasp With blushes that come and go, Strangers to pain in this world so vast, With its pleasure now and sorrow at last, In the land we do not know.

They are bound for this strangely mystical land So shadowy, lone and so dim, And my castle's a port on the ocean strand, Where they wait for the ferryman grim, To row them away from the silvery beach Beyond the foam of the tide, Where a palace looms far away from their reach, Whose gates are closed with a clang to each Who have chosen the pathway wide.

They tell me I'm treading with careless feet This thorny, deceitful path, When the Master cometh my face to greet He will open his vials of wrath. But I turn again to the world so real, And my "Fancy Land" grows dim, Time's hand has taught me not to feel The wounds which sympathy cannot heal, And I anchor my faith in Him.

WITH THE TIDE.

Beneath the bright sun's dazzling ray, She watched his vessel sail away To distant, far-famed lands. Her heart was gone,--upon her hand Sparkled a diamond fair and grand, Telling in silent jubilee "His love is all the world to me."

Time goes by wings,--the years flew on, The days had come,--the summers gone, And still no loved one came To feed the burning passion flame Still glowing in her heart. They told her "in another land He captive held a heart and hand And graced Dame Fashion's mart."

She listened to love's second tale That came with Autumn's misty gale, And hid her heart within the fold Of satins rare, and lustrous gold, Sadness so deep, must live untold Shut in her marble palace high, Reared almost up to touch the sky.

Haughty and cold her heart had grown, For wealth and glory she lived alone, Yet as oft she watched an out bound ship Its prow in foamy waters dip, The day came back when lip to lip Her heart met his in a sad farewell. Murmuring this sad and low refrain, As cold and chill as winter rain-- "He's falser than human tongue can tell."

* * * * *

September's sun with yellow heat, Fell burning where the waves had beat With restless motion, against the shore, And music like unto that of yore, When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw, Moving and nearing the pleasant land Quietly, swiftly, as by a law. Screening her brown eyes with her hand, She saw it strike the pebbled sand, And heard a glad shout cleave the air, And saw a noble, manly form, With locks of silvered raven hair, And a heart with love and passion warm.

She held her breath in silent dread, The crimson from her soft cheek fled, Low at her feet he knelt;-- "No welcome for the leal and true? Speak, darling, speak! it is my due, Back through the years I've come to you Faithful as when I went!"

"No answer still? my love, oh, why No answer to my pleading cry?" Thou'rt dead! Why have I lived for this? To gain a life of shipwrecked bliss? To distant lands to roam and then Dead lips to welcome me again?

* * * * *

A funeral train,--all mourners great, Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state, The form they love more fair in death Than when 'twas warmed by living breath, A haughty man with silvered hair, Among the strangers gathered there;-- A rose dropped by an unknown hand With perfume from a foreign land, Upon the casket lid,-- A ship at anchor in the bay, That in the evening bore away A form that landed yesterday.

THE OLD FASHION.

"The old, old fashion,--Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!"

--Dickens.

Despite all human passion, And all that we can do,-- There is an old, old fashion That comes to me and you. It has come to me so often That I know its meaning well, Nothing its pain can soften Nothing its power can quell.

When the battle-field was silent, Gone to their final rest, Dead in their last encampment Lay the ones I loved the best. And then, when my heart was lightest, It came with a snake-like tread, And darkened the day that was brightest, Then left me with my dead.

It came in the wild March weather With bluster of storm and sleet, And stilled in our home forever The patter of boyish feet. And then,--God pity my treason, When life again had smiled, It came in the holiday season And took from me my child.

"Give thanks for the old, old fashion," No, that can never be. Where is the Divine compassion That God has shown to me? Fling wide each shining portal,-- Let me--a sinner through,-- Thank God for the immortal Is all that I can do.