II.

In all the cycles past the good and wiseHave dreamed of Wisdom’s way;The prophets’ eyesCould see, and they foretold the day,The glory of the coming paradise;And higher far than lofty prophets bold,In every stageOf human rage,The God of hosts hath willed his vast, united fold.

In all the cycles past the good and wise

Have dreamed of Wisdom’s way;

The prophets’ eyes

Could see, and they foretold the day,

The glory of the coming paradise;

And higher far than lofty prophets bold,

In every stage

Of human rage,

The God of hosts hath willed his vast, united fold.

Congressman Upshaw, after a personal appeal to Mr. Wilson on February 17, 1923, wired the author: “Hard to overcome fixed rule of former President,” in refusing his photograph and autograph for publication; but we have the pleasure of presenting both to his friends.

And poets great have felt the need,As plain they saw the greedOf men and nations waging war,They knew not why, yet brothers all.Their voice is heard from heights afar;They tell us why the peoples rise and fall;They sang and on the hill tops wrought,While dupe and knave went down;They knew the last of Folly’s battles would be fought.

And poets great have felt the need,

As plain they saw the greed

Of men and nations waging war,

They knew not why, yet brothers all.

Their voice is heard from heights afar;

They tell us why the peoples rise and fall;

They sang and on the hill tops wrought,

While dupe and knave went down;

They knew the last of Folly’s battles would be fought.

Obstructionists abide, alas in State,The demagogue and fool,The dullard in his school,Who far behind the generation plods,Yet at God’s leader casts rough stones and clods—Wise men foresee their fate.Without insight they still refuse to followThe men inspired, high Heaven’s men;Preferring far their narrow ken,To vaunt themselves, though cause of fearful sorrow.The while the great move onIn God’s high road,With heavy load;Becoming weary and living lone,Oft forced to suffer and to moan—At last to die!But Heaven clears away the cloud from the martyr’s sky.

Obstructionists abide, alas in State,

The demagogue and fool,

The dullard in his school,

Who far behind the generation plods,

Yet at God’s leader casts rough stones and clods—

Wise men foresee their fate.

Without insight they still refuse to follow

The men inspired, high Heaven’s men;

Preferring far their narrow ken,

To vaunt themselves, though cause of fearful sorrow.

The while the great move on

In God’s high road,

With heavy load;

Becoming weary and living lone,

Oft forced to suffer and to moan—

At last to die!

But Heaven clears away the cloud from the martyr’s sky.

The race of men is a long and wondrous evolution;The patient soul who kens, and God’s great goal,Is benefactor best, the man of resolutionTo mark and void each shoal,Like pilots good of worthy ships,Whose eyes are used far more than lips.He counter vessels must prevent,And every vexing accident,By night and day upon the deep.Men’s revolutions, small or great, and why,The leader must discern and know,And records old, aye currents vital passing by,To make them rightly flow.And never was the pregnant day, nor hour,When one of such transcendent powerWas needed by the race,With more than human grace.Let men in church and state be confident,He was the man of men pre-eminent.

The race of men is a long and wondrous evolution;

The patient soul who kens, and God’s great goal,

Is benefactor best, the man of resolution

To mark and void each shoal,

Like pilots good of worthy ships,

Whose eyes are used far more than lips.

He counter vessels must prevent,

And every vexing accident,

By night and day upon the deep.

Men’s revolutions, small or great, and why,

The leader must discern and know,

And records old, aye currents vital passing by,

To make them rightly flow.

And never was the pregnant day, nor hour,

When one of such transcendent power

Was needed by the race,

With more than human grace.

Let men in church and state be confident,

He was the man of men pre-eminent.

The future holds for him the fullest meed,For best of deeds before he fell a prey,The patient man, still prophet of the perfect day,When none shall be a slave;And none in need.American,And cosmopolitan,He made and mounted the on-sweeping wave.No ruler with so good and vast a scheme;In labors so engrossed for noblest creed—A wide and warring world to win and save,Fulfillment of the greatest dream,To give the nations peace and prosperity supreme.

The future holds for him the fullest meed,

For best of deeds before he fell a prey,

The patient man, still prophet of the perfect day,

When none shall be a slave;

And none in need.

American,

And cosmopolitan,

He made and mounted the on-sweeping wave.

No ruler with so good and vast a scheme;

In labors so engrossed for noblest creed—

A wide and warring world to win and save,

Fulfillment of the greatest dream,

To give the nations peace and prosperity supreme.

One birthday more has rolled around,But still my heart is in its youth;Though sixty fleeting years I’ve found,One birthday more has rolled around;Yet not my body underground.The song is best when sung in truth:One birthday more has rolled around,But still my heart is in its youth.

One birthday more has rolled around,

But still my heart is in its youth;

Though sixty fleeting years I’ve found,

One birthday more has rolled around;

Yet not my body underground.

The song is best when sung in truth:

One birthday more has rolled around,

But still my heart is in its youth.

My baby, Oh my laughing, baby child,What God-like joy you give!Since I received you, how He has smil’dAnd made me love and live,Oh baby mine!

My baby, Oh my laughing, baby child,

What God-like joy you give!

Since I received you, how He has smil’d

And made me love and live,

Oh baby mine!

Snap shot bythe Author.

Some sorrow I have had, some deep delight,And much the even way;Some views attract of vale and mountain height,But naught like you, each day,Oh baby mine!Oh baby mine, O sweetest baby mine,What angel makes you laugh?What silent tempter makes you cry and whine?But more of wheat than chaff,Oh baby mine!Your coming days are all unknown to me,Your pitfall, or your pest;But God is good; I trust and pray that HeMay hold you to His breast,Oh baby mine!

Some sorrow I have had, some deep delight,And much the even way;Some views attract of vale and mountain height,But naught like you, each day,Oh baby mine!

Some sorrow I have had, some deep delight,

And much the even way;

Some views attract of vale and mountain height,

But naught like you, each day,

Oh baby mine!

Oh baby mine, O sweetest baby mine,What angel makes you laugh?What silent tempter makes you cry and whine?But more of wheat than chaff,Oh baby mine!

Oh baby mine, O sweetest baby mine,

What angel makes you laugh?

What silent tempter makes you cry and whine?

But more of wheat than chaff,

Oh baby mine!

Your coming days are all unknown to me,Your pitfall, or your pest;But God is good; I trust and pray that HeMay hold you to His breast,Oh baby mine!

Your coming days are all unknown to me,

Your pitfall, or your pest;

But God is good; I trust and pray that He

May hold you to His breast,

Oh baby mine!

The snake that’s king deserves his crown,Above his kind in wood and town;For man was ne’er bit by the king,Though snake-fond ones to him will cling;But I prefer no such renown.With boys I frolic up and down,The playful kids who never frown;And small respect at times I flingThe snake—that’s king.O Muse, tell me the oldest clown;Why fickle Eve preferred no gown;And why she ceased at once to sing,And deigned within her heart to bringThe Snake that’s king?

The snake that’s king deserves his crown,Above his kind in wood and town;For man was ne’er bit by the king,Though snake-fond ones to him will cling;But I prefer no such renown.

The snake that’s king deserves his crown,

Above his kind in wood and town;

For man was ne’er bit by the king,

Though snake-fond ones to him will cling;

But I prefer no such renown.

With boys I frolic up and down,The playful kids who never frown;And small respect at times I flingThe snake—that’s king.

With boys I frolic up and down,

The playful kids who never frown;

And small respect at times I fling

The snake—that’s king.

O Muse, tell me the oldest clown;Why fickle Eve preferred no gown;And why she ceased at once to sing,And deigned within her heart to bringThe Snake that’s king?

O Muse, tell me the oldest clown;

Why fickle Eve preferred no gown;

And why she ceased at once to sing,

And deigned within her heart to bring

The Snake that’s king?

Picture of a King Snake nearly five feet long, swallowing a somewhat shorter Rattler, after a struggle which lasted for two hours.Photograph by Mr. Alfred Austell near Atlanta, Ga.

Picture of a King Snake nearly five feet long, swallowing a somewhat shorter Rattler, after a struggle which lasted for two hours.

Photograph by Mr. Alfred Austell near Atlanta, Ga.

O France, beloved; fickle, fearless France!What heights are thine and what unfathomed depths,From Roman old and Jupiter the great,To Notre Dame and her eternal day.Thy famous little “Ile de la cité,”Birth place of Paris and a state renowned,And buoyant bosom of thy ceaseless SeineWere wronged by Vandal and the vicious Gaul,Coveted long by kings, and last by cunning Kaiser.Within, around thy growing heart, now gay,Now sad, now brave and true, now sick and vile,Epitome of man and race of men,Foretaste of Heaven and prelude to Hell—Thy lovers, far and near, have felt and fought,O France, for thee, and for thy perfect day.

O France, beloved; fickle, fearless France!

What heights are thine and what unfathomed depths,

From Roman old and Jupiter the great,

To Notre Dame and her eternal day.

Thy famous little “Ile de la cité,”

Birth place of Paris and a state renowned,

And buoyant bosom of thy ceaseless Seine

Were wronged by Vandal and the vicious Gaul,

Coveted long by kings, and last by cunning Kaiser.

Within, around thy growing heart, now gay,

Now sad, now brave and true, now sick and vile,

Epitome of man and race of men,

Foretaste of Heaven and prelude to Hell—

Thy lovers, far and near, have felt and fought,

O France, for thee, and for thy perfect day.

NOTRE DAME.

Thy Notre Dame of yore and now—beholdWhat records writ, and deeds unwritten more!Begun as shrine to gods unknown, but feared,Again the seat of power of the saints;Both natal place and tomb of King and priest;Dream attained of artist pioneer;And pomp and rites as varied as striking grand,Which brought the fathers from Jerusalem,The Romish pope to altars, solemn, high;When prayer, and priestly pride through chapels rangWith song of marching choir, from narthex bold,And transept, double bay and nave and vault,To over-topping spire, ambitious, firm—What wondrous song from such exalted throng!And laughing devils, perched on airy stage;Stryge, with arms on parapet for ease;Grim face upheld by hands of demon long,Tongue out, and worn with everlasting sneer;And leering ape, and nameless creatures; beastsObscene; and unclean birds of prey around,Above thy true yet hybrid art; a cow,Half woman, arms of her in comfort crossed,With evil eye beholds the temples ’neathSt. Etienne, St. Jacque, and St. Denis,The “Hotel Dieu,” Justice Palace, Law!See hungry ghouls, and vampires, never sated,Fiends eyeing Paris, gibing, mocking all;And cat alive and wild, like devil deadRevived, hath climbed on precipice of stone,Creeping, howling, groaning, pained much;Then plunging far, as if pursued by ghost.And stories of the garden, curdling blood,Of lunatic and felon’s leap to death—The whole a hell around fair Notre Dame,Her place and portion, part of thine, O France!Alas, our boys—let angels weep—our sonsWho went to aid of thee, pure as the VirginMary some, our soldier sons in air,On earth, and underneath were tempted, caughtBy countess cunning, rich but fallen far;Entrapped, diseased by women, living hells,That move and search and laugh and win and damn!Indecencies of men—God save the race,That human virtue may not die at last!O France, all this is not thy nobler heart,What love and honor thou hast ever shown;What triumph for thyself, for us and all!Thy virtue dieth not, nor truth, nor thoseInspired of Heaven through the ages past,The now and evermore; these lofty hostsAnd we, who love aright, will see thy soul,All torn by vice and mocking devils, whole;Triumphant over foes without, within.Thy Notre Dame, thy little hells, O France;The good and evil, working both—but God!

Thy Notre Dame of yore and now—behold

What records writ, and deeds unwritten more!

Begun as shrine to gods unknown, but feared,

Again the seat of power of the saints;

Both natal place and tomb of King and priest;

Dream attained of artist pioneer;

And pomp and rites as varied as striking grand,

Which brought the fathers from Jerusalem,

The Romish pope to altars, solemn, high;

When prayer, and priestly pride through chapels rang

With song of marching choir, from narthex bold,

And transept, double bay and nave and vault,

To over-topping spire, ambitious, firm—

What wondrous song from such exalted throng!

And laughing devils, perched on airy stage;Stryge, with arms on parapet for ease;Grim face upheld by hands of demon long,Tongue out, and worn with everlasting sneer;And leering ape, and nameless creatures; beastsObscene; and unclean birds of prey around,Above thy true yet hybrid art; a cow,Half woman, arms of her in comfort crossed,With evil eye beholds the temples ’neathSt. Etienne, St. Jacque, and St. Denis,The “Hotel Dieu,” Justice Palace, Law!See hungry ghouls, and vampires, never sated,Fiends eyeing Paris, gibing, mocking all;And cat alive and wild, like devil deadRevived, hath climbed on precipice of stone,Creeping, howling, groaning, pained much;Then plunging far, as if pursued by ghost.And stories of the garden, curdling blood,Of lunatic and felon’s leap to death—The whole a hell around fair Notre Dame,Her place and portion, part of thine, O France!

And laughing devils, perched on airy stage;

Stryge, with arms on parapet for ease;

Grim face upheld by hands of demon long,

Tongue out, and worn with everlasting sneer;

And leering ape, and nameless creatures; beasts

Obscene; and unclean birds of prey around,

Above thy true yet hybrid art; a cow,

Half woman, arms of her in comfort crossed,

With evil eye beholds the temples ’neath

St. Etienne, St. Jacque, and St. Denis,

The “Hotel Dieu,” Justice Palace, Law!

See hungry ghouls, and vampires, never sated,

Fiends eyeing Paris, gibing, mocking all;

And cat alive and wild, like devil dead

Revived, hath climbed on precipice of stone,

Creeping, howling, groaning, pained much;

Then plunging far, as if pursued by ghost.

And stories of the garden, curdling blood,

Of lunatic and felon’s leap to death—

The whole a hell around fair Notre Dame,

Her place and portion, part of thine, O France!

Alas, our boys—let angels weep—our sonsWho went to aid of thee, pure as the VirginMary some, our soldier sons in air,On earth, and underneath were tempted, caughtBy countess cunning, rich but fallen far;Entrapped, diseased by women, living hells,That move and search and laugh and win and damn!Indecencies of men—God save the race,That human virtue may not die at last!

Alas, our boys—let angels weep—our sons

Who went to aid of thee, pure as the Virgin

Mary some, our soldier sons in air,

On earth, and underneath were tempted, caught

By countess cunning, rich but fallen far;

Entrapped, diseased by women, living hells,

That move and search and laugh and win and damn!

Indecencies of men—God save the race,

That human virtue may not die at last!

O France, all this is not thy nobler heart,What love and honor thou hast ever shown;What triumph for thyself, for us and all!Thy virtue dieth not, nor truth, nor thoseInspired of Heaven through the ages past,The now and evermore; these lofty hostsAnd we, who love aright, will see thy soul,All torn by vice and mocking devils, whole;Triumphant over foes without, within.

O France, all this is not thy nobler heart,

What love and honor thou hast ever shown;

What triumph for thyself, for us and all!

Thy virtue dieth not, nor truth, nor those

Inspired of Heaven through the ages past,

The now and evermore; these lofty hosts

And we, who love aright, will see thy soul,

All torn by vice and mocking devils, whole;

Triumphant over foes without, within.

Thy Notre Dame, thy little hells, O France;The good and evil, working both—but God!

Thy Notre Dame, thy little hells, O France;

The good and evil, working both—but God!

A master artist in the sun-kissed leavesOf a scarlet maple loved by me for years,First paints a verdant robe until appearsThe autumn time, then marvel great conceives.Through darkest night, high noon, and splendent evesHis wondrous work goes on, unknown to fears,Although my maple has her unshed tears,Until her greatest glory he achieves.Then yields she all her riches quite content;For man and bird and beast her life is spent;In turn to every tree hath prophesied,To mortal man hath plainly said, “The bestWaits him who gives his all, then goes to rest;Thus life and even death are glorified.”

A master artist in the sun-kissed leaves

Of a scarlet maple loved by me for years,

First paints a verdant robe until appears

The autumn time, then marvel great conceives.

Through darkest night, high noon, and splendent eves

His wondrous work goes on, unknown to fears,

Although my maple has her unshed tears,

Until her greatest glory he achieves.

Then yields she all her riches quite content;For man and bird and beast her life is spent;In turn to every tree hath prophesied,To mortal man hath plainly said, “The bestWaits him who gives his all, then goes to rest;Thus life and even death are glorified.”

Then yields she all her riches quite content;

For man and bird and beast her life is spent;

In turn to every tree hath prophesied,

To mortal man hath plainly said, “The best

Waits him who gives his all, then goes to rest;

Thus life and even death are glorified.”

Again rare riches thou hast gently shown,And I drink sweetness from thy royal heart.Again I rise and claim the nobler part,And bless the friendship in thee made known.Full forty years, in public or alone,I’ve studied men, high heaven’s sovereign artAnd thee—thy virtue’s smiles, and whence they start,Adoring Truth’s sweet balm, which is thine own.Let turmoils come and go; let fools fomentDisaster dire, till many shall lamentTheir natal hour, their present lot and all.Thy friendship true, which grows from bud to bloomAnd fruit eternal, dissipates all gloom—Again I’ve entered love’s pure banquet hall.

Again rare riches thou hast gently shown,

And I drink sweetness from thy royal heart.

Again I rise and claim the nobler part,

And bless the friendship in thee made known.

Full forty years, in public or alone,

I’ve studied men, high heaven’s sovereign art

And thee—thy virtue’s smiles, and whence they start,

Adoring Truth’s sweet balm, which is thine own.

Let turmoils come and go; let fools fomentDisaster dire, till many shall lamentTheir natal hour, their present lot and all.Thy friendship true, which grows from bud to bloomAnd fruit eternal, dissipates all gloom—Again I’ve entered love’s pure banquet hall.

Let turmoils come and go; let fools foment

Disaster dire, till many shall lament

Their natal hour, their present lot and all.

Thy friendship true, which grows from bud to bloom

And fruit eternal, dissipates all gloom—

Again I’ve entered love’s pure banquet hall.

The strikers call for more and more;For they sail a sea without a shore;Ah, yes, they’ll strike forever more!Let merit go, it were a sinFor any plan but a strike to win;And hence they strike forever more!No brother they to the monied man;The law of love—“Oh damn the plan!We’ll vote to strike forever more!”The public is pleased; ’tis a joy each dayTo the folks at home, without a way;So why not strike forever more?For coal and food, let a nation suffer;Let good and bad be made a buffer—Yes, plan to strike forever more.Our hard-fought war with the hot-headed-HunWas children’s play compared to the funThat strikes produce forever more.Their wives and children mustn’t whineWithout their part, ’tis ever so fine,The strikers’ way forever more.Alas, the blind, who makes the broomHas threatened quits till crack of doom—Unless he gets a plenty and more.And teacher too who trains the childIs asked to join the force that’s wild,And close the school forever more!Let wisdom go—’tis a by-gone game;The striker’s god must win his fame—Ah, strike and strike forever more.

The strikers call for more and more;For they sail a sea without a shore;Ah, yes, they’ll strike forever more!

The strikers call for more and more;

For they sail a sea without a shore;

Ah, yes, they’ll strike forever more!

Let merit go, it were a sinFor any plan but a strike to win;And hence they strike forever more!

Let merit go, it were a sin

For any plan but a strike to win;

And hence they strike forever more!

No brother they to the monied man;The law of love—“Oh damn the plan!We’ll vote to strike forever more!”The public is pleased; ’tis a joy each dayTo the folks at home, without a way;So why not strike forever more?

No brother they to the monied man;

The law of love—“Oh damn the plan!

We’ll vote to strike forever more!”

The public is pleased; ’tis a joy each day

To the folks at home, without a way;

So why not strike forever more?

For coal and food, let a nation suffer;Let good and bad be made a buffer—Yes, plan to strike forever more.

For coal and food, let a nation suffer;

Let good and bad be made a buffer—

Yes, plan to strike forever more.

Our hard-fought war with the hot-headed-HunWas children’s play compared to the funThat strikes produce forever more.

Our hard-fought war with the hot-headed-Hun

Was children’s play compared to the fun

That strikes produce forever more.

Their wives and children mustn’t whineWithout their part, ’tis ever so fine,The strikers’ way forever more.

Their wives and children mustn’t whine

Without their part, ’tis ever so fine,

The strikers’ way forever more.

Alas, the blind, who makes the broomHas threatened quits till crack of doom—Unless he gets a plenty and more.

Alas, the blind, who makes the broom

Has threatened quits till crack of doom—

Unless he gets a plenty and more.

And teacher too who trains the childIs asked to join the force that’s wild,And close the school forever more!

And teacher too who trains the child

Is asked to join the force that’s wild,

And close the school forever more!

Let wisdom go—’tis a by-gone game;The striker’s god must win his fame—Ah, strike and strike forever more.

Let wisdom go—’tis a by-gone game;

The striker’s god must win his fame—

Ah, strike and strike forever more.

“Come now,” says God, “and let us reason,In every way, in every season,Bar strikes of force forever more.”

“Come now,” says God, “and let us reason,

In every way, in every season,

Bar strikes of force forever more.”

With chill November mist in darkened air,With hearts of men imbued with doubt and gloom;And in the wide, wide world no couch, no room;No rest for weary feet; with friends unfair,Or cannot understand, nor yet can bearTo bring one bud of friendship’s failing bloom;Affection gone that once hailed bride and groom—Ah then, ’tis triumph true, or death’s despair.And yet November’s night of gloom and griefHath unseen power to bring sweet trust,If men but turn their minds of unbeliefTo One whose name is Love, whose ways are just;Then be the battle sharp and long, or brief,The soul is safe, that sings, “I can and must.”

With chill November mist in darkened air,

With hearts of men imbued with doubt and gloom;

And in the wide, wide world no couch, no room;

No rest for weary feet; with friends unfair,

Or cannot understand, nor yet can bear

To bring one bud of friendship’s failing bloom;

Affection gone that once hailed bride and groom—

Ah then, ’tis triumph true, or death’s despair.

And yet November’s night of gloom and griefHath unseen power to bring sweet trust,If men but turn their minds of unbeliefTo One whose name is Love, whose ways are just;Then be the battle sharp and long, or brief,The soul is safe, that sings, “I can and must.”

And yet November’s night of gloom and grief

Hath unseen power to bring sweet trust,

If men but turn their minds of unbelief

To One whose name is Love, whose ways are just;

Then be the battle sharp and long, or brief,

The soul is safe, that sings, “I can and must.”

While face to face with him I plainly feelA something in my heart and open mindThat prompts an eager search, perchance to findThe unknown source of such a strong appeal.A rip’ning fruit, I ask, of earth’s ideal?Or full blown rose, to all its beauty blind?Or tree of life within the mad mart’s grind—Oh what o’er me in power doth sweetly steal?In truth his inmost soul is full of light,A shining constant from afar, yet bright,An humble, potent life not his nor man’s,Increasing gently through his crowning years,And freeing him from all the sinner’s fears—Ah yes, he’s one of God’s unthwarted plans.

While face to face with him I plainly feel

A something in my heart and open mind

That prompts an eager search, perchance to find

The unknown source of such a strong appeal.

A rip’ning fruit, I ask, of earth’s ideal?

Or full blown rose, to all its beauty blind?

Or tree of life within the mad mart’s grind—

Oh what o’er me in power doth sweetly steal?

In truth his inmost soul is full of light,A shining constant from afar, yet bright,An humble, potent life not his nor man’s,Increasing gently through his crowning years,And freeing him from all the sinner’s fears—Ah yes, he’s one of God’s unthwarted plans.

In truth his inmost soul is full of light,

A shining constant from afar, yet bright,

An humble, potent life not his nor man’s,

Increasing gently through his crowning years,

And freeing him from all the sinner’s fears—

Ah yes, he’s one of God’s unthwarted plans.

In life’s highway I meet all sorts of men,The loud-mouthed man or human thunderbolt;Then smiles on me a man of head and heart,A gentle, noble soul like Erwin Holt.Another man is ever in a rut,To self and all a weary, lifeless dolt;Like showers then to thirsty famished earthAre spirit life and deeds of Erwin Holt.Still other men are working hard for pelf,And passing give your peaceful heart a jolt;What joy to turn away from men like these,And feel the healing balm of Erwin Holt.Oh for more men who’re full of highest life,Who ’gainst all vileness join in strong revolt,With mind to think and hand to ever blessTheir fellowmen like happy Erwin Holt.

In life’s highway I meet all sorts of men,The loud-mouthed man or human thunderbolt;Then smiles on me a man of head and heart,A gentle, noble soul like Erwin Holt.

In life’s highway I meet all sorts of men,

The loud-mouthed man or human thunderbolt;

Then smiles on me a man of head and heart,

A gentle, noble soul like Erwin Holt.

Another man is ever in a rut,To self and all a weary, lifeless dolt;Like showers then to thirsty famished earthAre spirit life and deeds of Erwin Holt.

Another man is ever in a rut,

To self and all a weary, lifeless dolt;

Like showers then to thirsty famished earth

Are spirit life and deeds of Erwin Holt.

Still other men are working hard for pelf,And passing give your peaceful heart a jolt;What joy to turn away from men like these,And feel the healing balm of Erwin Holt.

Still other men are working hard for pelf,

And passing give your peaceful heart a jolt;

What joy to turn away from men like these,

And feel the healing balm of Erwin Holt.

Oh for more men who’re full of highest life,Who ’gainst all vileness join in strong revolt,With mind to think and hand to ever blessTheir fellowmen like happy Erwin Holt.

Oh for more men who’re full of highest life,

Who ’gainst all vileness join in strong revolt,

With mind to think and hand to ever bless

Their fellowmen like happy Erwin Holt.

Allow me please, to present to youA queenly girl and a cockatoo—Sweet Agnes she, and her name means “chase,”And the bird, in truth, has native grace.When captured by their mystic spell,Which charms me most I cannot tell;For beauty and goodness at heart are one—All hail to “Billy” and Miss Cameron!

Allow me please, to present to youA queenly girl and a cockatoo—Sweet Agnes she, and her name means “chase,”And the bird, in truth, has native grace.

Allow me please, to present to you

A queenly girl and a cockatoo—

Sweet Agnes she, and her name means “chase,”

And the bird, in truth, has native grace.

When captured by their mystic spell,Which charms me most I cannot tell;For beauty and goodness at heart are one—All hail to “Billy” and Miss Cameron!

When captured by their mystic spell,

Which charms me most I cannot tell;

For beauty and goodness at heart are one—

All hail to “Billy” and Miss Cameron!

Photo by the Author.

JUDGE FRANKLIN CHASE HOYT,Presiding Over the Children’s Court, New York City.

In cause and city great, a jurist great,For every mother’s child a kindly heart;Stern Justice he would join to Mercy’s art,For sire and son, a vision high create;For all the hopeless ones the path elate.Ah, future generations will he start,Through children now, to choose the better part,And trustful follow Him immaculate.Hark ye, to Christ’s own playful lambs astray,Who reach the desert place and jungle deep;From city slum, and far off mountain steep,They call and plead for everlasting day—Not bitter night, but some untrodden way,No matter how they play, nor wide their sweep.

In cause and city great, a jurist great,

For every mother’s child a kindly heart;

Stern Justice he would join to Mercy’s art,

For sire and son, a vision high create;

For all the hopeless ones the path elate.

Ah, future generations will he start,

Through children now, to choose the better part,

And trustful follow Him immaculate.

Hark ye, to Christ’s own playful lambs astray,Who reach the desert place and jungle deep;From city slum, and far off mountain steep,They call and plead for everlasting day—Not bitter night, but some untrodden way,No matter how they play, nor wide their sweep.

Hark ye, to Christ’s own playful lambs astray,

Who reach the desert place and jungle deep;

From city slum, and far off mountain steep,

They call and plead for everlasting day—

Not bitter night, but some untrodden way,

No matter how they play, nor wide their sweep.

The loveliest sight on the coast I saw,Was little Ann Gray with her pet macaw,A trustful bird in the hands of Ann,But woe to the stranger, or hostile man.Though upside down, ’twas the very thing,When under the rule of his lover’s wing;Some stunts to do, that he’d never tried,But that’s all right, when his friend is guide.

The loveliest sight on the coast I saw,Was little Ann Gray with her pet macaw,A trustful bird in the hands of Ann,But woe to the stranger, or hostile man.

The loveliest sight on the coast I saw,

Was little Ann Gray with her pet macaw,

A trustful bird in the hands of Ann,

But woe to the stranger, or hostile man.

Though upside down, ’twas the very thing,When under the rule of his lover’s wing;Some stunts to do, that he’d never tried,But that’s all right, when his friend is guide.

Though upside down, ’twas the very thing,

When under the rule of his lover’s wing;

Some stunts to do, that he’d never tried,

But that’s all right, when his friend is guide.

Snapped by the Author at the Home of Paul R. Grayon Belle Isle, Miami, Fla., March 17, 1920.

So every creature, bird and beast,From animal great to the very least,Will some day see with different eyes,When men grow kind and good and wise.The lion fierce shall fondle the lamb,When men shall follow the great I Am,And wolf shall play with the sportive kid,When earth of hate and murder is rid—When the great and small shall learn to be mild,In the kingdom of Christ and a little child.

So every creature, bird and beast,From animal great to the very least,Will some day see with different eyes,When men grow kind and good and wise.

So every creature, bird and beast,

From animal great to the very least,

Will some day see with different eyes,

When men grow kind and good and wise.

The lion fierce shall fondle the lamb,When men shall follow the great I Am,And wolf shall play with the sportive kid,When earth of hate and murder is rid—When the great and small shall learn to be mild,In the kingdom of Christ and a little child.

The lion fierce shall fondle the lamb,

When men shall follow the great I Am,

And wolf shall play with the sportive kid,

When earth of hate and murder is rid—

When the great and small shall learn to be mild,

In the kingdom of Christ and a little child.

It is time to be revived,And the tourists have arrived,The Robins from the land of snow and ice,By the score and by the hundred;So many that I’ve wonderedWhere plenteous food could be, and paradise.But listen to their cheering,For there’s no profiteering,In mulberry and stately cabbage palm;Instead the trees would say:“We’re ready for this day,And welcome birds and people to our balm.“We’ve endured the blazing sun,Through the summer for the funOf freest song and abundant feasting fine;While you yourselves employ,In song and sumptuous joy,Remember we are drinking Heaven’s wine.“’Tis better far to live,That we may freely give—Far better and more God-like in us all.See Black-birds fly around,Alighting on the ground,While the Mocking-birds’ hosannahs loudly call.“And yonder in the waters free,Blue Herons and white Egrets see;Thus far have they escaped the tyrant, Pride.The Ducks are diving for their food,And, hit or miss, they still are good—In all no groom unfriendly to his bride!“The Cardinal and Wren,From farthest hill and glen,Have joined the busy Downy in a tree;While other birds delightIn song from morn till night—Come, sing aloud and join our jubilee!”

It is time to be revived,

And the tourists have arrived,

The Robins from the land of snow and ice,

By the score and by the hundred;

So many that I’ve wondered

Where plenteous food could be, and paradise.

But listen to their cheering,For there’s no profiteering,In mulberry and stately cabbage palm;Instead the trees would say:“We’re ready for this day,And welcome birds and people to our balm.

But listen to their cheering,

For there’s no profiteering,

In mulberry and stately cabbage palm;

Instead the trees would say:

“We’re ready for this day,

And welcome birds and people to our balm.

“We’ve endured the blazing sun,Through the summer for the funOf freest song and abundant feasting fine;While you yourselves employ,In song and sumptuous joy,Remember we are drinking Heaven’s wine.

“We’ve endured the blazing sun,

Through the summer for the fun

Of freest song and abundant feasting fine;

While you yourselves employ,

In song and sumptuous joy,

Remember we are drinking Heaven’s wine.

“’Tis better far to live,That we may freely give—Far better and more God-like in us all.See Black-birds fly around,Alighting on the ground,While the Mocking-birds’ hosannahs loudly call.

“’Tis better far to live,

That we may freely give—

Far better and more God-like in us all.

See Black-birds fly around,

Alighting on the ground,

While the Mocking-birds’ hosannahs loudly call.

“And yonder in the waters free,Blue Herons and white Egrets see;Thus far have they escaped the tyrant, Pride.The Ducks are diving for their food,And, hit or miss, they still are good—In all no groom unfriendly to his bride!

“And yonder in the waters free,

Blue Herons and white Egrets see;

Thus far have they escaped the tyrant, Pride.

The Ducks are diving for their food,

And, hit or miss, they still are good—

In all no groom unfriendly to his bride!

“The Cardinal and Wren,From farthest hill and glen,Have joined the busy Downy in a tree;While other birds delightIn song from morn till night—Come, sing aloud and join our jubilee!”

“The Cardinal and Wren,

From farthest hill and glen,

Have joined the busy Downy in a tree;

While other birds delight

In song from morn till night—

Come, sing aloud and join our jubilee!”

In a pullman smoker the tourists sat,All reading the news of the day,When suddenly started a lively chatOn the League and the Wilson way.The travellers argued with theirproandcon;And loudly and fiercely they swore;While some of them tired, and others looked wan,And I was silent and sore.For the Easter season was drawing nigh,And I was perusing “Life;”My soul was nursing an inward cry;And I hated the oaths and strife—The war of words on the blessing of peace,And taking God’s name in vain;From the turmoil I craved a quick release,From the hellish noise on the train;When suddenly came two lovely tots,With the father a-near their side;Then lo, there ceased the fiery shots;The children had turned the tide.Like a sun-burst bright on a stormy morn,Like flowers in the valley of death,The children advanced, and joy was born,With the sweetness of Heaven’s breath.They turned and climbed to the lower berth,Just over the passage from mine;And there my ears caught the wisdom of earth,And the faith from Jehovah’s shrine:“Now I lay me down to sleep;I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

In a pullman smoker the tourists sat,All reading the news of the day,When suddenly started a lively chatOn the League and the Wilson way.

In a pullman smoker the tourists sat,

All reading the news of the day,

When suddenly started a lively chat

On the League and the Wilson way.

The travellers argued with theirproandcon;And loudly and fiercely they swore;While some of them tired, and others looked wan,And I was silent and sore.

The travellers argued with theirproandcon;

And loudly and fiercely they swore;

While some of them tired, and others looked wan,

And I was silent and sore.

For the Easter season was drawing nigh,And I was perusing “Life;”My soul was nursing an inward cry;And I hated the oaths and strife—

For the Easter season was drawing nigh,

And I was perusing “Life;”

My soul was nursing an inward cry;

And I hated the oaths and strife—

The war of words on the blessing of peace,And taking God’s name in vain;From the turmoil I craved a quick release,From the hellish noise on the train;

The war of words on the blessing of peace,

And taking God’s name in vain;

From the turmoil I craved a quick release,

From the hellish noise on the train;

When suddenly came two lovely tots,With the father a-near their side;Then lo, there ceased the fiery shots;The children had turned the tide.

When suddenly came two lovely tots,

With the father a-near their side;

Then lo, there ceased the fiery shots;

The children had turned the tide.

Like a sun-burst bright on a stormy morn,Like flowers in the valley of death,The children advanced, and joy was born,With the sweetness of Heaven’s breath.

Like a sun-burst bright on a stormy morn,

Like flowers in the valley of death,

The children advanced, and joy was born,

With the sweetness of Heaven’s breath.

They turned and climbed to the lower berth,Just over the passage from mine;And there my ears caught the wisdom of earth,And the faith from Jehovah’s shrine:

They turned and climbed to the lower berth,

Just over the passage from mine;

And there my ears caught the wisdom of earth,

And the faith from Jehovah’s shrine:

“Now I lay me down to sleep;I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

“Now I lay me down to sleep;

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

The Tots that Turned the Tide.Photo by the Author.

My mind went back to my earliest days,At the side of my mother’s knee;My hungry soul sang a fervent praise,And my heart was happy and free.I dreamed of the damnable wars of men,Of the havoc that Death has made;Of a Prince who died and arose again,With power each grave to invade.And dreaming I caught a holier note,No melody born of the sod;And I blest the old saint who heard and wrote,“Of such is the kingdom of God.”And children I heard, around the throne,Formed a vast and caroling throng,With the glorious Prince still leading his own,All singing their Easter song.

My mind went back to my earliest days,At the side of my mother’s knee;My hungry soul sang a fervent praise,And my heart was happy and free.

My mind went back to my earliest days,

At the side of my mother’s knee;

My hungry soul sang a fervent praise,

And my heart was happy and free.

I dreamed of the damnable wars of men,Of the havoc that Death has made;Of a Prince who died and arose again,With power each grave to invade.

I dreamed of the damnable wars of men,

Of the havoc that Death has made;

Of a Prince who died and arose again,

With power each grave to invade.

And dreaming I caught a holier note,No melody born of the sod;And I blest the old saint who heard and wrote,“Of such is the kingdom of God.”

And dreaming I caught a holier note,

No melody born of the sod;

And I blest the old saint who heard and wrote,

“Of such is the kingdom of God.”

And children I heard, around the throne,Formed a vast and caroling throng,With the glorious Prince still leading his own,All singing their Easter song.

And children I heard, around the throne,

Formed a vast and caroling throng,

With the glorious Prince still leading his own,

All singing their Easter song.

In darkness deep by day and night,A fettered child without a ray—No word of speech, no sound, no sightTo lift a soul to Heaven’s day.But Patience came in Love’s sweet way,And smiled and wept and wept and smiled,With failure oft, yet would essayTo lighten the mind of a captive child.What mortal e’er in such a plight?What twain beset with such dismay,As guide and child in the long drawn fightTo lift a soul to Heaven’s day?No victor great, no ruler’s sway,Reveals such triumph, pure and mild;No leader nobler zeal portray,To lighten the mind of a captive child.And darkness gross and many a blightLeave other children far astray;And they call loud for some brave knightTo lift a soul to Heaven’s day.Then who the priceless pearl will pay,To lift a soul so dark and wild,From the deepest pit, as a piece of clay—To lighten the mind of a captive child?Envoy’Tis faith and work, with hope’s delay,To lift a soul to Heaven’s day,From Night’s dim depths, by love beguiled,To lighten the mind of a captive child.

In darkness deep by day and night,

A fettered child without a ray—

No word of speech, no sound, no sight

To lift a soul to Heaven’s day.

But Patience came in Love’s sweet way,

And smiled and wept and wept and smiled,

With failure oft, yet would essay

To lighten the mind of a captive child.

What mortal e’er in such a plight?What twain beset with such dismay,As guide and child in the long drawn fightTo lift a soul to Heaven’s day?No victor great, no ruler’s sway,Reveals such triumph, pure and mild;No leader nobler zeal portray,To lighten the mind of a captive child.

What mortal e’er in such a plight?

What twain beset with such dismay,

As guide and child in the long drawn fight

To lift a soul to Heaven’s day?

No victor great, no ruler’s sway,

Reveals such triumph, pure and mild;

No leader nobler zeal portray,

To lighten the mind of a captive child.

And darkness gross and many a blightLeave other children far astray;And they call loud for some brave knightTo lift a soul to Heaven’s day.Then who the priceless pearl will pay,To lift a soul so dark and wild,From the deepest pit, as a piece of clay—To lighten the mind of a captive child?

And darkness gross and many a blight

Leave other children far astray;

And they call loud for some brave knight

To lift a soul to Heaven’s day.

Then who the priceless pearl will pay,

To lift a soul so dark and wild,

From the deepest pit, as a piece of clay—

To lighten the mind of a captive child?

Envoy

’Tis faith and work, with hope’s delay,To lift a soul to Heaven’s day,From Night’s dim depths, by love beguiled,To lighten the mind of a captive child.

’Tis faith and work, with hope’s delay,

To lift a soul to Heaven’s day,

From Night’s dim depths, by love beguiled,

To lighten the mind of a captive child.

Here’s to each Mary from first to last;To Virgin holy, heaven’s primal queen,And deepest penitent, the Magdalene;Hail Marys many through the long, long past,From proudest princess down to poor outcast.A myriad of them I’ve heard and seen,Some strong, some weak and few of sober mien;How varied they, and fervent hopes how vast!At length the Mary comes, delighting me best;Her head’s safe-guarded by the purest heart,Enriching childhood’s state with princely zest;To work devoted, and would ever displayRule over Mammon for the noblest art—All honor and long life to Mary Gray!

Here’s to each Mary from first to last;

To Virgin holy, heaven’s primal queen,

And deepest penitent, the Magdalene;

Hail Marys many through the long, long past,

From proudest princess down to poor outcast.

A myriad of them I’ve heard and seen,

Some strong, some weak and few of sober mien;

How varied they, and fervent hopes how vast!

At length the Mary comes, delighting me best;Her head’s safe-guarded by the purest heart,Enriching childhood’s state with princely zest;To work devoted, and would ever displayRule over Mammon for the noblest art—All honor and long life to Mary Gray!

At length the Mary comes, delighting me best;

Her head’s safe-guarded by the purest heart,

Enriching childhood’s state with princely zest;

To work devoted, and would ever display

Rule over Mammon for the noblest art—

All honor and long life to Mary Gray!

The female preacher both smiled and exhorted,While around her fair cheek and back to her ear,Her long, gay tassel danced and cavorted,And the more men looked the less they could hear,For lo, the dancing tassel.And the wonderful thing, ’twas a Quaker tassel,On a Quaker hat, on aFriend’shigh head,Who in pulpit reigned like a queen in a castle,While the souls of men just longed to be fed—But there, that dancing tassel.As her nose went up the tassel went down;While ever it flirted, and ever it playedIts prominent part as one with a crown—In the audience many who might have prayed;But ho! that dancing tassel.Her kid-gloved-hand was constant in motion,And busy my mind to follow all three,The tassel, the glove, and the word of devotion;But most active of all in this trinity,That ever-dancing tassel.I suppose I should be so pious and good,As to shut my eyes fast to any dancing thing,And be anywhere in a heavenly mood,But somehow my soul kept up the swingOf that flouncing, dancing tassel.

The female preacher both smiled and exhorted,

While around her fair cheek and back to her ear,

Her long, gay tassel danced and cavorted,

And the more men looked the less they could hear,

For lo, the dancing tassel.

And the wonderful thing, ’twas a Quaker tassel,On a Quaker hat, on aFriend’shigh head,Who in pulpit reigned like a queen in a castle,While the souls of men just longed to be fed—But there, that dancing tassel.

And the wonderful thing, ’twas a Quaker tassel,

On a Quaker hat, on aFriend’shigh head,

Who in pulpit reigned like a queen in a castle,

While the souls of men just longed to be fed—

But there, that dancing tassel.

As her nose went up the tassel went down;While ever it flirted, and ever it playedIts prominent part as one with a crown—In the audience many who might have prayed;But ho! that dancing tassel.

As her nose went up the tassel went down;

While ever it flirted, and ever it played

Its prominent part as one with a crown—

In the audience many who might have prayed;

But ho! that dancing tassel.

Her kid-gloved-hand was constant in motion,And busy my mind to follow all three,The tassel, the glove, and the word of devotion;But most active of all in this trinity,That ever-dancing tassel.

Her kid-gloved-hand was constant in motion,

And busy my mind to follow all three,

The tassel, the glove, and the word of devotion;

But most active of all in this trinity,

That ever-dancing tassel.

I suppose I should be so pious and good,As to shut my eyes fast to any dancing thing,And be anywhere in a heavenly mood,But somehow my soul kept up the swingOf that flouncing, dancing tassel.

I suppose I should be so pious and good,

As to shut my eyes fast to any dancing thing,

And be anywhere in a heavenly mood,

But somehow my soul kept up the swing

Of that flouncing, dancing tassel.

WALTER MALONE.Poet, Jurist and Philosopher.

The dreaming lad saw life as intricate,And learned to solve and sing in buoyant youth;For fallen ones, was filled with tender ruth,For all he pondered deeply, soon and late;A gentle friend and wise, fraternal mate,Who darkness saw where light should be and truth,Despite the ways of thief, and heartless sleuth—A prophet bold to plan and then create.Immortal bard, far seeing, earnest man,Who knew the height and depth of Heaven’s plan,To turn our feeble wail to sweetest tone—Thy “Opportunity”[18]thou didst employTo animate and lead with rhythmic joy,Thy friends and fellows up to Heaven’s throne.

The dreaming lad saw life as intricate,

And learned to solve and sing in buoyant youth;

For fallen ones, was filled with tender ruth,

For all he pondered deeply, soon and late;

A gentle friend and wise, fraternal mate,

Who darkness saw where light should be and truth,

Despite the ways of thief, and heartless sleuth—

A prophet bold to plan and then create.

Immortal bard, far seeing, earnest man,Who knew the height and depth of Heaven’s plan,To turn our feeble wail to sweetest tone—Thy “Opportunity”[18]thou didst employTo animate and lead with rhythmic joy,Thy friends and fellows up to Heaven’s throne.

Immortal bard, far seeing, earnest man,

Who knew the height and depth of Heaven’s plan,

To turn our feeble wail to sweetest tone—

Thy “Opportunity”[18]thou didst employ

To animate and lead with rhythmic joy,

Thy friends and fellows up to Heaven’s throne.

Bright morning glory,In brief you tell,With magic spell,A wondrous, mystic storyOf life and beauty.May I please God so well,Inspiring in the sons of men delight and duty.

Bright morning glory,

In brief you tell,

With magic spell,

A wondrous, mystic story

Of life and beauty.

May I please God so well,

Inspiring in the sons of men delight and duty.

(Inscribed to C. L. Anderson, H. C. Bagley, S. R. Belk, J. N. McEachern and A. R. Holderby.)

The month of May for a holiday—Now what do you think of that?With Nature to stay for her matinee—Up high I’ll throw my hat.“Quite sick,” they say, in the month of May;And the doctors all stood pat;Yes, truly astray, unfit for the fray;Indeed I had fallen flat,Till the month of May, my holiday,Near Nature’s heart whereatI’ll doff decay, with all dismay,And with her grow strong and fat.The month of May for peace and play,When the birds so fondly chat;When the old and gray must Life obey,Like a full fledged bouncing brat.All hail to May and to friends for aye!The friends who in council sat,And said, “We pray, take the month of May,And live in a beautiful plat.”Hooray, hooray, for my holiday!I’ll be a master at the bat;Without delay I’ll mount my way,As high as Ararat.

The month of May for a holiday—Now what do you think of that?With Nature to stay for her matinee—Up high I’ll throw my hat.

The month of May for a holiday—

Now what do you think of that?

With Nature to stay for her matinee—

Up high I’ll throw my hat.

“Quite sick,” they say, in the month of May;And the doctors all stood pat;Yes, truly astray, unfit for the fray;Indeed I had fallen flat,

“Quite sick,” they say, in the month of May;

And the doctors all stood pat;

Yes, truly astray, unfit for the fray;

Indeed I had fallen flat,

Till the month of May, my holiday,Near Nature’s heart whereatI’ll doff decay, with all dismay,And with her grow strong and fat.

Till the month of May, my holiday,

Near Nature’s heart whereat

I’ll doff decay, with all dismay,

And with her grow strong and fat.

The month of May for peace and play,When the birds so fondly chat;When the old and gray must Life obey,Like a full fledged bouncing brat.

The month of May for peace and play,

When the birds so fondly chat;

When the old and gray must Life obey,

Like a full fledged bouncing brat.

All hail to May and to friends for aye!The friends who in council sat,And said, “We pray, take the month of May,And live in a beautiful plat.”

All hail to May and to friends for aye!

The friends who in council sat,

And said, “We pray, take the month of May,

And live in a beautiful plat.”

Hooray, hooray, for my holiday!I’ll be a master at the bat;Without delay I’ll mount my way,As high as Ararat.

Hooray, hooray, for my holiday!

I’ll be a master at the bat;

Without delay I’ll mount my way,

As high as Ararat.

What mysterious music is that?Whence these softest melodies, soothing my inmost soul?What symphony orchestra over the hillsSends me its sweetest strains,These chords of subdued sorrow mingled with joy of gentleness?Or what angel deigns to float down to meSuch mild, musical waves,Which captivate yet elude?What or who and where?The richest radio this, and the first, of the ascending years?I ask myself, being alone, and I seek to answer.I listen still.My awakened soul is rising;I look around, all around.I continue to think, and very gently Truth appears.What?Yes, the winds, the winged winds, have joyfully yieldedTo the goddess Harmony,And together they are producing this matchless marvel.My soul is at peace, yet longs for more,More of such wooing of the eternally tender goddess,Brought to me, with approval of Aeolius.

What mysterious music is that?

Whence these softest melodies, soothing my inmost soul?

What symphony orchestra over the hills

Sends me its sweetest strains,

These chords of subdued sorrow mingled with joy of gentleness?

Or what angel deigns to float down to me

Such mild, musical waves,

Which captivate yet elude?

What or who and where?

The richest radio this, and the first, of the ascending years?

I ask myself, being alone, and I seek to answer.

I listen still.

My awakened soul is rising;

I look around, all around.

I continue to think, and very gently Truth appears.

What?

Yes, the winds, the winged winds, have joyfully yielded

To the goddess Harmony,

And together they are producing this matchless marvel.

My soul is at peace, yet longs for more,

More of such wooing of the eternally tender goddess,

Brought to me, with approval of Aeolius.

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