Beneath an apple tree she satAmid bright leaf and flower,Telling of what she would do,Were it within her power:She’d civilize the heathen poor,—She’d meet the wary foe,And drive them till their trackless pathsWere through eternal snow.With strong nerve she would care for thoseWho are stricken down in warAnd cheer the sick and suffering onesWithout a bit of awe.She’d soothe the fevered ones to restAnd bathe each aching head,—And never would she shrink from pain,But bravely work, instead.But ah! what caused her cheek to paleEre she had ceased to speak—What made her start, with fingers clenched,And give that awful shriek?Where is the maiden, once so brave?Ah! nothing now can still her,—For lo! upon her sleeve there layAlittle caterpillar!
Beneath an apple tree she satAmid bright leaf and flower,Telling of what she would do,Were it within her power:She’d civilize the heathen poor,—She’d meet the wary foe,And drive them till their trackless pathsWere through eternal snow.With strong nerve she would care for thoseWho are stricken down in warAnd cheer the sick and suffering onesWithout a bit of awe.She’d soothe the fevered ones to restAnd bathe each aching head,—And never would she shrink from pain,But bravely work, instead.But ah! what caused her cheek to paleEre she had ceased to speak—What made her start, with fingers clenched,And give that awful shriek?Where is the maiden, once so brave?Ah! nothing now can still her,—For lo! upon her sleeve there layAlittle caterpillar!
Beneath an apple tree she satAmid bright leaf and flower,Telling of what she would do,Were it within her power:She’d civilize the heathen poor,—She’d meet the wary foe,And drive them till their trackless pathsWere through eternal snow.
With strong nerve she would care for thoseWho are stricken down in warAnd cheer the sick and suffering onesWithout a bit of awe.She’d soothe the fevered ones to restAnd bathe each aching head,—And never would she shrink from pain,But bravely work, instead.
But ah! what caused her cheek to paleEre she had ceased to speak—What made her start, with fingers clenched,And give that awful shriek?Where is the maiden, once so brave?Ah! nothing now can still her,—For lo! upon her sleeve there layAlittle caterpillar!
[decorative bar.]
’Twas a calm, still night and the big full moonLooked down with smile serene;And his watchful eye observed all things,And he called it a curious scene.All agreed ’twas a fine night for the dance,—We all were so light-hearted;Light-headed? No! but we wished to goAnd dance, so off we started.The night was fair and the watchful moonShone almost bright as day;So Jack, he harnessed the old white mareAnd hitched her to the sleigh.The old horse clipped a lively timeOver the snow so cold,Like a frisky colt,—though the old horseWas twenty-five years old.Oh, the pure delight of that moon-lit driveAs we dashed the plains across,—And chung, chung, chung, went the merry bells,The while the old white horseKept merry time to the tuneful bellsAs over the snow we sped;And the soft and gentle zephyrs blew,And the moon its radiance shed.The time flew by on rapid wings,As it does when on pleasure bent;And it was in the “wee small hours”Before we homeward went.’Twas a beautiful, beautiful, evening,And the moon looked down so kind;The world seemed full of musicAnd poetry combined.
’Twas a calm, still night and the big full moonLooked down with smile serene;And his watchful eye observed all things,And he called it a curious scene.All agreed ’twas a fine night for the dance,—We all were so light-hearted;Light-headed? No! but we wished to goAnd dance, so off we started.The night was fair and the watchful moonShone almost bright as day;So Jack, he harnessed the old white mareAnd hitched her to the sleigh.The old horse clipped a lively timeOver the snow so cold,Like a frisky colt,—though the old horseWas twenty-five years old.Oh, the pure delight of that moon-lit driveAs we dashed the plains across,—And chung, chung, chung, went the merry bells,The while the old white horseKept merry time to the tuneful bellsAs over the snow we sped;And the soft and gentle zephyrs blew,And the moon its radiance shed.The time flew by on rapid wings,As it does when on pleasure bent;And it was in the “wee small hours”Before we homeward went.’Twas a beautiful, beautiful, evening,And the moon looked down so kind;The world seemed full of musicAnd poetry combined.
’Twas a calm, still night and the big full moonLooked down with smile serene;And his watchful eye observed all things,And he called it a curious scene.All agreed ’twas a fine night for the dance,—We all were so light-hearted;Light-headed? No! but we wished to goAnd dance, so off we started.
The night was fair and the watchful moonShone almost bright as day;So Jack, he harnessed the old white mareAnd hitched her to the sleigh.The old horse clipped a lively timeOver the snow so cold,Like a frisky colt,—though the old horseWas twenty-five years old.
Oh, the pure delight of that moon-lit driveAs we dashed the plains across,—And chung, chung, chung, went the merry bells,The while the old white horseKept merry time to the tuneful bellsAs over the snow we sped;And the soft and gentle zephyrs blew,And the moon its radiance shed.
The time flew by on rapid wings,As it does when on pleasure bent;And it was in the “wee small hours”Before we homeward went.’Twas a beautiful, beautiful, evening,And the moon looked down so kind;The world seemed full of musicAnd poetry combined.
[decorative bar.]
She sat down by the kitchen fire,While munching bread and cheese;With now and then a pancake hot,Her hunger to appease.“Ah me! how good this is,” she sighedAs a cookie she stowed away;“I would that I a lunch could haveLike this oneevery day!”—Next day her beau on her did callTo take her for a ride;’Twas getting late—’twas nearly noonWhen the mother her espied.And, anxious as all mammas are,As to how her daughter fared;Cried, “Just you wait a moment dear—I’ve dinner all prepared.”“Oh! mercy! no,”—it was no use,She could not eat a miteShe hardly ever cared for much—She had no appetite!—Strange, wasn’t it? that one day sheCould eat a slice of steak,Potatoes, and a ham sandwich,With coffee, pie and cake,—Yet thenextday, when her beau was nighWhat changes it did bring!She wassodainty andsofrailShe could not eat a thing!
She sat down by the kitchen fire,While munching bread and cheese;With now and then a pancake hot,Her hunger to appease.“Ah me! how good this is,” she sighedAs a cookie she stowed away;“I would that I a lunch could haveLike this oneevery day!”—Next day her beau on her did callTo take her for a ride;’Twas getting late—’twas nearly noonWhen the mother her espied.And, anxious as all mammas are,As to how her daughter fared;Cried, “Just you wait a moment dear—I’ve dinner all prepared.”“Oh! mercy! no,”—it was no use,She could not eat a miteShe hardly ever cared for much—She had no appetite!—Strange, wasn’t it? that one day sheCould eat a slice of steak,Potatoes, and a ham sandwich,With coffee, pie and cake,—Yet thenextday, when her beau was nighWhat changes it did bring!She wassodainty andsofrailShe could not eat a thing!
She sat down by the kitchen fire,While munching bread and cheese;With now and then a pancake hot,Her hunger to appease.
“Ah me! how good this is,” she sighedAs a cookie she stowed away;“I would that I a lunch could haveLike this oneevery day!”—
Next day her beau on her did callTo take her for a ride;’Twas getting late—’twas nearly noonWhen the mother her espied.
And, anxious as all mammas are,As to how her daughter fared;Cried, “Just you wait a moment dear—I’ve dinner all prepared.”
“Oh! mercy! no,”—it was no use,She could not eat a miteShe hardly ever cared for much—She had no appetite!—
Strange, wasn’t it? that one day sheCould eat a slice of steak,Potatoes, and a ham sandwich,With coffee, pie and cake,—
Yet thenextday, when her beau was nighWhat changes it did bring!She wassodainty andsofrailShe could not eat a thing!
[decorative bar.]
Come hither my children, Sue, Archie, and NellAnd listen to me as a story I tellHow “once on a time,” in the mist and the fogWas a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog.The dog, while at play, fell from a high bankInto a dark pool—and down, down it sank.To escape it endeavor’d, but slow was its speed,For the treacherous mud did its progress impede.But the folks passing by took no heed of himExcepting to say—“Just see the pup swim!”Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf—“It is only a dog—Let it care for itself.”’Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eyeIn passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy.—Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jawsIt clung to it, and, with the aid of its pawsReached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp—Ah! none but this boy had offered it help!Then he took it up kindly, ’neath his jacket to holdTo protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold.As snugly it nestled ’neath the boy’s ragged frockIt said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk)I love you, dear friend—I’ll helpyouif I can;For in all this vast throng there’s butyouthat’s aman!Then came the dog’s master, who found it so wet,And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved petIn a loving embrace.—but it clung to the boyWith many plain manifestations of joy.While its glance towards its master said plain as it could:—“I’ll stay with this laddie because he is good.”“Oh! my little pet knows you are honest and true;The dog ’s name is Gipsy, and well he loves you.But say, little man, how came you to save‘A poor little cur’ from a watery grave?”“I know what it is to be friendless,” he said,—“I’ve no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead—I know what it is to be hungry—forlorn—I’ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn.And at night I must sleep where I happen to be—And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me.The gentleman’s head was bowed low.—And he thoughtOf his sister, who married a poor drunken sot,—Ten years it had been since he last saw her face—And five it had been since of her he lost trace.For a moment he prayed—with heart beating wild:“Have mercy onher, as I pity this child!”Then aloud he said—as they moved through the throng—“My dog will not come unless I takeyoualong.So come home with me, ’Tis not good you should roam”—And he treated him kindly, and gave him a home.Then he sought the boy’s kindred—here fate on him smiled,—The lad was his nephew,—his lost sister’s child!And now in his prayers he forgets not his joy—He thanks the kind Father for sending the boy.Now children, who think you ’twas, out in the fog?My dears, ’twasyour Grandpawho saved the brown dog!
Come hither my children, Sue, Archie, and NellAnd listen to me as a story I tellHow “once on a time,” in the mist and the fogWas a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog.The dog, while at play, fell from a high bankInto a dark pool—and down, down it sank.To escape it endeavor’d, but slow was its speed,For the treacherous mud did its progress impede.But the folks passing by took no heed of himExcepting to say—“Just see the pup swim!”Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf—“It is only a dog—Let it care for itself.”’Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eyeIn passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy.—Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jawsIt clung to it, and, with the aid of its pawsReached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp—Ah! none but this boy had offered it help!Then he took it up kindly, ’neath his jacket to holdTo protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold.As snugly it nestled ’neath the boy’s ragged frockIt said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk)I love you, dear friend—I’ll helpyouif I can;For in all this vast throng there’s butyouthat’s aman!Then came the dog’s master, who found it so wet,And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved petIn a loving embrace.—but it clung to the boyWith many plain manifestations of joy.While its glance towards its master said plain as it could:—“I’ll stay with this laddie because he is good.”“Oh! my little pet knows you are honest and true;The dog ’s name is Gipsy, and well he loves you.But say, little man, how came you to save‘A poor little cur’ from a watery grave?”“I know what it is to be friendless,” he said,—“I’ve no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead—I know what it is to be hungry—forlorn—I’ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn.And at night I must sleep where I happen to be—And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me.The gentleman’s head was bowed low.—And he thoughtOf his sister, who married a poor drunken sot,—Ten years it had been since he last saw her face—And five it had been since of her he lost trace.For a moment he prayed—with heart beating wild:“Have mercy onher, as I pity this child!”Then aloud he said—as they moved through the throng—“My dog will not come unless I takeyoualong.So come home with me, ’Tis not good you should roam”—And he treated him kindly, and gave him a home.Then he sought the boy’s kindred—here fate on him smiled,—The lad was his nephew,—his lost sister’s child!And now in his prayers he forgets not his joy—He thanks the kind Father for sending the boy.Now children, who think you ’twas, out in the fog?My dears, ’twasyour Grandpawho saved the brown dog!
Come hither my children, Sue, Archie, and NellAnd listen to me as a story I tellHow “once on a time,” in the mist and the fogWas a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog.The dog, while at play, fell from a high bankInto a dark pool—and down, down it sank.To escape it endeavor’d, but slow was its speed,For the treacherous mud did its progress impede.
But the folks passing by took no heed of himExcepting to say—“Just see the pup swim!”Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf—“It is only a dog—Let it care for itself.”’Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eyeIn passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy.—Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jawsIt clung to it, and, with the aid of its paws
Reached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp—Ah! none but this boy had offered it help!Then he took it up kindly, ’neath his jacket to holdTo protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold.As snugly it nestled ’neath the boy’s ragged frockIt said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk)I love you, dear friend—I’ll helpyouif I can;For in all this vast throng there’s butyouthat’s aman!
Then came the dog’s master, who found it so wet,And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved petIn a loving embrace.—but it clung to the boyWith many plain manifestations of joy.While its glance towards its master said plain as it could:—“I’ll stay with this laddie because he is good.”“Oh! my little pet knows you are honest and true;The dog ’s name is Gipsy, and well he loves you.
But say, little man, how came you to save‘A poor little cur’ from a watery grave?”“I know what it is to be friendless,” he said,—“I’ve no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead—I know what it is to be hungry—forlorn—I’ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn.And at night I must sleep where I happen to be—And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me.
The gentleman’s head was bowed low.—And he thoughtOf his sister, who married a poor drunken sot,—Ten years it had been since he last saw her face—And five it had been since of her he lost trace.For a moment he prayed—with heart beating wild:“Have mercy onher, as I pity this child!”Then aloud he said—as they moved through the throng—“My dog will not come unless I takeyoualong.
So come home with me, ’Tis not good you should roam”—And he treated him kindly, and gave him a home.Then he sought the boy’s kindred—here fate on him smiled,—The lad was his nephew,—his lost sister’s child!And now in his prayers he forgets not his joy—He thanks the kind Father for sending the boy.Now children, who think you ’twas, out in the fog?My dears, ’twasyour Grandpawho saved the brown dog!
[decorative bar.]
It is said that there are sunbeamsShining in the distant blue;Tho’ the dark and angry storm-cloudsMay obscure them from our view,Thus, mayhaps, the seeming hardshipsOf the rural carrier’s lotAre but shadows, merely flittingLest the sunbeams get too hot.Though at times, the mailman’s fingersAre half frozen, and he talksLanguage of his own invention,—Cursing “pennies in the box.”—Though obliged to doff his mittensIn the zero wind, intentOn opening an icy mail-box—Struggling with a wayward “cent.”He should ne’er let angry passionsVex his spirit—cloud his brow,—For, beyond the sombre cloudletThere are sunbeams shining now!He can breathe “health-giving ozone”With no doctor’s fees to pay—All distructive germs dispellingBy “Fresh-air-cure” every day!He should count the many blessingsThat around his pathway creep—No matter if the path’s blockadedBy a snow drift hard and deep,—He should cultivate his patienceWith a fortitude most rare;Ne’er should frown beset his features—Never even wish to swear!These R. F. D. chaps should be happy,But, alas, contentment dampsWhen they worry that “we patrons”Don’t lay in a stock of stamps,—If they’d gather up our penniesAnd not grumble, they would seeEach and every patron murmurBlessings on the R. F. D.!”
It is said that there are sunbeamsShining in the distant blue;Tho’ the dark and angry storm-cloudsMay obscure them from our view,Thus, mayhaps, the seeming hardshipsOf the rural carrier’s lotAre but shadows, merely flittingLest the sunbeams get too hot.Though at times, the mailman’s fingersAre half frozen, and he talksLanguage of his own invention,—Cursing “pennies in the box.”—Though obliged to doff his mittensIn the zero wind, intentOn opening an icy mail-box—Struggling with a wayward “cent.”He should ne’er let angry passionsVex his spirit—cloud his brow,—For, beyond the sombre cloudletThere are sunbeams shining now!He can breathe “health-giving ozone”With no doctor’s fees to pay—All distructive germs dispellingBy “Fresh-air-cure” every day!He should count the many blessingsThat around his pathway creep—No matter if the path’s blockadedBy a snow drift hard and deep,—He should cultivate his patienceWith a fortitude most rare;Ne’er should frown beset his features—Never even wish to swear!These R. F. D. chaps should be happy,But, alas, contentment dampsWhen they worry that “we patrons”Don’t lay in a stock of stamps,—If they’d gather up our penniesAnd not grumble, they would seeEach and every patron murmurBlessings on the R. F. D.!”
It is said that there are sunbeamsShining in the distant blue;Tho’ the dark and angry storm-cloudsMay obscure them from our view,Thus, mayhaps, the seeming hardshipsOf the rural carrier’s lotAre but shadows, merely flittingLest the sunbeams get too hot.
Though at times, the mailman’s fingersAre half frozen, and he talksLanguage of his own invention,—Cursing “pennies in the box.”—Though obliged to doff his mittensIn the zero wind, intentOn opening an icy mail-box—Struggling with a wayward “cent.”
He should ne’er let angry passionsVex his spirit—cloud his brow,—For, beyond the sombre cloudletThere are sunbeams shining now!He can breathe “health-giving ozone”With no doctor’s fees to pay—All distructive germs dispellingBy “Fresh-air-cure” every day!
He should count the many blessingsThat around his pathway creep—No matter if the path’s blockadedBy a snow drift hard and deep,—He should cultivate his patienceWith a fortitude most rare;Ne’er should frown beset his features—Never even wish to swear!
These R. F. D. chaps should be happy,But, alas, contentment dampsWhen they worry that “we patrons”Don’t lay in a stock of stamps,—If they’d gather up our penniesAnd not grumble, they would seeEach and every patron murmurBlessings on the R. F. D.!”
Dennis O’Neil fell asleep one dayAnd he dreamed from this life he had passed awayAnd went to Heaven, where, at the Gate’Mong other pilgrims, he had to wait’Till came his turn to ask for graceTo pass through the gates of that Holy place.At length the vast throng ceased to flow—A few entered the gate—the rest went below—And he found himself waiting where others had been’Till St. Peter should come and usher him in.Soon he heard the sound of hurrying feetEchoing out from the pearly street;And, looking up, his eyes beholdNot the Saint—but a friend of the days of old.With joyful smile they meet, embrace,And tenderly gaze in each others face.“Why Pat, old friend, so it appearsYou, too, have left the ‘Vale of Tears’No more to dwell mid scenes of woeAnd the din and strife of the World below.How is it, then, do you think that ICan gain admittance if I try?A plea for me of course you’ll makeIn my behalf for friendship’s sake.What must I do—if there should beA vacant place in there for me—Tell me now, I ask of youWhat is thefirstthing I must do?”“First,” then said Pat, “Inside the gatesA pure and spotless Book awaitsWhereyou—like each and every oneMust write your name, What you have done,Your faults, your sins, every time you have lied,That you can recall till the day that you died.—Every dishonest act write out plainly and bold—For your chances are lost ifone thingyou withhold!“And how long is it, I’d like to knowPat, sinceyouleft the world below?”—“If I mistake not, it is tenYears I’ve with patience held the pen.”—“What errand calls you forth this morn?”“More ink,” said Pat, “I must hasten on.”“Ten years since you’ve been in this clime—And you’ve been writing all the time!Begorry then, its more than ’tis worth—And I think, on the whole, I’ll go back to the Earth.—For really, you see, ’tis not worthy the strife—Sure, ’twould kape me at work all the days of me life!”
Dennis O’Neil fell asleep one dayAnd he dreamed from this life he had passed awayAnd went to Heaven, where, at the Gate’Mong other pilgrims, he had to wait’Till came his turn to ask for graceTo pass through the gates of that Holy place.At length the vast throng ceased to flow—A few entered the gate—the rest went below—And he found himself waiting where others had been’Till St. Peter should come and usher him in.Soon he heard the sound of hurrying feetEchoing out from the pearly street;And, looking up, his eyes beholdNot the Saint—but a friend of the days of old.With joyful smile they meet, embrace,And tenderly gaze in each others face.“Why Pat, old friend, so it appearsYou, too, have left the ‘Vale of Tears’No more to dwell mid scenes of woeAnd the din and strife of the World below.How is it, then, do you think that ICan gain admittance if I try?A plea for me of course you’ll makeIn my behalf for friendship’s sake.What must I do—if there should beA vacant place in there for me—Tell me now, I ask of youWhat is thefirstthing I must do?”“First,” then said Pat, “Inside the gatesA pure and spotless Book awaitsWhereyou—like each and every oneMust write your name, What you have done,Your faults, your sins, every time you have lied,That you can recall till the day that you died.—Every dishonest act write out plainly and bold—For your chances are lost ifone thingyou withhold!“And how long is it, I’d like to knowPat, sinceyouleft the world below?”—“If I mistake not, it is tenYears I’ve with patience held the pen.”—“What errand calls you forth this morn?”“More ink,” said Pat, “I must hasten on.”“Ten years since you’ve been in this clime—And you’ve been writing all the time!Begorry then, its more than ’tis worth—And I think, on the whole, I’ll go back to the Earth.—For really, you see, ’tis not worthy the strife—Sure, ’twould kape me at work all the days of me life!”
Dennis O’Neil fell asleep one dayAnd he dreamed from this life he had passed awayAnd went to Heaven, where, at the Gate’Mong other pilgrims, he had to wait’Till came his turn to ask for graceTo pass through the gates of that Holy place.At length the vast throng ceased to flow—A few entered the gate—the rest went below—And he found himself waiting where others had been’Till St. Peter should come and usher him in.Soon he heard the sound of hurrying feetEchoing out from the pearly street;And, looking up, his eyes beholdNot the Saint—but a friend of the days of old.With joyful smile they meet, embrace,And tenderly gaze in each others face.“Why Pat, old friend, so it appearsYou, too, have left the ‘Vale of Tears’No more to dwell mid scenes of woeAnd the din and strife of the World below.How is it, then, do you think that ICan gain admittance if I try?A plea for me of course you’ll makeIn my behalf for friendship’s sake.What must I do—if there should beA vacant place in there for me—Tell me now, I ask of youWhat is thefirstthing I must do?”“First,” then said Pat, “Inside the gatesA pure and spotless Book awaitsWhereyou—like each and every oneMust write your name, What you have done,Your faults, your sins, every time you have lied,That you can recall till the day that you died.—Every dishonest act write out plainly and bold—For your chances are lost ifone thingyou withhold!“And how long is it, I’d like to knowPat, sinceyouleft the world below?”—“If I mistake not, it is tenYears I’ve with patience held the pen.”—“What errand calls you forth this morn?”“More ink,” said Pat, “I must hasten on.”“Ten years since you’ve been in this clime—And you’ve been writing all the time!Begorry then, its more than ’tis worth—And I think, on the whole, I’ll go back to the Earth.—For really, you see, ’tis not worthy the strife—Sure, ’twould kape me at work all the days of me life!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *Along down the street walked a dandyWho sported more beauty than brain;He was dressed in an elegant fashionAnd carried a gold headed cane.With nothing to do, he was strolling—Just seeking amusement and fun.—But his practical joke caused him sorrow,Andthisis the way it was done.“Bah jove! here comes an old crone—Now excitement I anticipate!”And his vest was pulsative with laughterThus causing his cheeks to inflate.With a jug in her hand, and a basket,She was wending her way from the store,—A powerful woman from Erin’s fair isleWeighingtwo hundred and ninety—or more.As she with quick footsteps approachesThisintriguehe hastily planned:—To jostle against her, in passing,And knock the things out of her hand.And alas for the basket she cherished—He had planned but too wisely, and well,—The jug for an instant went whizzing—Then, broken to atoms, it fell.But she had him fast by the collar—She shook him, then flung him down flat;His legs broad-cast on the pavementWere thrown, and down on them she sat!He writhed like a fish out of water—But in vain, for she held him down tight,—“Ah, me honey, I have the advantageAn’ I’m thinkin’ ye’ll stay here tonight!What ye doin’, ye black-hearted black-guardThat ye can’t let an ould leddy alone?Are ye meddlin’ wid business of othersBecause ye have none of yer own?Ye have broken me jug—an’ molassesIs spattered all over me dress—But, begorra! ’fore wid ye I’m doneYe’ll be lookin’ like me I guess!”She arose—and both his feet seizingWalked on, while he struggled and yelled;But the more he struggled and shouted—So much the more firmly she held!Through the pool of molasses she dragged himUntil his immaculate shirt,His trousers, and coat of fine broad-clothWas a mixture of molasses and dirt.“Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lessonI’ll larn ye afore I’m content—Ye’ll not trouble agin an ould leddyBecause she’s of Irish descent!!!Arrah—but ye don’t get away aisy!Will ye be done wid yer pratin’, yer jokes?Shure there’s no more honor about yerThan to any ould bullfrog that croaks!An’ a right sorry figure I’m thinkin’Ye look fer a “swate bloomin’ youth!”Will ye show yerself to the fellers?Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth?Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses—If ye do, will she say it was rightTo deprive an ould woman of somethin’To eat on her cold bread to night?An’ now, me molasses-cheeked dandy—Ye may letthisyer feelin’s console:—If ye ever agin let me ketch yeI’ll thrash ye! I will, by me soul!!!My advise ye had better be takin’If ye’ve got a shmall mind of yer own,—When ye meet an ould woman that’sIrishHer ye’d better be lettin’ alone!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *Along down the street walked a dandyWho sported more beauty than brain;He was dressed in an elegant fashionAnd carried a gold headed cane.With nothing to do, he was strolling—Just seeking amusement and fun.—But his practical joke caused him sorrow,Andthisis the way it was done.“Bah jove! here comes an old crone—Now excitement I anticipate!”And his vest was pulsative with laughterThus causing his cheeks to inflate.With a jug in her hand, and a basket,She was wending her way from the store,—A powerful woman from Erin’s fair isleWeighingtwo hundred and ninety—or more.As she with quick footsteps approachesThisintriguehe hastily planned:—To jostle against her, in passing,And knock the things out of her hand.And alas for the basket she cherished—He had planned but too wisely, and well,—The jug for an instant went whizzing—Then, broken to atoms, it fell.But she had him fast by the collar—She shook him, then flung him down flat;His legs broad-cast on the pavementWere thrown, and down on them she sat!He writhed like a fish out of water—But in vain, for she held him down tight,—“Ah, me honey, I have the advantageAn’ I’m thinkin’ ye’ll stay here tonight!What ye doin’, ye black-hearted black-guardThat ye can’t let an ould leddy alone?Are ye meddlin’ wid business of othersBecause ye have none of yer own?Ye have broken me jug—an’ molassesIs spattered all over me dress—But, begorra! ’fore wid ye I’m doneYe’ll be lookin’ like me I guess!”She arose—and both his feet seizingWalked on, while he struggled and yelled;But the more he struggled and shouted—So much the more firmly she held!Through the pool of molasses she dragged himUntil his immaculate shirt,His trousers, and coat of fine broad-clothWas a mixture of molasses and dirt.“Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lessonI’ll larn ye afore I’m content—Ye’ll not trouble agin an ould leddyBecause she’s of Irish descent!!!Arrah—but ye don’t get away aisy!Will ye be done wid yer pratin’, yer jokes?Shure there’s no more honor about yerThan to any ould bullfrog that croaks!An’ a right sorry figure I’m thinkin’Ye look fer a “swate bloomin’ youth!”Will ye show yerself to the fellers?Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth?Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses—If ye do, will she say it was rightTo deprive an ould woman of somethin’To eat on her cold bread to night?An’ now, me molasses-cheeked dandy—Ye may letthisyer feelin’s console:—If ye ever agin let me ketch yeI’ll thrash ye! I will, by me soul!!!My advise ye had better be takin’If ye’ve got a shmall mind of yer own,—When ye meet an ould woman that’sIrishHer ye’d better be lettin’ alone!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *Along down the street walked a dandyWho sported more beauty than brain;He was dressed in an elegant fashionAnd carried a gold headed cane.With nothing to do, he was strolling—Just seeking amusement and fun.—But his practical joke caused him sorrow,Andthisis the way it was done.
“Bah jove! here comes an old crone—Now excitement I anticipate!”And his vest was pulsative with laughterThus causing his cheeks to inflate.With a jug in her hand, and a basket,She was wending her way from the store,—A powerful woman from Erin’s fair isleWeighingtwo hundred and ninety—or more.
As she with quick footsteps approachesThisintriguehe hastily planned:—To jostle against her, in passing,And knock the things out of her hand.And alas for the basket she cherished—He had planned but too wisely, and well,—The jug for an instant went whizzing—Then, broken to atoms, it fell.
But she had him fast by the collar—She shook him, then flung him down flat;His legs broad-cast on the pavementWere thrown, and down on them she sat!He writhed like a fish out of water—But in vain, for she held him down tight,—“Ah, me honey, I have the advantageAn’ I’m thinkin’ ye’ll stay here tonight!
What ye doin’, ye black-hearted black-guardThat ye can’t let an ould leddy alone?Are ye meddlin’ wid business of othersBecause ye have none of yer own?Ye have broken me jug—an’ molassesIs spattered all over me dress—But, begorra! ’fore wid ye I’m doneYe’ll be lookin’ like me I guess!”
She arose—and both his feet seizingWalked on, while he struggled and yelled;But the more he struggled and shouted—So much the more firmly she held!Through the pool of molasses she dragged himUntil his immaculate shirt,His trousers, and coat of fine broad-clothWas a mixture of molasses and dirt.
“Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lessonI’ll larn ye afore I’m content—Ye’ll not trouble agin an ould leddyBecause she’s of Irish descent!!!Arrah—but ye don’t get away aisy!Will ye be done wid yer pratin’, yer jokes?Shure there’s no more honor about yerThan to any ould bullfrog that croaks!
An’ a right sorry figure I’m thinkin’Ye look fer a “swate bloomin’ youth!”Will ye show yerself to the fellers?Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth?Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses—If ye do, will she say it was rightTo deprive an ould woman of somethin’To eat on her cold bread to night?
An’ now, me molasses-cheeked dandy—Ye may letthisyer feelin’s console:—If ye ever agin let me ketch yeI’ll thrash ye! I will, by me soul!!!My advise ye had better be takin’If ye’ve got a shmall mind of yer own,—When ye meet an ould woman that’sIrishHer ye’d better be lettin’ alone!”
[decorative bar.]
Tonight, of the Past I am thinking—Of one of the Autumn’s bright daysWhen the beautiful hills of old HartfordWere covered with October haze,—When the leaves, all russet and goldenCame rustling down, and the breezeSeemed bent upon mischief, dispellingThe radiant garb of the trees.Where the Oak and the Elm stand, defyingThe wrath of the tempest’s fierce blast—Through the thicket, where warble the wild-birdsAnd the chipmunk goes scurrying past.—To the brilliant-hued, picturesque landscapeNo color could artist e’er lendOn this day, when o’er hill and thro’ valleyI wandered in search of a friend.In search of a dear loved one, dwellingIn a quiet, suburban retreat—The friend whose kind manner e’er charmed me—Whom I long had been hoping to greet.And I found her at last, my friend Emma!As at last thro’ the garden I walk.She was sitting quite close by the window—And I found her there—mending a sock!
Tonight, of the Past I am thinking—Of one of the Autumn’s bright daysWhen the beautiful hills of old HartfordWere covered with October haze,—When the leaves, all russet and goldenCame rustling down, and the breezeSeemed bent upon mischief, dispellingThe radiant garb of the trees.Where the Oak and the Elm stand, defyingThe wrath of the tempest’s fierce blast—Through the thicket, where warble the wild-birdsAnd the chipmunk goes scurrying past.—To the brilliant-hued, picturesque landscapeNo color could artist e’er lendOn this day, when o’er hill and thro’ valleyI wandered in search of a friend.In search of a dear loved one, dwellingIn a quiet, suburban retreat—The friend whose kind manner e’er charmed me—Whom I long had been hoping to greet.And I found her at last, my friend Emma!As at last thro’ the garden I walk.She was sitting quite close by the window—And I found her there—mending a sock!
Tonight, of the Past I am thinking—Of one of the Autumn’s bright daysWhen the beautiful hills of old HartfordWere covered with October haze,—When the leaves, all russet and goldenCame rustling down, and the breezeSeemed bent upon mischief, dispellingThe radiant garb of the trees.
Where the Oak and the Elm stand, defyingThe wrath of the tempest’s fierce blast—Through the thicket, where warble the wild-birdsAnd the chipmunk goes scurrying past.—To the brilliant-hued, picturesque landscapeNo color could artist e’er lendOn this day, when o’er hill and thro’ valleyI wandered in search of a friend.
In search of a dear loved one, dwellingIn a quiet, suburban retreat—The friend whose kind manner e’er charmed me—Whom I long had been hoping to greet.And I found her at last, my friend Emma!As at last thro’ the garden I walk.She was sitting quite close by the window—And I found her there—mending a sock!
[decorative bar.]
“Oh!” said the chickTo the white hen, “Run, quick!”(They stood in the garden patch;)“Here’s a woman comingWho will send us ahumming—She’s determined she’ll not let us scratch!”“Now if ’twere amanThat yonder I scan”And her eyes she opened wide,—“And a rock he should throwWe’d know where ’twould goAnd could easily dodge it one side,—Butthisis aWoman—A terror uncommon,What to do I’m sure I can’t see;If a missileshethrowsIt will veer, and, who knows?May by accident hit you or me!”“You silly chick,”Said the white hen quick—“Much wiser I hope you’ll soon be,—Just stand in your trackWhen she makes an attackAnd your safety I will guarantee!”When, as it chanced,She firmly advanced,Hen and chicken with diligence scratched;No verbal commandAvailed, so her handA stone from the dusty loam snatched.ToSouthwardshe aimed—And hostilely proclaimed!(’Twas just as the white hen said—)The pebble flew forth,And, sailing dueNorth,It struck her old man on the head!
“Oh!” said the chickTo the white hen, “Run, quick!”(They stood in the garden patch;)“Here’s a woman comingWho will send us ahumming—She’s determined she’ll not let us scratch!”“Now if ’twere amanThat yonder I scan”And her eyes she opened wide,—“And a rock he should throwWe’d know where ’twould goAnd could easily dodge it one side,—Butthisis aWoman—A terror uncommon,What to do I’m sure I can’t see;If a missileshethrowsIt will veer, and, who knows?May by accident hit you or me!”“You silly chick,”Said the white hen quick—“Much wiser I hope you’ll soon be,—Just stand in your trackWhen she makes an attackAnd your safety I will guarantee!”When, as it chanced,She firmly advanced,Hen and chicken with diligence scratched;No verbal commandAvailed, so her handA stone from the dusty loam snatched.ToSouthwardshe aimed—And hostilely proclaimed!(’Twas just as the white hen said—)The pebble flew forth,And, sailing dueNorth,It struck her old man on the head!
“Oh!” said the chickTo the white hen, “Run, quick!”(They stood in the garden patch;)“Here’s a woman comingWho will send us ahumming—She’s determined she’ll not let us scratch!”
“Now if ’twere amanThat yonder I scan”And her eyes she opened wide,—“And a rock he should throwWe’d know where ’twould goAnd could easily dodge it one side,—
Butthisis aWoman—A terror uncommon,What to do I’m sure I can’t see;If a missileshethrowsIt will veer, and, who knows?May by accident hit you or me!”
“You silly chick,”Said the white hen quick—“Much wiser I hope you’ll soon be,—Just stand in your trackWhen she makes an attackAnd your safety I will guarantee!”
When, as it chanced,She firmly advanced,Hen and chicken with diligence scratched;No verbal commandAvailed, so her handA stone from the dusty loam snatched.
ToSouthwardshe aimed—And hostilely proclaimed!(’Twas just as the white hen said—)The pebble flew forth,And, sailing dueNorth,It struck her old man on the head!
“All that there is in Cuba’s landsIs ours, and we shall reign;Or we will fight them till they die!”Thus comes the cry from Spain.“They never shall their freedom have—We will rule with iron hand;They shall bow to us, they shall heed our lawsOr we’ll drive them from the land!”“Ye cruel tyrants! Are ye men?”(’Twas ‘Uncle Sam’ who spoke.)“Desist, or ye shall see this endIn cannon roar, and fire, and smokeYe worse than tyrants! what have ye done?Ye have pillaged, burned and destroyed—Ye have starved helpless men and women to deathAnd the wailing of children enjoyed.Ye have tortured them with fiendish delight,And hundreds of people have slain;Ye caused the death of our brave, noble men,Who went down in the wreck of the “Maine.”Ye can come to me if ye want to fight,—Ye can come with your jeer and taunt;And ye can fight to your hearts’ content.If fighting is what ye want.Our boys so brave, when duty calls,Will all their strength unite;And fight as long as there is needFor freedom and for right.May the curse forever be wiped outThat now the country mars;And peace restored in this fair landWhere float the stripes and stars.”
“All that there is in Cuba’s landsIs ours, and we shall reign;Or we will fight them till they die!”Thus comes the cry from Spain.“They never shall their freedom have—We will rule with iron hand;They shall bow to us, they shall heed our lawsOr we’ll drive them from the land!”“Ye cruel tyrants! Are ye men?”(’Twas ‘Uncle Sam’ who spoke.)“Desist, or ye shall see this endIn cannon roar, and fire, and smokeYe worse than tyrants! what have ye done?Ye have pillaged, burned and destroyed—Ye have starved helpless men and women to deathAnd the wailing of children enjoyed.Ye have tortured them with fiendish delight,And hundreds of people have slain;Ye caused the death of our brave, noble men,Who went down in the wreck of the “Maine.”Ye can come to me if ye want to fight,—Ye can come with your jeer and taunt;And ye can fight to your hearts’ content.If fighting is what ye want.Our boys so brave, when duty calls,Will all their strength unite;And fight as long as there is needFor freedom and for right.May the curse forever be wiped outThat now the country mars;And peace restored in this fair landWhere float the stripes and stars.”
“All that there is in Cuba’s landsIs ours, and we shall reign;Or we will fight them till they die!”Thus comes the cry from Spain.“They never shall their freedom have—We will rule with iron hand;They shall bow to us, they shall heed our lawsOr we’ll drive them from the land!”
“Ye cruel tyrants! Are ye men?”(’Twas ‘Uncle Sam’ who spoke.)“Desist, or ye shall see this endIn cannon roar, and fire, and smokeYe worse than tyrants! what have ye done?Ye have pillaged, burned and destroyed—Ye have starved helpless men and women to deathAnd the wailing of children enjoyed.
Ye have tortured them with fiendish delight,And hundreds of people have slain;Ye caused the death of our brave, noble men,Who went down in the wreck of the “Maine.”Ye can come to me if ye want to fight,—Ye can come with your jeer and taunt;And ye can fight to your hearts’ content.If fighting is what ye want.
Our boys so brave, when duty calls,Will all their strength unite;And fight as long as there is needFor freedom and for right.May the curse forever be wiped outThat now the country mars;And peace restored in this fair landWhere float the stripes and stars.”
[decorative bar.]
Hi Sambo—don’ yo’ talk dat way—Aint yo’ a silly coon!A talkin’ ’bout de mysteryOb de man dats in de moon!Itell yo’ ’taint no mystery’Bout de moon, or how it acts,I reckon ef yo’d like to knowIkin tell yo’ all de facts.’Tis dis:—Yo’ see when de world was newDe moon was roun’ an’ clear;An’ kep’ a shinin’ ebery nightJus’ so, year arter year.—’Till dis man he done some drefful t’ing—He ran, but dey cotched him soonAn’ widout no odds dey banished himAn’ sent him to de moon.Dey see’d him lookin’ down to earthWhar dey wouldn’t let him stay;Den solemn like, an’ bery slowHe turn he face away.—An’ arter dat de moon was new—Den half a moon dar’ll be;Den de moon am roun’, an’ de man looks downOn de lan’ an’ on de sea.An’ he gazes ober all de earth’Til he wants to see no more—Den he slowly turn he face awayJus’ as he did before.Dese am de facts ob what yo’ callDe “Mystery profound”—When de moon keeps changing as yo’ see’Tis de man a turnin’ round!
Hi Sambo—don’ yo’ talk dat way—Aint yo’ a silly coon!A talkin’ ’bout de mysteryOb de man dats in de moon!Itell yo’ ’taint no mystery’Bout de moon, or how it acts,I reckon ef yo’d like to knowIkin tell yo’ all de facts.’Tis dis:—Yo’ see when de world was newDe moon was roun’ an’ clear;An’ kep’ a shinin’ ebery nightJus’ so, year arter year.—’Till dis man he done some drefful t’ing—He ran, but dey cotched him soonAn’ widout no odds dey banished himAn’ sent him to de moon.Dey see’d him lookin’ down to earthWhar dey wouldn’t let him stay;Den solemn like, an’ bery slowHe turn he face away.—An’ arter dat de moon was new—Den half a moon dar’ll be;Den de moon am roun’, an’ de man looks downOn de lan’ an’ on de sea.An’ he gazes ober all de earth’Til he wants to see no more—Den he slowly turn he face awayJus’ as he did before.Dese am de facts ob what yo’ callDe “Mystery profound”—When de moon keeps changing as yo’ see’Tis de man a turnin’ round!
Hi Sambo—don’ yo’ talk dat way—Aint yo’ a silly coon!A talkin’ ’bout de mysteryOb de man dats in de moon!Itell yo’ ’taint no mystery’Bout de moon, or how it acts,I reckon ef yo’d like to knowIkin tell yo’ all de facts.
’Tis dis:—Yo’ see when de world was newDe moon was roun’ an’ clear;An’ kep’ a shinin’ ebery nightJus’ so, year arter year.—’Till dis man he done some drefful t’ing—He ran, but dey cotched him soonAn’ widout no odds dey banished himAn’ sent him to de moon.
Dey see’d him lookin’ down to earthWhar dey wouldn’t let him stay;Den solemn like, an’ bery slowHe turn he face away.—An’ arter dat de moon was new—Den half a moon dar’ll be;Den de moon am roun’, an’ de man looks downOn de lan’ an’ on de sea.
An’ he gazes ober all de earth’Til he wants to see no more—Den he slowly turn he face awayJus’ as he did before.Dese am de facts ob what yo’ callDe “Mystery profound”—When de moon keeps changing as yo’ see’Tis de man a turnin’ round!
[decorative bar.]
Your natal anniversaryOnce more around has crept;And, as a token of respectWill you these flowers acceptFrom all your friends? And we do hopeThat they may bring delight;And shed abundant cheer and joyFrom every petal bright.And as another year speeds onTo swell the list of Time;We truly wish that each day mayBe filled with Peace sublime.And may the Heavenly Father’s graceBe with you on your way;And keep you safely ’till returnsAnother glad Birth-day.
Your natal anniversaryOnce more around has crept;And, as a token of respectWill you these flowers acceptFrom all your friends? And we do hopeThat they may bring delight;And shed abundant cheer and joyFrom every petal bright.And as another year speeds onTo swell the list of Time;We truly wish that each day mayBe filled with Peace sublime.And may the Heavenly Father’s graceBe with you on your way;And keep you safely ’till returnsAnother glad Birth-day.
Your natal anniversaryOnce more around has crept;And, as a token of respectWill you these flowers accept
From all your friends? And we do hopeThat they may bring delight;And shed abundant cheer and joyFrom every petal bright.
And as another year speeds onTo swell the list of Time;We truly wish that each day mayBe filled with Peace sublime.
And may the Heavenly Father’s graceBe with you on your way;And keep you safely ’till returnsAnother glad Birth-day.
The robins and the blue-birds singIn tones so sweet and clear;“Cheer up dear, Annie dear, ’tis springAnd Summer time is near.”The crocus soon will wake from sleepAnd lift its dainty head;The trailing arbutus will peepOut from its leafy bed.Dame Nature soon will deck the hillsAnd vales in verdant clothes;While ’neath the oak the brooklet trillsWhere blooms the blushing rose.Fair daisy sweet and buttercupThe breeze will softly kiss;Then do not pine, dear friend, cheer upAnd share with them their bliss.Let not your heart be troubled dear,The birds this message tell,—Ye faint at heart, be of good cheer,“All’s well that endeth well.”
The robins and the blue-birds singIn tones so sweet and clear;“Cheer up dear, Annie dear, ’tis springAnd Summer time is near.”The crocus soon will wake from sleepAnd lift its dainty head;The trailing arbutus will peepOut from its leafy bed.Dame Nature soon will deck the hillsAnd vales in verdant clothes;While ’neath the oak the brooklet trillsWhere blooms the blushing rose.Fair daisy sweet and buttercupThe breeze will softly kiss;Then do not pine, dear friend, cheer upAnd share with them their bliss.Let not your heart be troubled dear,The birds this message tell,—Ye faint at heart, be of good cheer,“All’s well that endeth well.”
The robins and the blue-birds singIn tones so sweet and clear;“Cheer up dear, Annie dear, ’tis springAnd Summer time is near.”
The crocus soon will wake from sleepAnd lift its dainty head;The trailing arbutus will peepOut from its leafy bed.
Dame Nature soon will deck the hillsAnd vales in verdant clothes;While ’neath the oak the brooklet trillsWhere blooms the blushing rose.
Fair daisy sweet and buttercupThe breeze will softly kiss;Then do not pine, dear friend, cheer upAnd share with them their bliss.
Let not your heart be troubled dear,The birds this message tell,—Ye faint at heart, be of good cheer,“All’s well that endeth well.”
Patrons and Friends:
Within the annals of this GrangeA circumstance occurred—And, be it true—Or otherwise,I’ll give it as ’twas heard.When last winter’s icy breezesBrought the welcome news, so strangeThat the ever staunch, and loyalPatrons of this Mountain GrangeDecided to erect their templeEre the coming of the FallIn the village of North Buckfield,—There to locate their new hall.—Ere the last glad trump had soundedThro’ the vales, and o’er the plain—Ere the zephyrs bore the echoTo the rugged hills of Maine—Ere the last faint notes were waftedTo “Old Shack’s” most distant peak—There a brave, and loyal patronThus to himself did speak:—“I, Lucius Record, patron, memberOf this Grange, a vow do makeThatIthe very first will beThe foundation ground to break.For I have read of honors greatTo “lay the corner stone,”I’llbe the first to break the groundAnd do itall alone!And so, for months, this patron braveDid cherish in his breastA longing for the time to comeWhich gave him much unrest.“Old Father Time” moved slowly on—The snow began to melt—The bleak earth showed in tiny spotsWhereLucius Recorddwelt.For aught else in the world, just thenHe neither cared nor feared;But watched those patches grow, untilThe snow had disappeared.To all who anxiously awaitTime slowly wears away;But at last—at last there came the eveEre the eventful day.That night no sweet dreams came to him,No sleep his pillow sought;But listened he to every soundWith nerves most tensely wrought.And ere the sun’s first rays aroseTo gild yon distant domes;And shed their radiance uponThese fair North Buckfield homesArose he from his downy couch—And with his gleaming spadeProceeded he to carry outThe plans which he had made.In silence marched he by Fred Heald’s,Slow, stealthy as a mouse;With bated breath, on tiptoe wentPast Celia Dunham’s houseLest she or Fred should be awakeAnd chance to hear his step,—And thus—with soft, and cat-like treadHe past the school house creptAnd reached the spot where stands this hallWhen lo! in yonder fieldHe spied a form approaching near,And found ’twas Brother HealdAnd on the self same purpose bent!Lute straightway feared the worst;It but remained now to be seenWhich one would get there first!Lucius quickened up his paceNor stopped for rocks or planks,’Tis said his record equaled thenThe far-famed Nancy Hanks!He nearly now his courage lost,The way seemed not so clearTo be the first to break the groundWithtother fellernear.So in the road the spade he droppedAnd scooped it full of earthThen sprang with all his wondrous mightAnd ran for all he’s worthAnd dumped that sand upon the spot,And made a little mound—“Ah, ha!” quoth he, “I amthe firstTo break the Grange Hall ground!”Then with a sigh both turned away—They felt somewhat—perhapsOne like the ‘Russians’ at bay—The other like the ‘Japs.’—The morning dawned with azure skies,And then the workmen came;Brad Damon and another manSir William Brown by name.They saw the sand, and then one spoke—(The other followed suit,)“What tarnal fool done this, d’ye spose?I vum, I’ll bet ’twas Lute!”The other answered, “I’ve no doubt’Twas him, but see these tracks—Now you don’t spose dew ye, theyResemble Danville Jack’s?”“Oh, no, taint Dan—I know ’tis Lute—To reasonthisappeals:—These tracks look like an ElephantWhileDan’sgotNigger heels!”Then exclamations volleyed forth,With laughter long and loud;Just then Geo. Record’s silvery voiceCame ringing through the crowd:“I say there,Bill! Tim Jones’n meWill give fifty cents in changeTo whom will write this story upAnd read it in the Grange!”Five poetic pencils glibly glide—Low bends each thoughtful head—Presented for inspections, thusBrad Damon’s poem read:—Lucius RecordSat up late,—Broke the ground—Honor great.Road to fame—Show’s us how,—Pile of dirt—Big’s a cow.Danville Jack—Gloomy feels—Awfully fat—Nigger heels.Awfully solemn—Awfully mute—Sadly feels—Beat by Lute!Walls of fame—Got Lute’s name on—Poem complete—Bradbury Damon.“By Gum! he’s beaten us all!” they criedBetween their tight—shut teeth;Then brushed away that pile of sandAnd saw what lay beneath!They cried “Let’s give three cheers for Lute!Of him we have learned this dayIf we can’t succeedjust as we wishWe’ll do itas we may.”
Within the annals of this GrangeA circumstance occurred—And, be it true—Or otherwise,I’ll give it as ’twas heard.When last winter’s icy breezesBrought the welcome news, so strangeThat the ever staunch, and loyalPatrons of this Mountain GrangeDecided to erect their templeEre the coming of the FallIn the village of North Buckfield,—There to locate their new hall.—Ere the last glad trump had soundedThro’ the vales, and o’er the plain—Ere the zephyrs bore the echoTo the rugged hills of Maine—Ere the last faint notes were waftedTo “Old Shack’s” most distant peak—There a brave, and loyal patronThus to himself did speak:—“I, Lucius Record, patron, memberOf this Grange, a vow do makeThatIthe very first will beThe foundation ground to break.For I have read of honors greatTo “lay the corner stone,”I’llbe the first to break the groundAnd do itall alone!And so, for months, this patron braveDid cherish in his breastA longing for the time to comeWhich gave him much unrest.“Old Father Time” moved slowly on—The snow began to melt—The bleak earth showed in tiny spotsWhereLucius Recorddwelt.For aught else in the world, just thenHe neither cared nor feared;But watched those patches grow, untilThe snow had disappeared.To all who anxiously awaitTime slowly wears away;But at last—at last there came the eveEre the eventful day.That night no sweet dreams came to him,No sleep his pillow sought;But listened he to every soundWith nerves most tensely wrought.And ere the sun’s first rays aroseTo gild yon distant domes;And shed their radiance uponThese fair North Buckfield homesArose he from his downy couch—And with his gleaming spadeProceeded he to carry outThe plans which he had made.In silence marched he by Fred Heald’s,Slow, stealthy as a mouse;With bated breath, on tiptoe wentPast Celia Dunham’s houseLest she or Fred should be awakeAnd chance to hear his step,—And thus—with soft, and cat-like treadHe past the school house creptAnd reached the spot where stands this hallWhen lo! in yonder fieldHe spied a form approaching near,And found ’twas Brother HealdAnd on the self same purpose bent!Lute straightway feared the worst;It but remained now to be seenWhich one would get there first!Lucius quickened up his paceNor stopped for rocks or planks,’Tis said his record equaled thenThe far-famed Nancy Hanks!He nearly now his courage lost,The way seemed not so clearTo be the first to break the groundWithtother fellernear.So in the road the spade he droppedAnd scooped it full of earthThen sprang with all his wondrous mightAnd ran for all he’s worthAnd dumped that sand upon the spot,And made a little mound—“Ah, ha!” quoth he, “I amthe firstTo break the Grange Hall ground!”Then with a sigh both turned away—They felt somewhat—perhapsOne like the ‘Russians’ at bay—The other like the ‘Japs.’—The morning dawned with azure skies,And then the workmen came;Brad Damon and another manSir William Brown by name.They saw the sand, and then one spoke—(The other followed suit,)“What tarnal fool done this, d’ye spose?I vum, I’ll bet ’twas Lute!”The other answered, “I’ve no doubt’Twas him, but see these tracks—Now you don’t spose dew ye, theyResemble Danville Jack’s?”“Oh, no, taint Dan—I know ’tis Lute—To reasonthisappeals:—These tracks look like an ElephantWhileDan’sgotNigger heels!”Then exclamations volleyed forth,With laughter long and loud;Just then Geo. Record’s silvery voiceCame ringing through the crowd:“I say there,Bill! Tim Jones’n meWill give fifty cents in changeTo whom will write this story upAnd read it in the Grange!”Five poetic pencils glibly glide—Low bends each thoughtful head—Presented for inspections, thusBrad Damon’s poem read:—Lucius RecordSat up late,—Broke the ground—Honor great.Road to fame—Show’s us how,—Pile of dirt—Big’s a cow.Danville Jack—Gloomy feels—Awfully fat—Nigger heels.Awfully solemn—Awfully mute—Sadly feels—Beat by Lute!Walls of fame—Got Lute’s name on—Poem complete—Bradbury Damon.“By Gum! he’s beaten us all!” they criedBetween their tight—shut teeth;Then brushed away that pile of sandAnd saw what lay beneath!They cried “Let’s give three cheers for Lute!Of him we have learned this dayIf we can’t succeedjust as we wishWe’ll do itas we may.”
Within the annals of this GrangeA circumstance occurred—And, be it true—Or otherwise,I’ll give it as ’twas heard.When last winter’s icy breezesBrought the welcome news, so strangeThat the ever staunch, and loyalPatrons of this Mountain Grange
Decided to erect their templeEre the coming of the FallIn the village of North Buckfield,—There to locate their new hall.—Ere the last glad trump had soundedThro’ the vales, and o’er the plain—Ere the zephyrs bore the echoTo the rugged hills of Maine—
Ere the last faint notes were waftedTo “Old Shack’s” most distant peak—There a brave, and loyal patronThus to himself did speak:—“I, Lucius Record, patron, memberOf this Grange, a vow do makeThatIthe very first will beThe foundation ground to break.
For I have read of honors greatTo “lay the corner stone,”I’llbe the first to break the groundAnd do itall alone!And so, for months, this patron braveDid cherish in his breastA longing for the time to comeWhich gave him much unrest.
“Old Father Time” moved slowly on—The snow began to melt—The bleak earth showed in tiny spotsWhereLucius Recorddwelt.For aught else in the world, just thenHe neither cared nor feared;But watched those patches grow, untilThe snow had disappeared.
To all who anxiously awaitTime slowly wears away;But at last—at last there came the eveEre the eventful day.That night no sweet dreams came to him,No sleep his pillow sought;But listened he to every soundWith nerves most tensely wrought.
And ere the sun’s first rays aroseTo gild yon distant domes;And shed their radiance uponThese fair North Buckfield homesArose he from his downy couch—And with his gleaming spadeProceeded he to carry outThe plans which he had made.
In silence marched he by Fred Heald’s,Slow, stealthy as a mouse;With bated breath, on tiptoe wentPast Celia Dunham’s houseLest she or Fred should be awakeAnd chance to hear his step,—And thus—with soft, and cat-like treadHe past the school house creptAnd reached the spot where stands this hallWhen lo! in yonder fieldHe spied a form approaching near,And found ’twas Brother HealdAnd on the self same purpose bent!Lute straightway feared the worst;It but remained now to be seenWhich one would get there first!
Lucius quickened up his paceNor stopped for rocks or planks,’Tis said his record equaled thenThe far-famed Nancy Hanks!He nearly now his courage lost,The way seemed not so clearTo be the first to break the groundWithtother fellernear.
So in the road the spade he droppedAnd scooped it full of earthThen sprang with all his wondrous mightAnd ran for all he’s worthAnd dumped that sand upon the spot,And made a little mound—“Ah, ha!” quoth he, “I amthe firstTo break the Grange Hall ground!”
Then with a sigh both turned away—They felt somewhat—perhapsOne like the ‘Russians’ at bay—The other like the ‘Japs.’—The morning dawned with azure skies,And then the workmen came;Brad Damon and another manSir William Brown by name.
They saw the sand, and then one spoke—(The other followed suit,)“What tarnal fool done this, d’ye spose?I vum, I’ll bet ’twas Lute!”The other answered, “I’ve no doubt’Twas him, but see these tracks—Now you don’t spose dew ye, theyResemble Danville Jack’s?”
“Oh, no, taint Dan—I know ’tis Lute—To reasonthisappeals:—These tracks look like an ElephantWhileDan’sgotNigger heels!”Then exclamations volleyed forth,With laughter long and loud;Just then Geo. Record’s silvery voiceCame ringing through the crowd:
“I say there,Bill! Tim Jones’n meWill give fifty cents in changeTo whom will write this story upAnd read it in the Grange!”Five poetic pencils glibly glide—Low bends each thoughtful head—Presented for inspections, thusBrad Damon’s poem read:—
Lucius RecordSat up late,—Broke the ground—Honor great.
Road to fame—Show’s us how,—Pile of dirt—Big’s a cow.
Danville Jack—Gloomy feels—Awfully fat—Nigger heels.
Awfully solemn—Awfully mute—Sadly feels—Beat by Lute!
Walls of fame—Got Lute’s name on—Poem complete—Bradbury Damon.
“By Gum! he’s beaten us all!” they criedBetween their tight—shut teeth;Then brushed away that pile of sandAnd saw what lay beneath!They cried “Let’s give three cheers for Lute!Of him we have learned this dayIf we can’t succeedjust as we wishWe’ll do itas we may.”
Patrons,Friends:—