THE CONQUEROR

A tiny blossom,—Just a lone weed beside the garden wall,Ragged, a little vagrant beggar,Pleading for a drop of sunshine—that was all!There I beheld it,Lifting from the tangled grass its outstretched cup,—“Take, too, my empty life,” I cried. “With Thy unfailing merciesFill it up!”

A tiny blossom,—Just a lone weed beside the garden wall,Ragged, a little vagrant beggar,Pleading for a drop of sunshine—that was all!

A tiny blossom,—

Just a lone weed beside the garden wall,

Ragged, a little vagrant beggar,

Pleading for a drop of sunshine—that was all!

There I beheld it,Lifting from the tangled grass its outstretched cup,—“Take, too, my empty life,” I cried. “With Thy unfailing merciesFill it up!”

There I beheld it,

Lifting from the tangled grass its outstretched cup,—

“Take, too, my empty life,” I cried. “With Thy unfailing mercies

Fill it up!”

An angry Word rushed forward,“I’ll settle the matter,” said he;But the struggle was only augmentedBy the harsh Word’s agency.Then a Tear of Forgiveness unbidden,Born of a thought above,Stepped in without boast or notice,—And Enmity changed to Love.

An angry Word rushed forward,

“I’ll settle the matter,” said he;

But the struggle was only augmented

By the harsh Word’s agency.

Then a Tear of Forgiveness unbidden,

Born of a thought above,

Stepped in without boast or notice,—

And Enmity changed to Love.

Back on the farm in the fifties,How often I heard father say,“Don’t growl if you can’t have it all, boy,Take what you can get—that’s the way!”There were days in the spring during planting,When I couldn’t go over the hill,With my books and slate strapped on my shoulder,To the little red school by the mill.“Never mind,” father said, at my pouting,“If you do have to stay home, my lad,There are weeks of the term yet before you,Take what you can get and be glad!”We often for birds went a-hunting,—There was game in the woods in his day,And wasn’t it just jolly tramping,—I really wished no better play!But oh! it was so disappointing,When only one bird I would hit;“Cheer up!” father’s voice was so merry,“And be glad of the one you did get!”There are shrubs in the path by the schoolhouse,I stay now at home every day,But not to drop corn for my father,—Long ago was his hoe hung away.But I hear those wise words when I grumble,Just as sweet as of old and as mild:“You can’t have it all, so be thankfulWith what you can get of it, child!”

Back on the farm in the fifties,How often I heard father say,“Don’t growl if you can’t have it all, boy,Take what you can get—that’s the way!”

Back on the farm in the fifties,

How often I heard father say,

“Don’t growl if you can’t have it all, boy,

Take what you can get—that’s the way!”

There were days in the spring during planting,When I couldn’t go over the hill,With my books and slate strapped on my shoulder,To the little red school by the mill.

There were days in the spring during planting,

When I couldn’t go over the hill,

With my books and slate strapped on my shoulder,

To the little red school by the mill.

“Never mind,” father said, at my pouting,“If you do have to stay home, my lad,There are weeks of the term yet before you,Take what you can get and be glad!”

“Never mind,” father said, at my pouting,

“If you do have to stay home, my lad,

There are weeks of the term yet before you,

Take what you can get and be glad!”

We often for birds went a-hunting,—There was game in the woods in his day,And wasn’t it just jolly tramping,—I really wished no better play!

We often for birds went a-hunting,—

There was game in the woods in his day,

And wasn’t it just jolly tramping,—

I really wished no better play!

But oh! it was so disappointing,When only one bird I would hit;“Cheer up!” father’s voice was so merry,“And be glad of the one you did get!”

But oh! it was so disappointing,

When only one bird I would hit;

“Cheer up!” father’s voice was so merry,

“And be glad of the one you did get!”

There are shrubs in the path by the schoolhouse,I stay now at home every day,But not to drop corn for my father,—Long ago was his hoe hung away.

There are shrubs in the path by the schoolhouse,

I stay now at home every day,

But not to drop corn for my father,—

Long ago was his hoe hung away.

But I hear those wise words when I grumble,Just as sweet as of old and as mild:“You can’t have it all, so be thankfulWith what you can get of it, child!”

But I hear those wise words when I grumble,

Just as sweet as of old and as mild:

“You can’t have it all, so be thankful

With what you can get of it, child!”

How strange for worlds above,Unnumbered stars, to know,Through space unlimited,Just where to go!Within their trackless course,They vary not, nor fear(Their Maker gave command)Of any danger near.His laws they steadfast heed,Afar off in the blue,—The God who guides unnumbered stars,Guides you.

How strange for worlds above,

Unnumbered stars, to know,

Through space unlimited,

Just where to go!

Within their trackless course,

They vary not, nor fear

(Their Maker gave command)

Of any danger near.

His laws they steadfast heed,

Afar off in the blue,—

The God who guides unnumbered stars,

Guides you.

Little Polly Mary, all the morning hour,Doted on her bonnet with its bright new flower,Wondered if the next day would be bright and clear,Wished the jolly holidays came twenty times a year,Looked without the window when the teacher didn’t see,Watched a golden robin building in the tree—AND—When the hour came all too quick for Polly to recite,Will you believe, she never got a single answer right!So for failure, on the record-book, her name, alas! was starred,But was it ’cause, as Polly thought, the lesson was sohard!

Little Polly Mary, all the morning hour,

Doted on her bonnet with its bright new flower,

Wondered if the next day would be bright and clear,

Wished the jolly holidays came twenty times a year,

Looked without the window when the teacher didn’t see,

Watched a golden robin building in the tree—

AND—

When the hour came all too quick for Polly to recite,

Will you believe, she never got a single answer right!

So for failure, on the record-book, her name, alas! was starred,

But was it ’cause, as Polly thought, the lesson was sohard!

One brother was tall and slim,The other chubby and short,—Teddy sat looking at them one night,Apparently lost in thought.“Mamma,” he asked, at length,“Which would you like the best,—For me to grownorthandsouth, like Tom,Or like Willie, fromeasttowest?”

One brother was tall and slim,The other chubby and short,—Teddy sat looking at them one night,Apparently lost in thought.

One brother was tall and slim,

The other chubby and short,—

Teddy sat looking at them one night,

Apparently lost in thought.

“Mamma,” he asked, at length,“Which would you like the best,—For me to grownorthandsouth, like Tom,Or like Willie, fromeasttowest?”

“Mamma,” he asked, at length,

“Which would you like the best,—

For me to grownorthandsouth, like Tom,

Or like Willie, fromeasttowest?”

Curly-headed Baby TomSleeps in cozy blankets warm,In his crib.Bob-o’-Lincoln—oh, so wise!Goes to sleep ’neath sunny skies,’Mid the leaves.Mr. Bruin, night and day,Snoozes all his time away,In his cave.Squirrel-Red, with nuts—a store!In hollow tree-trunk loves to snore,In the wood.Mrs. Woodchuck ’neath some knoll,Drowses in her bed—a hole!Deep in earth.Floweret bulbs nestled together,Doze all through the wintry weather,’Neath the snow.In the chrysalis hard by,Dreams the sometime butterfly,In corner hid.Oh, what beds! So very queer!Yet to each one just as dearAs yours to you!

Curly-headed Baby TomSleeps in cozy blankets warm,In his crib.

Curly-headed Baby Tom

Sleeps in cozy blankets warm,

In his crib.

Bob-o’-Lincoln—oh, so wise!Goes to sleep ’neath sunny skies,’Mid the leaves.

Bob-o’-Lincoln—oh, so wise!

Goes to sleep ’neath sunny skies,

’Mid the leaves.

Mr. Bruin, night and day,Snoozes all his time away,In his cave.

Mr. Bruin, night and day,

Snoozes all his time away,

In his cave.

Squirrel-Red, with nuts—a store!In hollow tree-trunk loves to snore,In the wood.

Squirrel-Red, with nuts—a store!

In hollow tree-trunk loves to snore,

In the wood.

Mrs. Woodchuck ’neath some knoll,Drowses in her bed—a hole!Deep in earth.

Mrs. Woodchuck ’neath some knoll,

Drowses in her bed—a hole!

Deep in earth.

Floweret bulbs nestled together,Doze all through the wintry weather,’Neath the snow.

Floweret bulbs nestled together,

Doze all through the wintry weather,

’Neath the snow.

In the chrysalis hard by,Dreams the sometime butterfly,In corner hid.

In the chrysalis hard by,

Dreams the sometime butterfly,

In corner hid.

Oh, what beds! So very queer!Yet to each one just as dearAs yours to you!

Oh, what beds! So very queer!

Yet to each one just as dear

As yours to you!

We fall in the habit too often I fear,Of crossing the bridges we never draw near;Though they loom up before us—they seem just ahead,There’s a turn and our feet are in other paths led.We dread the to-morrow, its toil and its care,And feel that its burdens we never can bear;But when the to-morrow blends into to-day,The yesterday’s burdens have all slipped away!Too often we hear: “Yes; ’tis pleasant this morn,But it’s a weather breeder, sure’s you are born!”So, much of God’s sunshine and beauty aboutIs forced from our lives by “perhaps” or a doubt!Make use of the present—to-morrow may wait,—To-day’s joysto-morroware realized too late!Let none of life’s pleasures, God-given, be lost,By crossing a bridge—till it has to be crossed!

We fall in the habit too often I fear,Of crossing the bridges we never draw near;Though they loom up before us—they seem just ahead,There’s a turn and our feet are in other paths led.

We fall in the habit too often I fear,

Of crossing the bridges we never draw near;

Though they loom up before us—they seem just ahead,

There’s a turn and our feet are in other paths led.

We dread the to-morrow, its toil and its care,And feel that its burdens we never can bear;But when the to-morrow blends into to-day,The yesterday’s burdens have all slipped away!

We dread the to-morrow, its toil and its care,

And feel that its burdens we never can bear;

But when the to-morrow blends into to-day,

The yesterday’s burdens have all slipped away!

Too often we hear: “Yes; ’tis pleasant this morn,But it’s a weather breeder, sure’s you are born!”So, much of God’s sunshine and beauty aboutIs forced from our lives by “perhaps” or a doubt!

Too often we hear: “Yes; ’tis pleasant this morn,

But it’s a weather breeder, sure’s you are born!”

So, much of God’s sunshine and beauty about

Is forced from our lives by “perhaps” or a doubt!

Make use of the present—to-morrow may wait,—To-day’s joysto-morroware realized too late!Let none of life’s pleasures, God-given, be lost,By crossing a bridge—till it has to be crossed!

Make use of the present—to-morrow may wait,—

To-day’s joysto-morroware realized too late!

Let none of life’s pleasures, God-given, be lost,

By crossing a bridge—till it has to be crossed!

There’s a queer little town—I wonder if you’ve seen it,—“Let-some-one-else-do-it” is the name of the place,And all of the people who’ve lived there for ages,Their family tree from the Wearies can trace!The streets of this town, so ill-kept and untidy,And almost deserted from morning till noon,Are “In-just-a-minute”—you’ll see on the lamppost,—“O-well-there’s-no-hurry,” and “Yes-pretty-soon.”The principal work that they do in this hamlet,(There isn’t a person who thinks it a crime),Is loafing and dozing, but most of the peopleAre engaged in the traffic ofjust-killing-time!I pray you, don’t dwell in this town overcrowded;There are others near by it most wondrous fair;The roads that lead to them—and each one is open,—Are “Push,” “Pluck,” and “Ready,” “This minute,” and “Dare.”

There’s a queer little town—I wonder if you’ve seen it,—

“Let-some-one-else-do-it” is the name of the place,

And all of the people who’ve lived there for ages,

Their family tree from the Wearies can trace!

The streets of this town, so ill-kept and untidy,And almost deserted from morning till noon,Are “In-just-a-minute”—you’ll see on the lamppost,—“O-well-there’s-no-hurry,” and “Yes-pretty-soon.”

The streets of this town, so ill-kept and untidy,

And almost deserted from morning till noon,

Are “In-just-a-minute”—you’ll see on the lamppost,—

“O-well-there’s-no-hurry,” and “Yes-pretty-soon.”

The principal work that they do in this hamlet,(There isn’t a person who thinks it a crime),Is loafing and dozing, but most of the peopleAre engaged in the traffic ofjust-killing-time!

The principal work that they do in this hamlet,

(There isn’t a person who thinks it a crime),

Is loafing and dozing, but most of the people

Are engaged in the traffic ofjust-killing-time!

I pray you, don’t dwell in this town overcrowded;There are others near by it most wondrous fair;The roads that lead to them—and each one is open,—Are “Push,” “Pluck,” and “Ready,” “This minute,” and “Dare.”

I pray you, don’t dwell in this town overcrowded;

There are others near by it most wondrous fair;

The roads that lead to them—and each one is open,—

Are “Push,” “Pluck,” and “Ready,” “This minute,” and “Dare.”

It is human nature maybe to be borne ’long with the crowd,And when they shout and hollo, to hollo just as loud;But there’s a sight o’ pleasure like a draught from nectar’s cup,In just a-loitering back along with those who can’t keep up.One needn’t think the only men God ever made are thoseWho wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,—I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth,In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth.In the weather-beaten cottage where the eaves ’most touch the door,Whose shingles are quite hidden with the moss that’s gathered o’er,There is still the old-time altar, where duly morn and night,The inmates bow and ask the Lord to guide their steps aright.The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe,And the rarest wisdom emanates from those whose steps are slow,And those whose eyes are blind to sights that glisten for a day,See glories far transcendent that can never fade away.So I like to loiter back a bit; the crowd may surge along.Perhaps for some it’s pleasant thus to jostle with the throng;But I find my life grows richer, even drinking sorrow’s cup,With the weary and unfortunate who cannot quite keep up!

It is human nature maybe to be borne ’long with the crowd,

And when they shout and hollo, to hollo just as loud;

But there’s a sight o’ pleasure like a draught from nectar’s cup,

In just a-loitering back along with those who can’t keep up.

One needn’t think the only men God ever made are thoseWho wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,—I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth,In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth.

One needn’t think the only men God ever made are those

Who wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,—

I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth,

In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth.

In the weather-beaten cottage where the eaves ’most touch the door,Whose shingles are quite hidden with the moss that’s gathered o’er,There is still the old-time altar, where duly morn and night,The inmates bow and ask the Lord to guide their steps aright.

In the weather-beaten cottage where the eaves ’most touch the door,

Whose shingles are quite hidden with the moss that’s gathered o’er,

There is still the old-time altar, where duly morn and night,

The inmates bow and ask the Lord to guide their steps aright.

The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe,And the rarest wisdom emanates from those whose steps are slow,And those whose eyes are blind to sights that glisten for a day,See glories far transcendent that can never fade away.

The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe,

And the rarest wisdom emanates from those whose steps are slow,

And those whose eyes are blind to sights that glisten for a day,

See glories far transcendent that can never fade away.

So I like to loiter back a bit; the crowd may surge along.Perhaps for some it’s pleasant thus to jostle with the throng;But I find my life grows richer, even drinking sorrow’s cup,With the weary and unfortunate who cannot quite keep up!

So I like to loiter back a bit; the crowd may surge along.

Perhaps for some it’s pleasant thus to jostle with the throng;

But I find my life grows richer, even drinking sorrow’s cup,

With the weary and unfortunate who cannot quite keep up!

There are heroes who fall ’mid the carnage of battle,There are those who meet death on the foam,—But greater are those who, unheralded, battleWith Fate for the loved ones at home!

There are heroes who fall ’mid the carnage of battle,

There are those who meet death on the foam,—

But greater are those who, unheralded, battle

With Fate for the loved ones at home!

There is magic in the jingle of the sleighbells, don’t you know,That sets the blood a-tinglin’ till the cheeks are all a-glow;An’ the cares that press upon one, in the merry winter weather,At the jingle of the sleighbells dance off lighter than a feather,—How the jingle,An’ the ringle,Raises lowest spirits high!Hark! the tingle,Jingle, tingle!As the cutter dashes by!When the moon is bright a-shinin’ an’ a-sparkle is the snow,’Tis the plainest invitation just invitin’ one to goFor a rollic an’ a frolic ’hind a pair of prancin’ steeds,—The very kind of tonic that a tired body needs,—How the jingle,An’ the ringle,In the crisp an’ frosty air,An’ the tingle,Jingle, tingle,Hypnotizes anxious care!E’en the stars are all a-twinkle! Hear the merry coasters shout!Happiness is everywhere a-lyin’ loose about!Everybody is as joyful as a new-anointed king,—Age an’ wrinkles hide their faces while the magic sleighbells ring,—Hark! the jingle,An’ the ringle,—It just sets your soul a-rhymeWith the tingle,Jingle, tingle,Of the magic sleighbells’ chime!

There is magic in the jingle of the sleighbells, don’t you know,

That sets the blood a-tinglin’ till the cheeks are all a-glow;

An’ the cares that press upon one, in the merry winter weather,

At the jingle of the sleighbells dance off lighter than a feather,—

How the jingle,

An’ the ringle,

Raises lowest spirits high!

Hark! the tingle,

Jingle, tingle!

As the cutter dashes by!

When the moon is bright a-shinin’ an’ a-sparkle is the snow,’Tis the plainest invitation just invitin’ one to goFor a rollic an’ a frolic ’hind a pair of prancin’ steeds,—The very kind of tonic that a tired body needs,—How the jingle,An’ the ringle,In the crisp an’ frosty air,An’ the tingle,Jingle, tingle,Hypnotizes anxious care!

When the moon is bright a-shinin’ an’ a-sparkle is the snow,

’Tis the plainest invitation just invitin’ one to go

For a rollic an’ a frolic ’hind a pair of prancin’ steeds,—

The very kind of tonic that a tired body needs,—

How the jingle,

An’ the ringle,

In the crisp an’ frosty air,

An’ the tingle,

Jingle, tingle,

Hypnotizes anxious care!

E’en the stars are all a-twinkle! Hear the merry coasters shout!Happiness is everywhere a-lyin’ loose about!Everybody is as joyful as a new-anointed king,—Age an’ wrinkles hide their faces while the magic sleighbells ring,—Hark! the jingle,An’ the ringle,—It just sets your soul a-rhymeWith the tingle,Jingle, tingle,Of the magic sleighbells’ chime!

E’en the stars are all a-twinkle! Hear the merry coasters shout!

Happiness is everywhere a-lyin’ loose about!

Everybody is as joyful as a new-anointed king,—

Age an’ wrinkles hide their faces while the magic sleighbells ring,—

Hark! the jingle,

An’ the ringle,—

It just sets your soul a-rhyme

With the tingle,

Jingle, tingle,

Of the magic sleighbells’ chime!

I’ve built a wall about me,To keep all foes without,—Anxiety, with all her train,And the grim monster, Doubt!You ask my name? ’Tis Happiness,With which no foe can cope!The wall I’ve built cannot be scaled,—Its quarried blocks are Hope.

I’ve built a wall about me,

To keep all foes without,—

Anxiety, with all her train,

And the grim monster, Doubt!

You ask my name? ’Tis Happiness,

With which no foe can cope!

The wall I’ve built cannot be scaled,—

Its quarried blocks are Hope.

What had happened to Emily Foote?Every button was gone from her boot!She noticed that morning thatonewas loose;“I’ll fix it at bedtime!” Ah, little the use!“Remember my stitches,” grandmother said,As she kindly nodded her dear, wise head.“A ‘corner rent’ in my dress, that’s all,”And Mary ran for her cap and shawl.“I’ll mend it soon—now there isn’ttime!”How she wished she’d heeded her grandmother’s rhyme!The rent grew long and ever so wide,And kept her at home from the picnic ride.Teddy was playing with ball and bat.“I’ve started a stitch!” “Oh, never mind that,”Answered his chum, jolly Archibald May,“’Twill last as long as we want to play!”“But grandmother says—” “Oh, bother such things!”So soon, the ball was but leather and strings.And grandmother’s stitches—yours and mine?“A stitch intime, my dear, savesnine!”

What had happened to Emily Foote?

Every button was gone from her boot!

She noticed that morning thatonewas loose;

“I’ll fix it at bedtime!” Ah, little the use!

“Remember my stitches,” grandmother said,

As she kindly nodded her dear, wise head.

“A ‘corner rent’ in my dress, that’s all,”And Mary ran for her cap and shawl.“I’ll mend it soon—now there isn’ttime!”How she wished she’d heeded her grandmother’s rhyme!The rent grew long and ever so wide,And kept her at home from the picnic ride.

“A ‘corner rent’ in my dress, that’s all,”

And Mary ran for her cap and shawl.

“I’ll mend it soon—now there isn’ttime!”

How she wished she’d heeded her grandmother’s rhyme!

The rent grew long and ever so wide,

And kept her at home from the picnic ride.

Teddy was playing with ball and bat.“I’ve started a stitch!” “Oh, never mind that,”Answered his chum, jolly Archibald May,“’Twill last as long as we want to play!”“But grandmother says—” “Oh, bother such things!”So soon, the ball was but leather and strings.And grandmother’s stitches—yours and mine?“A stitch intime, my dear, savesnine!”

Teddy was playing with ball and bat.

“I’ve started a stitch!” “Oh, never mind that,”

Answered his chum, jolly Archibald May,

“’Twill last as long as we want to play!”

“But grandmother says—” “Oh, bother such things!”

So soon, the ball was but leather and strings.

And grandmother’s stitches—yours and mine?

“A stitch intime, my dear, savesnine!”

“I’m sorry,” said Mary, “it’s rainy to-day;WhenIwant it pleasant it’s always the way;It rains, rains, rains!”“To-day I can finish my book,” said Dean;“It’s the jolliest one I ever have seen;For it rains, rains, rains!”“It will fill up the swimming-hole, p’r’aps,” said Ted.“I can dive like a frog if it’s over my head;Glad it rains, rains, rains!”“To-day,” said Herr Steuber, “my plants I’ll set out;I feared they would die because of the drought.Ha! it rains, rains, rains!”“The weather’ll be cooler, and Aunt Polly HaynesMay get over her fever,” said Lou, “if it rains—If it rains, rains, rains!”“I am so glad since such good can be done,”Said Mary, her face bright as yesterday’s sun,“That it rains, rains, rains!”

“I’m sorry,” said Mary, “it’s rainy to-day;WhenIwant it pleasant it’s always the way;It rains, rains, rains!”

“I’m sorry,” said Mary, “it’s rainy to-day;

WhenIwant it pleasant it’s always the way;

It rains, rains, rains!”

“To-day I can finish my book,” said Dean;“It’s the jolliest one I ever have seen;For it rains, rains, rains!”

“To-day I can finish my book,” said Dean;

“It’s the jolliest one I ever have seen;

For it rains, rains, rains!”

“It will fill up the swimming-hole, p’r’aps,” said Ted.“I can dive like a frog if it’s over my head;Glad it rains, rains, rains!”

“It will fill up the swimming-hole, p’r’aps,” said Ted.

“I can dive like a frog if it’s over my head;

Glad it rains, rains, rains!”

“To-day,” said Herr Steuber, “my plants I’ll set out;I feared they would die because of the drought.Ha! it rains, rains, rains!”

“To-day,” said Herr Steuber, “my plants I’ll set out;

I feared they would die because of the drought.

Ha! it rains, rains, rains!”

“The weather’ll be cooler, and Aunt Polly HaynesMay get over her fever,” said Lou, “if it rains—If it rains, rains, rains!”

“The weather’ll be cooler, and Aunt Polly Haynes

May get over her fever,” said Lou, “if it rains—

If it rains, rains, rains!”

“I am so glad since such good can be done,”Said Mary, her face bright as yesterday’s sun,“That it rains, rains, rains!”

“I am so glad since such good can be done,”

Said Mary, her face bright as yesterday’s sun,

“That it rains, rains, rains!”

The queerest thing happened (’twas not long ago),To Miss Betty Pringle. Perhaps you don’t knowThat it made little difference what came to her sight,There never was anything really quite right!The grass was too green, and the sky was too gray,And the wind never blew in a suitable way,—If it came from the east it was brewing a storm,If it blew from the south ’twas oppressively warm!If the sun shone at all, it was always too bright,And she wished it would hurry and set for the night.If a friend came to see her with something new on,’Twas “to show off her gewgaws, as sure’s you are born;”If a package were left in which dainties were found,She knew that her friend had an axe to be ground.And so it went on for a twelvemonth or more,Till a queer little stranger appeared at her door,With a case of new glasses of marvellous power,That would change one’s whole vision in less than an hour!At his rat-a-tat-tat! Betty Pringle came out,Much surprised at her brisk little caller, no doubt!“Good morning, my lady!” he said with a smile.“No, no; I’ll not step in—it’s hardly worth while.I’ve heard that your glasses (I cannot tell where)Are of a very poor make—p’r’aps you’d like a new pair.”And will you believe it, new ones she did take,In exchange for her own of the “fault-finding make”!And now Betty’s happy’s a queen need to be,For the beauty about her she’s able to see!

The queerest thing happened (’twas not long ago),

To Miss Betty Pringle. Perhaps you don’t know

That it made little difference what came to her sight,

There never was anything really quite right!

The grass was too green, and the sky was too gray,

And the wind never blew in a suitable way,—

If it came from the east it was brewing a storm,

If it blew from the south ’twas oppressively warm!

If the sun shone at all, it was always too bright,

And she wished it would hurry and set for the night.

If a friend came to see her with something new on,

’Twas “to show off her gewgaws, as sure’s you are born;”

If a package were left in which dainties were found,

She knew that her friend had an axe to be ground.

And so it went on for a twelvemonth or more,

Till a queer little stranger appeared at her door,

With a case of new glasses of marvellous power,

That would change one’s whole vision in less than an hour!

At his rat-a-tat-tat! Betty Pringle came out,

Much surprised at her brisk little caller, no doubt!

“Good morning, my lady!” he said with a smile.

“No, no; I’ll not step in—it’s hardly worth while.

I’ve heard that your glasses (I cannot tell where)

Are of a very poor make—p’r’aps you’d like a new pair.”

And will you believe it, new ones she did take,

In exchange for her own of the “fault-finding make”!

And now Betty’s happy’s a queen need to be,

For the beauty about her she’s able to see!

The ways diverged—I wondered which I’d take,And as I paused, I watched the people throngOut of the Somewhere, each with hurrying feet,—To right, to left, they hastened all day long!They bore a heavy burden as they passed,(With every single one it was the same),And each was plainly marked, so all could read(I marvelled greatly at the fact), “My Aim.”And those who took the beaten path, I sawSoon laid their burden down and gazed around.Allured by vain enticements all about,They left their “Aim” forgotten on the ground!But those who took the other way pressed on,Nor feared for pleasure’s sake their “Aim” to lose,—I now perceived this path was Duty, soNo longer pondered which I ought to choose.

The ways diverged—I wondered which I’d take,

And as I paused, I watched the people throng

Out of the Somewhere, each with hurrying feet,—

To right, to left, they hastened all day long!

They bore a heavy burden as they passed,

(With every single one it was the same),

And each was plainly marked, so all could read

(I marvelled greatly at the fact), “My Aim.”

And those who took the beaten path, I saw

Soon laid their burden down and gazed around.

Allured by vain enticements all about,

They left their “Aim” forgotten on the ground!

But those who took the other way pressed on,

Nor feared for pleasure’s sake their “Aim” to lose,—

I now perceived this path was Duty, so

No longer pondered which I ought to choose.

A blushing little MayflowerTurned away her head,Too polite to let a weedHear a word she said.“I don’t think it nice at all,(I would make a fuss),Goldenrod should bloom, of course,In the spring with us!“It is hard to wait so long,Till midsummer hours;I should get discouraged, quite,Waiting so for flowers.”Near the wall a modest plantTwinkled in the dew;She heard all that had been said,—Mayflower never knew.Soon she whispered to a robin;He her secret told,—“All this waiting means a changingInto sunny gold!”

A blushing little MayflowerTurned away her head,Too polite to let a weedHear a word she said.

A blushing little Mayflower

Turned away her head,

Too polite to let a weed

Hear a word she said.

“I don’t think it nice at all,(I would make a fuss),Goldenrod should bloom, of course,In the spring with us!

“I don’t think it nice at all,

(I would make a fuss),

Goldenrod should bloom, of course,

In the spring with us!

“It is hard to wait so long,Till midsummer hours;I should get discouraged, quite,Waiting so for flowers.”

“It is hard to wait so long,

Till midsummer hours;

I should get discouraged, quite,

Waiting so for flowers.”

Near the wall a modest plantTwinkled in the dew;She heard all that had been said,—Mayflower never knew.

Near the wall a modest plant

Twinkled in the dew;

She heard all that had been said,—

Mayflower never knew.

Soon she whispered to a robin;He her secret told,—“All this waiting means a changingInto sunny gold!”

Soon she whispered to a robin;

He her secret told,—

“All this waiting means a changing

Into sunny gold!”

In middle age, before the hearth,Deeply absorbed in counting o’erSuccesses won, he hardly heardThe fall of footsteps on the floor.Behind his chair a fair Youth stood,In phantom shape, and listening heard:“I’m happier now than when a boy!”—The visitant neither turned nor stirred.Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low,“He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,—When I slipped slowly from his grasp,He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’But, no—though learned ’mid falling tears,—One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!”

In middle age, before the hearth,Deeply absorbed in counting o’erSuccesses won, he hardly heardThe fall of footsteps on the floor.

In middle age, before the hearth,

Deeply absorbed in counting o’er

Successes won, he hardly heard

The fall of footsteps on the floor.

Behind his chair a fair Youth stood,In phantom shape, and listening heard:“I’m happier now than when a boy!”—The visitant neither turned nor stirred.

Behind his chair a fair Youth stood,

In phantom shape, and listening heard:

“I’m happier now than when a boy!”—

The visitant neither turned nor stirred.

Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low,“He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,—When I slipped slowly from his grasp,He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’But, no—though learned ’mid falling tears,—One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!”

Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low,

“He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,—

When I slipped slowly from his grasp,

He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’

But, no—though learned ’mid falling tears,—

One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!”

Discouraged and sad, Work came home, worn out,(Only a part of his task was done),And the Master asked in an anxious tone,If he had been hindered by any one.“A stranger stood by as I toiled,” he said,“A being possessed of gigantic frame!”“He’s stolen your strength,” the Master cried,“And Worry—too true—is the monster’s name!”

Discouraged and sad, Work came home, worn out,

(Only a part of his task was done),

And the Master asked in an anxious tone,

If he had been hindered by any one.

“A stranger stood by as I toiled,” he said,

“A being possessed of gigantic frame!”

“He’s stolen your strength,” the Master cried,

“And Worry—too true—is the monster’s name!”

“The world owes me a living,” p’r’aps you’ve heard a body say,“It is best to take life easy—’tis, in fact, the only way.”So with loiterers and sluggards he in base contentment lies,While the man who works and struggles is the one who wins the prize.Some grope always in the valley—really can they ever stopTo consider what enchantment hovers round the mountain top?But the man who clambers upward, step by step the weary rise,Obtains vistas only dreamed of—he’s the one who wins the prize!Some wait ever for the morrow—let the present hours slip by:“So little can be done to-day, what’s the use to try?”Notice, he who grasps the moments, lad, every one that flies,Is the man in life’s sharp contest who obtains the victor’s prize.

“The world owes me a living,” p’r’aps you’ve heard a body say,

“It is best to take life easy—’tis, in fact, the only way.”

So with loiterers and sluggards he in base contentment lies,

While the man who works and struggles is the one who wins the prize.

Some grope always in the valley—really can they ever stopTo consider what enchantment hovers round the mountain top?But the man who clambers upward, step by step the weary rise,Obtains vistas only dreamed of—he’s the one who wins the prize!

Some grope always in the valley—really can they ever stop

To consider what enchantment hovers round the mountain top?

But the man who clambers upward, step by step the weary rise,

Obtains vistas only dreamed of—he’s the one who wins the prize!

Some wait ever for the morrow—let the present hours slip by:“So little can be done to-day, what’s the use to try?”Notice, he who grasps the moments, lad, every one that flies,Is the man in life’s sharp contest who obtains the victor’s prize.

Some wait ever for the morrow—let the present hours slip by:

“So little can be done to-day, what’s the use to try?”

Notice, he who grasps the moments, lad, every one that flies,

Is the man in life’s sharp contest who obtains the victor’s prize.

TO-DAYA sunless sky,Unaccomplished aim,The flag of Hope at half mast furled,—A bitter cry,“I’ve tried—no gain,—O empty, disappointing world!”TO-MORROWA rosy light,Success attained,The banner of Victory to the breezes hurled,—A cry of might,“The mastery gained,Hail! glorious, God-given world!”

TO-DAY

A sunless sky,Unaccomplished aim,The flag of Hope at half mast furled,—A bitter cry,“I’ve tried—no gain,—O empty, disappointing world!”

A sunless sky,

Unaccomplished aim,

The flag of Hope at half mast furled,—

A bitter cry,

“I’ve tried—no gain,—

O empty, disappointing world!”

TO-MORROW

A rosy light,Success attained,The banner of Victory to the breezes hurled,—A cry of might,“The mastery gained,Hail! glorious, God-given world!”

A rosy light,

Success attained,

The banner of Victory to the breezes hurled,—

A cry of might,

“The mastery gained,

Hail! glorious, God-given world!”

A beautiful smile in His service,A beautiful word of cheer,A beautiful act unselfish,A beautiful hint, “He’ll hear.”A beautiful tear sympathetic,A beautiful allaying of strife,A beautiful touch of a brother,—The result is a beautiful life.

A beautiful smile in His service,

A beautiful word of cheer,

A beautiful act unselfish,

A beautiful hint, “He’ll hear.”

A beautiful tear sympathetic,

A beautiful allaying of strife,

A beautiful touch of a brother,—

The result is a beautiful life.

(A Cuban Incident)

Pedro Rionda and his sons,Leandro and Ramé,Had left th’ insurgent armyFor a visit home that day.And ere the time came to depart,To join their ranks once more,José, the little crippled son,Chanced to glance out the door.His pinched face suddenly grew white,—Yet calm he turned about;“Father, Leandro, Ramé—quick!The Spanish are without!”Pedro Rionda’s heart stood still,He grasped his trusty gun,—A Spanish army couldn’t makeA Cuban patriot run!His breath came quick—he thought aloud,“If we should face the band,They are too many—there’d be three,—Three less to save the land!”“Oh, God! it is the only thing!It’s one or three—José!Think you could keep the devils backTill we are safe away!”“It may be death,” he spoke it soft,“When they don’t find us here,—Our country needs her able men;Speak, José, have you fear?”“No; father, no—quick, brothers, go!It’s all I have to give,—It matters not if I am shot,—Our country—it must live!”One long embrace—and they are off!Bang! bang! ’twas José’s gun,—The Spanish balls came whizzing fast,—He met them, one by one.And when his ammunition’s spent,The three are safe away,—The Spaniards, crazed at their repulse,Rush in on brave José!“Where, where,—and are the rebels fled,Are they escaped throughyou?”They madly grasped the crippled boy,While flashing swords they drew.All honor be to Cuba’s sons(But let this not suffice)Who perished on the field—there’s, too,The cripple’s sacrifice!

Pedro Rionda and his sons,Leandro and Ramé,Had left th’ insurgent armyFor a visit home that day.

Pedro Rionda and his sons,

Leandro and Ramé,

Had left th’ insurgent army

For a visit home that day.

And ere the time came to depart,To join their ranks once more,José, the little crippled son,Chanced to glance out the door.

And ere the time came to depart,

To join their ranks once more,

José, the little crippled son,

Chanced to glance out the door.

His pinched face suddenly grew white,—Yet calm he turned about;“Father, Leandro, Ramé—quick!The Spanish are without!”

His pinched face suddenly grew white,—

Yet calm he turned about;

“Father, Leandro, Ramé—quick!

The Spanish are without!”

Pedro Rionda’s heart stood still,He grasped his trusty gun,—A Spanish army couldn’t makeA Cuban patriot run!

Pedro Rionda’s heart stood still,

He grasped his trusty gun,—

A Spanish army couldn’t make

A Cuban patriot run!

His breath came quick—he thought aloud,“If we should face the band,They are too many—there’d be three,—Three less to save the land!”“Oh, God! it is the only thing!It’s one or three—José!

His breath came quick—he thought aloud,

“If we should face the band,

They are too many—there’d be three,—

Three less to save the land!”

“Oh, God! it is the only thing!

It’s one or three—José!

Think you could keep the devils backTill we are safe away!”

Think you could keep the devils back

Till we are safe away!”

“It may be death,” he spoke it soft,“When they don’t find us here,—Our country needs her able men;Speak, José, have you fear?”

“It may be death,” he spoke it soft,

“When they don’t find us here,—

Our country needs her able men;

Speak, José, have you fear?”

“No; father, no—quick, brothers, go!It’s all I have to give,—It matters not if I am shot,—Our country—it must live!”

“No; father, no—quick, brothers, go!

It’s all I have to give,—

It matters not if I am shot,—

Our country—it must live!”

One long embrace—and they are off!Bang! bang! ’twas José’s gun,—The Spanish balls came whizzing fast,—He met them, one by one.

One long embrace—and they are off!

Bang! bang! ’twas José’s gun,—

The Spanish balls came whizzing fast,—

He met them, one by one.

And when his ammunition’s spent,The three are safe away,—The Spaniards, crazed at their repulse,Rush in on brave José!

And when his ammunition’s spent,

The three are safe away,—

The Spaniards, crazed at their repulse,

Rush in on brave José!

“Where, where,—and are the rebels fled,Are they escaped throughyou?”They madly grasped the crippled boy,While flashing swords they drew.

“Where, where,—and are the rebels fled,

Are they escaped throughyou?”

They madly grasped the crippled boy,

While flashing swords they drew.

All honor be to Cuba’s sons(But let this not suffice)Who perished on the field—there’s, too,The cripple’s sacrifice!

All honor be to Cuba’s sons

(But let this not suffice)

Who perished on the field—there’s, too,

The cripple’s sacrifice!

Four brothers by the name of Peck,(All Mr. Bushel’s kin),As often as one desires it,Are taken by him in.Eight sisters, the Misses Gallon,When the four Peck brothers are out,In Mr. Bushel’s quartersHave room to move about.Thirty-two cousins, the Quarts—ah, me!WhatwillMr. Bushel do?Polite and open, he smiles and says,“I’m alone, so there’s room foryou!”A jingling crowd—the sixty-four Pints,To shelter them, no fun!Mr. Bushel laughs, “I’m empty now,Walk in, come, every one!”Two hundred and fifty-six baby Gills,The tiniest friends and shy,—“Can weallcome in?” Mr. Bushel replies,“I can hold you and not half try!”A jolly good fellow to entertain all,This Mr. Bushel must be!He takes them only one group at a time,—And each groupmakeshim, you see!

Four brothers by the name of Peck,(All Mr. Bushel’s kin),As often as one desires it,Are taken by him in.

Four brothers by the name of Peck,

(All Mr. Bushel’s kin),

As often as one desires it,

Are taken by him in.

Eight sisters, the Misses Gallon,When the four Peck brothers are out,In Mr. Bushel’s quartersHave room to move about.

Eight sisters, the Misses Gallon,

When the four Peck brothers are out,

In Mr. Bushel’s quarters

Have room to move about.

Thirty-two cousins, the Quarts—ah, me!WhatwillMr. Bushel do?Polite and open, he smiles and says,“I’m alone, so there’s room foryou!”

Thirty-two cousins, the Quarts—ah, me!

WhatwillMr. Bushel do?

Polite and open, he smiles and says,

“I’m alone, so there’s room foryou!”

A jingling crowd—the sixty-four Pints,To shelter them, no fun!Mr. Bushel laughs, “I’m empty now,Walk in, come, every one!”

A jingling crowd—the sixty-four Pints,

To shelter them, no fun!

Mr. Bushel laughs, “I’m empty now,

Walk in, come, every one!”

Two hundred and fifty-six baby Gills,The tiniest friends and shy,—“Can weallcome in?” Mr. Bushel replies,“I can hold you and not half try!”

Two hundred and fifty-six baby Gills,

The tiniest friends and shy,—

“Can weallcome in?” Mr. Bushel replies,

“I can hold you and not half try!”

A jolly good fellow to entertain all,This Mr. Bushel must be!He takes them only one group at a time,—And each groupmakeshim, you see!

A jolly good fellow to entertain all,

This Mr. Bushel must be!

He takes them only one group at a time,—

And each groupmakeshim, you see!

A funny little Wish-Man came out of the Somewhere here,(You really should have seen him, he looked so wondrous queer);He had a pack upon his back, stuffed full as full could be,Of wishes for the boys and girls—those living near to me.He said he’d indirectly heard—he couldn’t tell just where,—That in the town of Discontent were many dwelling there,Who wished for this and wished for that (it really was too bad),It made but little difference what, long’s ’t wasn’t what they had!Accordingly, he stuffed his pack (and tied around a band),With every single kind of wish now found within the land,And fared he forth from house to house, to please the people all,And dealt out every kind of wish for which he had a call.To one ’twas wealth—a sordid wish; another called for joy;One asked for ease; one beauty took—a worthless sort of toy!And so he gave them this and that, and all seemed happy quite,For which the Wish-Man naturally took very keen delight.But when a stranger passed the town of Discontent, he saw(’Twas just a short time after this) what filled him quite with awe;No merry whistle, smile nor laugh could be perceived at all,—What dire disaster could have brought upon the town this pall!He called upon a wealthy youth, who said, “I’m all at sea,—What stocks to buy, how to invest—it almost crazes me!Before a rich man I became, I had all sorts of fun,But since my wish, a moment’s joy I haven’t had, not one!”And thus ’twas so all through the town. Each testified the same;Not one was half so happy as before the Wish-Man came.“Ah, ha!” Perhaps by this you’ve guessed who was the stranger man;If not, by throwing out this hint, I’m very sure you can!That night, when everything was still, there crept from room to room,Some one who gathered up each wish that caused such direful gloom,And when old Sol arose next day, and scattered sunbeams down,They fell upon—the name was changed—upon Contented Town!

A funny little Wish-Man came out of the Somewhere here,

(You really should have seen him, he looked so wondrous queer);

He had a pack upon his back, stuffed full as full could be,

Of wishes for the boys and girls—those living near to me.

He said he’d indirectly heard—he couldn’t tell just where,—

That in the town of Discontent were many dwelling there,

Who wished for this and wished for that (it really was too bad),

It made but little difference what, long’s ’t wasn’t what they had!

Accordingly, he stuffed his pack (and tied around a band),With every single kind of wish now found within the land,And fared he forth from house to house, to please the people all,And dealt out every kind of wish for which he had a call.To one ’twas wealth—a sordid wish; another called for joy;One asked for ease; one beauty took—a worthless sort of toy!And so he gave them this and that, and all seemed happy quite,For which the Wish-Man naturally took very keen delight.

Accordingly, he stuffed his pack (and tied around a band),

With every single kind of wish now found within the land,

And fared he forth from house to house, to please the people all,

And dealt out every kind of wish for which he had a call.

To one ’twas wealth—a sordid wish; another called for joy;

One asked for ease; one beauty took—a worthless sort of toy!

And so he gave them this and that, and all seemed happy quite,

For which the Wish-Man naturally took very keen delight.

But when a stranger passed the town of Discontent, he saw(’Twas just a short time after this) what filled him quite with awe;No merry whistle, smile nor laugh could be perceived at all,—What dire disaster could have brought upon the town this pall!He called upon a wealthy youth, who said, “I’m all at sea,—What stocks to buy, how to invest—it almost crazes me!Before a rich man I became, I had all sorts of fun,But since my wish, a moment’s joy I haven’t had, not one!”

But when a stranger passed the town of Discontent, he saw

(’Twas just a short time after this) what filled him quite with awe;

No merry whistle, smile nor laugh could be perceived at all,—

What dire disaster could have brought upon the town this pall!

He called upon a wealthy youth, who said, “I’m all at sea,—

What stocks to buy, how to invest—it almost crazes me!

Before a rich man I became, I had all sorts of fun,

But since my wish, a moment’s joy I haven’t had, not one!”

And thus ’twas so all through the town. Each testified the same;Not one was half so happy as before the Wish-Man came.“Ah, ha!” Perhaps by this you’ve guessed who was the stranger man;If not, by throwing out this hint, I’m very sure you can!That night, when everything was still, there crept from room to room,Some one who gathered up each wish that caused such direful gloom,And when old Sol arose next day, and scattered sunbeams down,They fell upon—the name was changed—upon Contented Town!

And thus ’twas so all through the town. Each testified the same;

Not one was half so happy as before the Wish-Man came.

“Ah, ha!” Perhaps by this you’ve guessed who was the stranger man;

If not, by throwing out this hint, I’m very sure you can!

That night, when everything was still, there crept from room to room,

Some one who gathered up each wish that caused such direful gloom,

And when old Sol arose next day, and scattered sunbeams down,

They fell upon—the name was changed—upon Contented Town!

“Eight long furlongs I’ve gone to-day!”With evident pride said Ethel May.“Three hundred and twenty rods, you know,Is what I’ve been,”—’twas brother Joe.“One thousand, seven hundred and sixty—true!So many yards I’ve walked,” said Prue.“Five thousand, two hundred and eighty feetI’ve gone,” said Ben, “and it can’t be beat!”“Pooh!” laughed Ted, with a knowing smile,“You’ve only gone, each one, a mile!”

“Eight long furlongs I’ve gone to-day!”With evident pride said Ethel May.

“Eight long furlongs I’ve gone to-day!”

With evident pride said Ethel May.

“Three hundred and twenty rods, you know,Is what I’ve been,”—’twas brother Joe.

“Three hundred and twenty rods, you know,

Is what I’ve been,”—’twas brother Joe.

“One thousand, seven hundred and sixty—true!So many yards I’ve walked,” said Prue.

“One thousand, seven hundred and sixty—true!

So many yards I’ve walked,” said Prue.

“Five thousand, two hundred and eighty feetI’ve gone,” said Ben, “and it can’t be beat!”

“Five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet

I’ve gone,” said Ben, “and it can’t be beat!”

“Pooh!” laughed Ted, with a knowing smile,“You’ve only gone, each one, a mile!”

“Pooh!” laughed Ted, with a knowing smile,

“You’ve only gone, each one, a mile!”

The castle I love is not set on a hill,No flag from its turret waves,No water flows in its outer moat,Nor its rock foundation laves.My castle is old and its doors flap loose,As though wringing in grief its hands,—Out by the wall, near the cherry trees,The barn of my childhood stands!Empty the mows where from robbers fierce,We hid in the days gone by,Vacant the stall where Old Dolly stood,And watched as we played “I-spy!”Down in the bay only cobwebs now,—To my child eyes once so deep,Where secure from escape our prisoners foundThemselves in that dungeon-keep!Sometimes on the clean-swept floor we spreadOur feasts (’twas baronial hall)Of meats and wines from far over the seas,—Bread and water composed them all!But never did lord or lady showDisrespect to the loyal host,By alookthat the board did not heavily groanWith all dainties the world could boast.A heartless echo now only soundsFrom rafter back to sill,When I call as I did—was ityesterday?—To Rachel and Tom and Will.It seems that each beam sadly sighs with meFor the days we were wont to play,Safe from temptation (you guarded us well,Old barn,) on the new-mown hay!

The castle I love is not set on a hill,

No flag from its turret waves,

No water flows in its outer moat,

Nor its rock foundation laves.

My castle is old and its doors flap loose,

As though wringing in grief its hands,—

Out by the wall, near the cherry trees,

The barn of my childhood stands!

Empty the mows where from robbers fierce,We hid in the days gone by,Vacant the stall where Old Dolly stood,And watched as we played “I-spy!”Down in the bay only cobwebs now,—To my child eyes once so deep,Where secure from escape our prisoners foundThemselves in that dungeon-keep!

Empty the mows where from robbers fierce,

We hid in the days gone by,

Vacant the stall where Old Dolly stood,

And watched as we played “I-spy!”

Down in the bay only cobwebs now,—

To my child eyes once so deep,

Where secure from escape our prisoners found

Themselves in that dungeon-keep!

Sometimes on the clean-swept floor we spreadOur feasts (’twas baronial hall)Of meats and wines from far over the seas,—Bread and water composed them all!But never did lord or lady showDisrespect to the loyal host,By alookthat the board did not heavily groanWith all dainties the world could boast.

Sometimes on the clean-swept floor we spread

Our feasts (’twas baronial hall)

Of meats and wines from far over the seas,—

Bread and water composed them all!

But never did lord or lady show

Disrespect to the loyal host,

By alookthat the board did not heavily groan

With all dainties the world could boast.

A heartless echo now only soundsFrom rafter back to sill,When I call as I did—was ityesterday?—To Rachel and Tom and Will.It seems that each beam sadly sighs with meFor the days we were wont to play,Safe from temptation (you guarded us well,Old barn,) on the new-mown hay!

A heartless echo now only sounds

From rafter back to sill,

When I call as I did—was ityesterday?—

To Rachel and Tom and Will.

It seems that each beam sadly sighs with me

For the days we were wont to play,

Safe from temptation (you guarded us well,

Old barn,) on the new-mown hay!

Down the lane to the pasture bars!My prodigal thoughts once moreGo back to my father’s calling meFrom the narrow back stairway door:“It’s getting late, Bob; the milking’s done!”(He never had more to say);With a bound to the floor I hurriedly dressed,To drive the cows away!A nodded “Good morning” from wayside flower;From every tree a song,(A symphony rare of warbled joy),As the cows slowly browsed along!The sun gently kissed the mist away,That over the valley hung,While odors of incense floated high,From an unseen censer swung.Then, too, when the work in the field was o’er,While heavier chores were doneBy older men, I trudged along,In the path of the setting sun,Calling, “Co’ bos! co’ bos! co’ bos!”And often the baby starsPlayed hide-and-seek from behind a cloud,Ere I left the pasture bars.No more do I hear in the city’s din,(And never shall I again),The country sounds in the early morn,As I trudged a-down the lane;But I hope as I near the sunset hour,No sorrow my pathway mars,Greater than that when I called “Co’ bos!”As a boy by the pasture bars!

Down the lane to the pasture bars!

My prodigal thoughts once more

Go back to my father’s calling me

From the narrow back stairway door:

“It’s getting late, Bob; the milking’s done!”

(He never had more to say);

With a bound to the floor I hurriedly dressed,

To drive the cows away!

A nodded “Good morning” from wayside flower;From every tree a song,(A symphony rare of warbled joy),As the cows slowly browsed along!The sun gently kissed the mist away,That over the valley hung,While odors of incense floated high,From an unseen censer swung.

A nodded “Good morning” from wayside flower;

From every tree a song,

(A symphony rare of warbled joy),

As the cows slowly browsed along!

The sun gently kissed the mist away,

That over the valley hung,

While odors of incense floated high,

From an unseen censer swung.

Then, too, when the work in the field was o’er,While heavier chores were doneBy older men, I trudged along,In the path of the setting sun,Calling, “Co’ bos! co’ bos! co’ bos!”And often the baby starsPlayed hide-and-seek from behind a cloud,Ere I left the pasture bars.

Then, too, when the work in the field was o’er,

While heavier chores were done

By older men, I trudged along,

In the path of the setting sun,

Calling, “Co’ bos! co’ bos! co’ bos!”

And often the baby stars

Played hide-and-seek from behind a cloud,

Ere I left the pasture bars.

No more do I hear in the city’s din,(And never shall I again),The country sounds in the early morn,As I trudged a-down the lane;But I hope as I near the sunset hour,No sorrow my pathway mars,Greater than that when I called “Co’ bos!”As a boy by the pasture bars!

No more do I hear in the city’s din,

(And never shall I again),

The country sounds in the early morn,

As I trudged a-down the lane;

But I hope as I near the sunset hour,

No sorrow my pathway mars,

Greater than that when I called “Co’ bos!”

As a boy by the pasture bars!

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