The Cornflower, and Other Poems

CHORE TIME

When I'm at gran'dad's on the farm,I hear along 'bout six o'clock,Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm,"Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock."I jump an' get into my clothes;It's dark as pitch, an' shivers runAll up my back. Now, I supposeNot many boys would think this fun.But when we get out to the barnThe greedy pigs begin to squeal,An' I throw in the yellow corn,A bushel basket to the meal.Then I begin to warm right up,I whistle "Yankee Doodle" through,An' wrastle with the collie pup —And sometimes gran'dad whistles too.The cow-shed door, it makes a dinEach time we swing it open wide;I run an' flash the lantern in,There stand the shorthorns side by side.Their breathin' makes a sort of cloudAbove their heads – there's no frost here."My beauties," gran'dad says out loud,"You'll get your breakfasts, never fear."When up I climb into the loftTo fill their racks with clover hay,Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft,A heap of nice things seem to say.The red ox shakes his curly head,An' turns on me a solemn face;I know he's awful glad his shedIs such a warm and smelly place.An' last of all the stable big,With harness hanging on each door,I always want to dance a jigOn that old musty, dusty floor.It seems so good to be alive,An' tendin' to the sturdy grays,The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five —An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways.My gran'dad tells me she is mine,An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane,An' smooth her sides until they shine,An' do my best to make her vain.When we have measured oats for all,Have slapped the grays upon the flanks,An' tried to pat the sorrels tall,An' heard them whinny out their thanks,We know it's breakfast time, and goOut past the yellow stacks of straw,Across the creek that used to flow,But won't flow now until a thaw.Behind the trees the sky is pink,The snow drifts by in fat white flakes,My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I thinkThere comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."

A BOY'S TRIALS

When I was but a little ladOne thing I could not bear,It was to stand at mother's kneeAnd have her comb my hair.They didn't keep boys' hair as shortAs it's kept now-a-days,And mine was always tangled upIn twenty different ways.I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth,And say it wasn't fair —It was a trial, and no mistake,When mother combed my hair.She'd brush and brush each stubborn curlThat grew upon my pate,And with her scissors nip and clipTo make the edges straight.Then smooth it down until it shone,While I would grin and bear,And feel a martyr through and through,When mother combed my hair.She'd take my round chin in her handAnd hold it there the whileShe made the parting carefully,Then tell me with a smile:"Don't push your cap down on your curlsAnd spoil my work and care;He is a pretty little ladWhen mother combs his hair."I'd hurry out and rumple upThat mop of hair so thick —A vandal, I, for she had workedSo hard to make it slick —And wish I were a grown-up manSo nobody would dareTo put a washrag in my ears,Or comb my tangled hair.Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray,Methinks I would be gladTo have her smooth my brow and cheeks,And whisper, "Mother's lad!"A longing for the care-free daysDoth take me unaware;To stand, a boy, at mother's kneeAnd have her comb my hair.

AN APRIL FOOL OF LONG AGO

In powdered wig and buckled shoe,Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay,The wealthy squire rode forth to wooUpon a first of April day.He would forget his lofty birth,His spreading acres, and his pride,And Betty, fairest maid on earth,Should be his own – his grateful bride.The maid was young, and he was old;The maid was good to look upon.Naught cared she for his land or gold,Her love was for the good squire's son.He found her as the noonday hushLay on the world, and called her name.She looked up, conscious, and her blushA tender interest did proclaim.For he was Hubert's sire, and sheTo keep a secret tryst did go.He said: "Methinks she cares for me" —That April fool of long ago.The flattered squire his suit did pressWithout delay. "Say, wilt thou come,"He said, with pompous tenderness,"And share my wealth and grace my home?""Kind sir," the lovely Betty cried,"I'm but a lass of low degree.""The love that is controlled by prideIs not true love at all," quoth he."I hold a man should woo and wedWhere'er he wills – should please himself.""There is the barrier strong," she said,"Of pedigree, and place, and pelf."Could one so lowly hope to graceYour home?" Right proud his air and tone:"You're pure of heart and fair of face;Dear Betty, you would grace a throne!""Since you so highly think of me" —Her tears and laughter were at strife —"You will not mind so much, maybe,That I am Hubert's promised wife."Pale went the good squire's florid cheek,His wrath flamed out – but Betty stood,Brown-haired, red-lipped, blue-eyed and meek,A sight to make a bad man good.She won on him. "But why this guile —This secrecy?" His voice was rough."We feared," she whispered, with a smile,"You would not think me good enough.""An April fool am I. Come, come —My offer stands. As Hubert's wife,"He laughed, "you'll share my wealth and homeAnd brighten up a lonely life."He kissed her cheek and rode away.Unbroken was his heart, I wist,For he was thinking of a day —A day back in youth's rosy mist —And of a form and of a face."My dear, dead love," he whispered low,The while he rode at sober pace,That April fool of long ago.

FOR HE WAS SCOTCH, AND SO WAS SHE

They were a couple well contentWith what they earned and what they spent,Cared not a whit for style's decree —For he was Scotch, and so was she.And oh, they loved to talk of Burns —Dear blithesome, tender Bobby Burns!They never wearied of his song,He never sang a note too strong.One little fault could neither see —For he was Scotch, and so was she.They loved to read of men who stoodAnd gave for country life and blood,Who held their faith so grand a thingThey scorned to yield it to a king.Ah, proud of such they well might be —For he was Scotch, and so was she.From neighbors' broils they kept away;No liking for such things had they,And oh, each had a canny mind,And could be deaf, and dumb, and blind.With words or pence was neither free —For he was Scotch, and so was she.I would not have you think this pairWent on in weather always fair,For well you know in married lifeWill come, sometimes, the jar and strife;They couldn't always just agree —For he was Scotch, and so was she.But near of heart they ever kept,Until at close of life they slept;Just this to say when all was past,They loved each other to the last!They're loving yet, in heaven, maybe —For he was Scotch, and so was she.

THE PLOUGHMAN

Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frameBorn, grown, and fitted for the toil.My father, tiller of the soil,Bequeathed them to me with my name.Fear work? Nay, many times and oftUpon my brow the sweat-bead stands,And these two brown and sinewy hands,Methinks, were never white or soft.I earn my bread and know its worth,Through days that chill and days that warm,I wrest it with my strong right armFrom out the bosom of the earth.The moneyed man may boast his wealth,The high-born boast his pedigree,But greater far, it seems to me,My heritage of brawn and health.My sinews strong, my sturdy frame,My independence free and bold —Mine is the richest dower, I hold,And ploughman is a noble name.Nor think me all uncouth and rough,For, as I turn the furrows o'er,Far clearer than the threshing-floorI see the tender growing stuff.A lab'rer, I, the long day through;The lonely stretch of field and woodSeem pleasant things to me, and good;The river sings, the heaven's blueBends down so near the sun-crowned hill —Thank God, I have the eyes to seeThe beauty and the majestyOf Nature, and the heart to thrillAt crimson sunset, dawn's soft flush,The fields of gold that stretch afar,The glimmer of the first pale starThat heralds in the evening's hush.They lie who say that labor makesA brute thing, an insensate clod,Of man, the masterpiece of God;They lie who say that labor takesAll from us save the lust of pelf,Dulls eye, and ear, and soul, and mind,For no man need be deaf or blindUnless he wills it so himself.This life I live's a goodly thing —My soul keeps tune to one glad songThe while I turn the furrows long —A ploughman happy as a king.

TWO MONUMENTS

Two men were born the self-same hour:The one was heir to untold wealth,To pride of birth and love of power;The other's heritage was health.A sturdy frame, an honest heart,Of human sympathy a store,A strength and will to do his part,A nature wholesome to the core.The two grew up to man's estate,And took their places in the strife:One found a sphere both wide and great,One found the toil and stress of life.Fate is a partial jade, I trow;She threw the rich man gold and frame,The laurel wreath to deck his brow,High place, the multitude's acclaim.The common things the other had —The common hopes to thrill him deep,The common joys to make him glad,The common griefs to make him weep.No high ambitions fired his breast;The peace of God, the love of friend,Of wife and child, these seemed the best,These held and swayed him to the end.The two grew old, and death's clear callCame to them both the self-same day:To him whose name was known to all,To him who walked his lowly way.Down to his grave the rich man went,With cortege long, with pomp and pride,O'er him was reared a monumentThat told his virtues far and wide;Told of his wealth, his lineage high,His statesmanship, his trophies won,How he had filled the public eye —But empty praise when all was done.The other found a narrow bedWithin God's acre, peaceful, lone;The throng cared not that he was dead,A man uncultured and unknown.But in the house that he had leftA woman whispered through her tears:"Christ, comfort me, who am bereftOf love that failed not through the years."And oft his stalwart sons and tallWould murmur as their eyes grew dim:"A useful life is best of all;God grant we pattern after him!"A sick man sighed: "I'll miss his smile;"A shrivelled crone did shake her headAnd mutter to herself the whileHow oft his hand had given bread.A maimed child sobbed: "He carried meTo gather blossoms in the wood,"And more than one said, brokenly:"A man who always did me good."One came at twilight to the grave,And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod."Oh, faithful soul," she cried, "and brave,'Twas you that led me back to God!"Back from the sin, the shame, the snare —Forget your trust and faith? – not I;Each helpful word, each tender prayer,I will remember till I die!"Two men that sleep: above the oneThe monument an artist's handHas fashioned from the block of stone,A thing of beauty, tall and grand;Above the other naught – what then?Ere he did fold his hands for rest,He builded in the hearts of menThe fairest monument and best.

THE LONESOMEST HOUSE

It's the lonesomest house you ever saw,This big gray house where I stay.I don't call it living at all, at all,Since my mother's gone away.Only four weeks now – it seems a year —Gone to heaven, the preacher said,And my heart is just broke awaiting her,And my eyes are always red.I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze,'Cause every identical roomSeems empty enough to scare a boy,And packed to the door with gloom.Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals,And her not there in her place,Pouring the tea, and passing the things,With that lovin' shine on her face!But night-time is worse. I creep up the stairAnd to bed as still 's a mouse,And cry in my pillow, it seems so hardTo stay in this old gray house!And nobody giving me good-night hugs,Or smoothing my hair back – so;Things a boy makes fun of before his chums,But things that he likes, you know.There's no one to go to when things go wrong —Oh, she was so safe and sure!There wasn't a thing could tackle a boyThat she couldn't up and cure.There's lots of women, it seems to me,That wouldn't be missed so much,The women whose boys are 'most growed up,And old maid aunties, and such.I can't understand it at all, at all,Why on earth she should have to go,And leave me here in this old gray house,Needin' an' wantin' her so!Oh, the very lonesomest thing of allIn the wide, wide world to-dayIs a big boy of twelve whose heart's just broke'Cause his mother's gone away!

DADDY'S BOY

It is time for bed, so the nurse declares,But I slip off to the nook,The cozy nook at the head of the stairs,Where daddy's reading his book."I want to sit here awhile on your knee,"I say, as I toast my feet,"And I want you to pop some corn for me,And give me an apple sweet."I tickle him under the chin – just so —And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say noTo his own little black-eyed lad."You can't have a pony this year at all,"Says my stingy Uncle Joe,After promising it – and there's the stallFixed ready for it, you know.One can't depend on his uncle, I see,It's daddies that are the best,And I find mine and climb up on his kneeAs he takes his smoke and rest.I tickle him under the chin – just so —And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say noTo his own little black-eyed lad.I want to skate, and oh, what a fussFor fear I'll break through the ice!This woman that keeps our house for us,She isn't what I call nice.She wants a boy to be just like a girl,To play in the house all day,Keep his face all clean and his hair in curl,But dad doesn't think that way.I tickle him under the chin – just so —And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say noTo his own little black-eyed lad."You're growing so big," says my dad to me."Soon be a man, I suppose,Too big to climb on your old dad's kneeAnd toast your ten little toes."Then his voice it gets the funniest shake,And oh, but he hugs me tight!I say, when I can't keep my eyes awake,"Let me sleep with you to-night."I tickle him under the chin – just so —And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say noTo his own little black-eyed lad.

JANET

Janet, she was trim and small,Swift her feet could go;Sandy, he was great and tall,Sandy, he was slow.Dark the curls on Janet's heid,Dark her een, and true;Sandy's hair was straicht an' reid,Sandy's een were blue.Sandy had been coortin' lang,Sandy wasna bold,Blushed when Janet trilled the sang,Sweet as it is old:"Gin a body meet a bodyComin' through the rye,Gin a body kiss a body,Need a body cry?"Janet's lips were reid and ripe,Full o' sic delichts;Longing for them spoiled the pipeSandy smoked o' nichts.Janet laughed when he would sigh,Janet wasna kin'.Spite o' a' as days went byJanet filled his min'.When in kirk he sat and heardSermons deep and lang,Every fluttering bird ootsideSeemed piping Janet's sang.Through the psalm, and through the prayer,Thought went wanderin' wide —O what were toil, what were care,Wi' Janet by his side?Janet, wi' the waist sae sma',Janet, dear indeed;Sermon, psalm, and prayer, and a',Sandy didna heed —Going hame at sober paceMade confession – sae:"Hearken, Lord! hide no Thy faceThough I go astray."Help me juist tae do my pairt —Win her if I can —Sae I plead wi' a' my hairt,Help a sinfu' mon!"Surely faith was in that prayer.Ere an hour went byJanet cam' wi' lichtsome airThrough the fields o' rye.Sandy, tak' ye hairt o' grace —Surely 'tisna wrang —Here's the lass wi' saucy face,How runs Janet's sang?"Gin a body meet a bodyComin' through the rye,Gin a body kiss a bodyNeed a body cry?"

THE LAD FROM INVERNESS

He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock;Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock.Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast,Been quite blind to all his follies, – but he loved his country best."I'll come home again," he told her; " I'll come home again some day,"Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away.Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home,"Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum,Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams:"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair;The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair;But a man's heart, true and gallant, beat beneath the tartan plaid,And a strong right arm he boasted, did this bonnie Highland lad.Oh, the battlefield is gruesome, with its dying and its dead,But 'twas to the field of battle that the drum and bugle led —Magersfontein – and the bullets biting fiercely left and right,And the lad in kilt and hose there in the thickest of the fight.Fearful odds, and none to help them, fight they boldly, undismayed,Gallant clansmen of the north land! Brave old Highlander brigade!Someone blundered, this we know,When you met the ambushed foe,But you fought as heroes fight, and died as heroes die;This we know, this we know.Where the fighting had been fiercest, as the sun sank in the west,Did they find the widow's laddie, with a bullet in his breast,And his smiling face turned upward. Did he dream at last – who knows —Of the far-off hills of Scotland? Lying there in kilt and hose,With the gold hair gleaming brightly underneath the bonnet blue,And the tartan plaid laid gently o'er the heart so brave and true.Stilled forever! With death's coming did there fall upon his earMusic that he loved to list to, bugle call so high and clear,Thrilling, stirring, sweeter, shriller, and the deep voice of the drum,Calling to him through the shadows, calling softly through the shadows,"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

ALL ON AN APRIL MORNING

The teacher was wise and learned, I wis,All nonsense she held in scorning,But you never can tell what the primmest missWill do of a bright spring morning.What this one did was to spread a snareFor feet of a youth unheeding,As March, with a meek and lamb-like air,To its very last hour was speeding.Oh, he was the dullard of his class,For how can a youth get learningWith his eyes aye fixed on a pretty lassAnd his heart aye filled with yearning?"Who finds 'mong the rushes which fringe a pool,"She told him, "the first wind blossom,May wish what he will" – poor April fool,With but one wish in his bosom.Her gray eyes danced – on a wild-goose chaseHe'd sally forth on the morrow,And, later, she'd laugh in his sombre face,And jest at his words of sorrow.But penitence and a troubled mindWere fruits of the night's reflection;After all, he was simple, and strong, and kind —'Twas wrong to flout his affection.They met on the hill as she walked to school;He said, unheeding her blushes,"Here's the early flower your April foolFound growing among the rushes."Take it or leave it as you will" —His voice ringing out so clearlyAwoke in her heart a happy thrill —"You know that I love you dearly."Day-dreams indulged as she taught the schoolHeld lovers kneeling and suing;"Take it or leave it" – her April foolWas masterful in his wooing.He gave her the flower – she gave him a kiss —His suit she had long been scorning;But you never can tell what the primmest missWill do of a bright spring morning.

BILLY

O! He was the boy of the house, you know,A jolly and rollicking lad;He never was sick, he never was tired,And nothing could make him sad.If he started to play at sunrise,Not a rest would he take at noon;No day was so long from beginning to end,But his bed-time came too soon.Did someone urge that he make less noise,He would say, with a saucy grin:"Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir —O sakes! I wish I was a twin."There's two of twins, and it must be funTo go double at everything;To holler by twos, and whistle by twos,To stamp by twos, and to sing!"His laugh was something to make you glad,So brimful was it of joy;A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,But it never troubled the boy.You met him out on the garden path,The terrier at his heels,And knew by the shout he hailed you withHow happy a youngster feels.The maiden auntie was half distraughtWith his tricks as the days went by;"The most mischievous child in all the world!"She said with a shrug and a sigh.His father owned that her words were true,His mother declared each dayHe was putting wrinkles into her face,And turning her brown hair gray.His grown-up sister referred to himAs "a trouble," "a trial," "a grief";The way he ignored all rules, she said,Was something beyond belief!It never troubled the boy of the house,He revelled in racket and din,Had only one regret in the world —He hadn't been born a twin!*****There's nobody making a noise to-day,There's nobody stamping the floor,'Tis strangely silent upstairs and down —White ribbons upon the door.The terrier's whining out in the sun:"Where's my comrade?" he seems to say.Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,There's no frolic for you to-day.The freckle-faced girl from the house next doorIs sobbing her young heart out.Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forgetThe laugh and the merry shout.The grown-up sister is kissing his face,And calling him "angel" and "sweet,"And the maiden aunt is nursing the bootsHe wore on his restless feet.So big, so solemn the old house seems —No uproar, no racket, no din,No shrill peal of laughter, no voice shrieking out,"O sakes! I wish I was a twin!"A man and a woman white with griefWatch the wearisome moments creep —Oh! the loneliness touches everything,The boy of the house is asleep!

SLY BOY

I was the slyest boy at home,The slyest boy at school,I wanted all the world to knowThat I was no one's fool.I kept my childish hopes and schemesLocked closely in my breast,No single secret shared with Bob,The chum I liked the best.I never showed my squirrel's nest,Nor beaver dam, nor cave,Nor fortress where I used to goTo be a soldier brave.Oh, I was sly, just awful sly,In winter, summer, spring,While Bob would tell me all he knew,I never told a thing.And yet Bob always got ahead;I'd find the careless knaveAsleep within my fortress walls,And fishing in my cave."What, yours!" he said, in great surprise,"You should have told me so.You never said a word, old chum,And how was I to know?"My slyness hurt more than it helped;If Bob had known, you see,He was too kind to do his bestTo get ahead of me.I still was sly when I grew up.I fell in love with Nan,But scorned to own it to myselfOr any other man.So sly was I, Nan never guessed —No more did handsome Bob —That every time she looked my wayMy heart, it stirred and throbbed.The same old story! Ere I knew,My chum had loved and won.When I explained I'd picked her outTo be my very own,"What, yours!" he said in great surprise,"You should have told me so.You never said a word, old chum,And how was I to know?"I've learned my lesson, lost my girl;You'll own 'tis rather rough.Henceforward I'll not be too sly —I'll be just sly enough.

Miscellaneous Poems

QUEEN VICTORIA

1837The sunshine streaming through the stainèd glassTouched her with rosy colors as she stood,The maiden Queen of all the British realm,In the old Abbey on that soft June day.Youth shone within her eyes, where God had setAll steadfastness, and high resolve, and truth;Youth flushed her cheek, dwelt on the smooth white browWhereon the heavy golden circlet lay.The ashes of dead kings, the history ofA nation's growth, of strife, and victory,The mighty past called soft through aisle and nave:"Be strong, O Queen; be strong as thou art fair!"A virgin, white of soul and unafraid,Since back of her was God, and at her feetA people loyal to the core, and strong,And loving well her sweetness and her youth.1901Upon her woman's head earth's richest crownHath sat with grace these sixty years and more.Her hand, her slender woman's hand, hath heldThe weightiest sceptre, held it with such powerAll homage hath been hers, at home, abroad,Where'er hath dwelt a chivalrous regardFor strength of purpose and for purity,For grand achievement and for noble aim.To-day the cares of State no longer vex;To-day the crown is laid from off her brow.Dead! The great heart of her no more will beatWith tenderness for all beneath her rule.Dead! The clear eyes of her no more will guardThe nation's welfare. Dead! The arm of herNo more will strike a mighty blow for rightAnd justice; make a wide world stand amazedThat one so gentle as old England's QueenCould be so fearless and so powerful!Full wearily the sense of grief doth pressAnd weight us down. The good Queen is no more;And we are fain to weep as children weepWhen greedy death comes to the home and bearsFrom thence the mother, whose unfailing loveHath been their wealth, their safeguard, and their pride.O bells that toll in every zone and clime!There is a sound of sobbing in your breath.East, west, north, south, the solemn clamor goes,Voicing a great, a universal grief!