Part Two

POEMS

On the Lakes

The waves beat roughly ‘gainst the rocks

Of Superior’s northern shore,

But long they’ve stood the thundrous shocks

Of the storm’s relentless roar;

And Thunder Cape looms up amain—

The Sleeping Giant’s guardian fane.

The steamers bearing ores, which mined

On Minnesota’s shore,

They leave a trail of smoke behind

A-carrying valued store

For mills to forge in Vulcan bars,

In shapes for Eros or for Mars.

The gulls sweep round our ship, the while—

Their pinions never tire—

Their actions oft bring forth a smile,

And their graces we admire.

They soar, they dive and then they float,

Collecting morsels from our boat.

A million gleams dance on the wave

At near the close of day,

While our good ship so stout and brave

Speeds forward on her way.

Across the bosom of the lake

The sun declines midst pine and brake.

The picture clouds in gold and blue

Spread outward south and north;

A streaming sheen like golden dew

Brings exclamations forth;

The wavelets dancing in the glow

Sparkle and gleam—a brilliant show.

The full blown moon hangs far above

The waves that roll beneath,

A harbinger of hope and love—

Its gleams the wavelet’s wreath—

And here upon the inland main

Smiles on the sailor’s fond refrain.

Memories

I loved the fields and the meadows green,

The shimmer and glow of the brooks between

Where the lowing kine oft quenched their thurst,

And the ewes their playful lamkinds nursed.

The billowing fields and the purling brooks

Were unfolded to me—my only books—

And barefoot I trod o’er hill, through dell,

Alone but happy, content and well.

Then, through the woods I roamed for flowers;

To memory these, delicious hours.

The shadows I watched in the limpid streams

Portrayed the life I saw in my dreams.

The caw of the crows, the hoot of owl,

The bleat of lambs, the cackle of fowl,

And the song of birds I loved to hear—

Ah, sweet all these to my listening ear.

Sweet, too, the blossom-scent from the trees,

And sweet the hum of the lusty bees;

But sweeter far were voices of those

I loved to hear at the evening’s close.

The trail of the song went through my soul

As clear as the ring through the silver bowl;

And then my father’s oft whistled tune,

As sweet as bird-warbles are in June.

These voices and scenes come back to me

Through memory sure and reverie;

They’re sweet indeed and true, although

They’re voices and scenes of long ago.

En Reverie

En reverie, alone, alone save a cigar and thought,

And there, amidst the loneliness,

The curling eddies brought

Her to his vision from afar—the sunshine of her smile—

And fancy brought her happy laugh to cheer his heart the while.

In visions clear he sees her oft in moods both brave and gay,

And e’en that smile his heart to bless

Throughout the pulsing day.

He sees her image in the haze in varying forms that please—

Her look, her smiles come back to him, as a refreshing breeze.

Thus while his thoughts wing far away and smoke is curling up

From his cigar—forgotten bliss—

To sip a sweeter cup—

He fancies that amidst the scenes of joy and gaiety

She yields one moment’s thought to him of love and sympathy.

The Blue Jay

See saucy Jay upon his perch;

His glance is keen, his prey a-search;

A scarlet sinner, it is true,

Yet he is garbed in brilliant blue,

As tho a bluebell came to life

With wings and beak for mortal strife.

We note the beauty and forget

The naughty deeds that we regret.

A noisy chap at times he is,

Yet we admire his brilliancy.

His deeds may well be classed as such

As mark the sinner’s cunning touch;

But when we note the saucy crest,

The twinkling azure of his breast,

We think of Iris passing by

In innocence from out the sky.

When foraging he claims his rights;

He acts according to his lights.

He lives by theft consistently—

If he’s condemned, may we not be?

The Boy of Ten

A boy, J. Easy, now aged ten,

Has been through Baby Land and then

To Boyhood Town he traveled on

And laid up toy-stuff by the ton,

As small ones do, and made his mark

In A B C’s, and with the lark,

He rose up early in the morn

And waked the sleepers with his horn

But now at ten, his visions soar—

He’s not content, but wants much more,

He’d journey on to Young Man Town,

An “Aleck” be in cap and gown;

He’d swell his chest and strut and gad,

He’d know a sight more than his dad;

He’d beau the girls and get in debt—

Perchance his ma would sigh and fret.

But those are stations on the way

From Boyhood Town to Glory Bay,

Beyond which is the Land-of-Men,

The journey’s end for the boy of ten.

Gallaudet College

(Fiftieth Anniversary)

Hail Gallaudet! Thy sons and daughters throng

Into thy halls with laughter and with song;

In grateful homage, true, they praises bring,

And to thee, Gallaudet, in gestures sing.

Thou hast lifted aloft the cup of life,

Bubbling with hope and the strength of strife;

And they who have quaffed, shall they e’er forget

Thy most precious gifts? Hail Gallaudet!

Out of the shadows of darkest night,

From the length and breadth of this land of might,

And some have essayed the summits of fame—

Have trooped to thy fountains, the silent bands.

Many are marching o’er duty’s rough road,

Thankful for sinews from Wisdom’s abode;

And some have essayed the summits of fame—

Looking not backward except to thy name.

Hail, thou Gallaudet, guide of our youth,

Lead e’er thy children on to light and truth;

Thy scroll of fifty years bears naught but praise—

Shall it not last, in truth, through endless days?

A crown, Oh, Gallaudet, rests on thy brow;

Pride, Honor, Glory, Love before thee bow.

Ne’er shall thy spirit die, nor we forget—

Hail Gallaudet, thou Friend! Hail Gallaudet!

As They Pass By

The years skip on, they will not stay

For aged folk like we;

They shower all our heads with gray

And laugh at you and me.

The years, the little elfin years,

They’re never aged to be—

So let them laugh and flount our fears,

They’re always young, you see.

Ah, let the years prance o’er our beds

And dance their dance of glee,

Their merriment shall turn our heads

From gloom to fancies free.

We in our age may laugh and shout

With youth and new-born years,

So let them come—crowd us about

And wipe away our tears.

Kitty-Cat, Puss

Back in a corner dim and dusty

There is a hole, dank and musty;

And kitty, pussy, catty, kit,

Why by that hole do you sit?

“Mousy, mousy, mouse hides in there,

When he comes out he is my fare.”

Birdie, birdie on the fence rail,

Kitty-cat, pussy curls her tail.

While birdie sings his cheerful song

Pussy, pussy, creeping along,

All of a sudden springs up high,

But birdie’s message is, “Bye bye.”

Pussy-cat, pussy sleeps in the sun,

Doggie, doggie comes on the run.

Pussy wakes up, shows teeth and claws,

Doggie comes to a sudden pause;

Pussy spits out her defiance

Doggie pausing, begs alliance.

Pussy-cat, puss, why do you purr,

Coiled in my lap and never stir?

“It’s nice and comfy and feels good

To be petted and understood,

And so I purr with all my might

When lassies stroke my coat aright.”

Questionnaire

Why do the leaves turn upside down,

Just before the rain comes down?

Why do the creeping serpents molt?

Did you ever see a white colt?

Why does the dog turn round and round

Before his sleeping posture’s found?

How does the cricket pipe his song?

Why are “granddaddy’s” legs so long?

What wood will bear the greatest weight?

What metal weighs the battle’s fate?

The rope the tethered horse untwists,

Why it the cow all kindly twists?

Why do the sun-dogs storms avow?

From which side does one milk a cow?

Viewing the spring-time cherry tree,

Blossoms or leaves do first we see?

What are the kitten’s whiskers for?

Why does the mouse have tail galore?

Why does the horse eat grass one way,

Why does the cow the other, pray?

When cows and horses rise, my dears,

Which is the end that first uprears?

Why does the rabbit in a chase,

Prefer uphill to lead the race?

Thorugh the woods or through the rye,

The cowpath’s always crooked—why?

What creature gives us silks to wear?

What is its food, procured with care?

What food sustains the humming bird,

And how collected, have you heard?

How does the grapevine take its hold?

How does the ivy cling so bold?

On which side of the tree-trunk grows

The moss—and why do you suppose?

Why is the ocean salt and why

Does not o’erflow nor yet run dry?

But why ask more? The stream is long—

Indeed ‘twould be an endless song.

Hallowe’en

Over the hill by the country-side

I viewed a field of pumpkins wide.

They lay on the lap of mother earth

And some were small—some wide of girth

Yellow and orange with streaks of red

For thus to color they had been bred.

They glistened there in the set of sun,

Jack Frost proclaimed their race was run,

And from the path thru groves of oak

There came a troop of goblin-folk,

Queerly shaped in form and feature

Led by an old, sharp-visioned creature,

And by some magic—a quick plan

Each goblin shaped a pumpkin-man.

They marshalled then in rows and rows,

And garbed then in fantastic clothes;

Then mindful of the magic wand

Some pumpkin-men took up their stand

Hard by the thicket of corn shocks,

Or in the shadow of the rocks;

While others scurred here and thence

And hid in corners by the fence.

The goblin-chief leaned on his staff

So solemn that it made me laugh.

Which caused a panic mongst the hosts

Of goblins foul and dead men’s ghosts.

They vanished quickly from my sight

Thanks to the witching hours of night.

Succeeding, to the field there came,

A troop of creatures without name—

Some tall and slim, some fat and round—

Then from the shadows came black cats

And o’er them flapped a troop of bats;

The pumpkins all in a mad race

Came rushing to the meeting place;

Then such a dance I ne’er had seen

Was executed on the green.

Then at a signal every sprite

Vanished to meet again next night.

Anna Niblock Rankin

She lived beside a winding road,

They learned, who passed, ‘twas Love’s abode;

And they who paused, bowed down with grief,

Found in her touch a sure relief.

Just a woman without a creed,

Only that kindness was our need—

Her heart a garden of fairest flowers,

Transplanting its treasures into ours.

Only a woman with a heart of gold

Filled to the brim with gems untold;

Like as a lily that blooms in spring,

Cheering all hearts until they sing.

In tenderness we breathe her name

For Love was near where’er she came;

Her gentle tones allayed our fears

With music one more feels than hears.

Busy Bees

The bees are busy all day long

Culling honey;

Their hum is loud, their fight is strong

When it’s sunny.

They visit all the blooms about

And gather sweets;

For this through field and wood they scout,

Nor ‘voiding streets.

They are too busy, far, to play

When shines the sun;

From early morn till evening gray

Their work is done.

They linger not in shady bowers,

As drones love most;

They carry food and feed the flowers—

A busy host.

From flower to cell they oft return

Ere day is done;

With burdens sweet they homeward turn

At set of sun.

And humans love the busy bees—

The good they do—

They love their stores in hive and trees,

Now, do not you?

The Workman

We find him in the wood and field

A-hewing and a-tilling;

He coaxes Mother Earth to yield

Our shelter and its filling;

We know he delveth in the mine—

A grimy, crooked gnome—

For coals and shining gold; in fine

He warms and gilds our homes.

Behold him at the forge and mill,

Bent down unto his labor,

A Vulcan in his might and will—

A master, a creator.

We see him in our shops and marts,

O’ercast with dust and grime;

He brings unto our homes and hearts

Essence of rose and thyme.

He braves the perils to rear our domes,

Risks health and limb and life;

The making of our meanest homes

May e’en bereave a wife

He shrinks not from the hardest toil—

His strength he does not stint—

From shop and forge and the rich soil

He garners sweet content.

So of his brawn, sinew and bone,

Aided by cunning crafts,

Our hearths, our wealth, our all have grown,

And monumental shafts.

He toileth on at God’s behest—

Sinews attuned to labor—

With heartbeats true in manly breast,

And true unto his neighbor.

Now see him as he strides along,

In leisure moments free,

And as he mingles with the throng,

His mien of modesty.

His garb is plain, yet e’en the while

That fashions around him press,

You see his lips curl with a smile—

His thoughts? Why, you can guess!

Flowers of Spring

Pussy-willows now appear—

Harbingers of Spring—

Driving from our hearts the fear,

Rousing them to sing.

Columbine and violets

Peep from ‘neath the sod,

Smiling thanks lest one forgets

The graciousness of God.

In among the brambles, there,

Blossoms white and pink

Scenting all the balmy air—

Praising God, I think.

Man, shall he be less thankful be

Than the tiny flowers?

He must sense divinity

In their waking hours.

Our Alice (1906)

Her image lies before me now,

The essence of a grace that’s rare,

The form, the brow, I scarce know how,

Portrays a life that’s true and fair.

The lips that speak, the eyes that smile,

Say life is sweet and pure and good;

And so my heart they do beguile

And make me love her as I should.

I’ve loved her with a love that’s pure

I’ve striven to guard her from all harm

My constancy, true, will endure

Through life’s vicissitudes or charm.

The college cap and gown she bears

Set off the form and shines the face;

In this the heart most eager shares

To lend a charm and add a grace.

Can scarce believe our Alice grown

In ways that are so fair and free,

So few short years have come and flown

Since she was dandled on my knee.

She quits her Alma Mater now—

Out in the world with pulsing song—

The force she has we must allow

Suffice to keep her with the throng.

So brings she others cheer and hope—

A lifter brave of burdens here—

The spirit strong with wider scope

Than leaners have who doubt and fear.

So give her love—a woman’s meed [sic]—

Give her your faith and loving trust,

For she’ll be true—a friend indeed—

Till heart and brain dow down to dust.

Rhymes for a Party

What, make a rhyme,

That true will chime

In with your joys at festal time!

The muses call up one by one,

The gnomes, the fays, all canny broods,

And tickle each to get some fun,

Though unfamiliar with their moods,

Their nectar quaff,

And make you laugh

With tales spun out on their distaff!

What can the fad

Of rhymsters add

To other charms and make you glad?

The great god Pan blew on his reeds

And charming tunes flew west and east,

Drowning the toots of lesser breeds,

Through he, in truth, were half a beast.

‘Tis all the same,

He made a name.

And that’s the surest way to fame.

So shall not I

Attempt or try

Add to the bliss provided by

A spinster Y., a mistress B.,

Who each can spout a done-brown toast,

Or a Mrs. S. and a matron D.,

Each in herself a goodly host.

They’re great, allow,

To them I bow

So will you please excuse me now.

Gotham

I’ve trod through Gotham’s busy streets—

Burrowed beneath her rocks—

I’ve seen her wondrous shipping fleets

And her maidens’ gorgeous frocks;

I’ve stood upon her rock-ribbed hills

And viewed her reaches wide;

I’ve had a taste of all her thrills—

Some of her ills beside.

I marveled at her towering hives

Where human swarms abide;

I traveled o’er her stately drives

Where wealth and power reside;

I saw amazing sights by day

Along the swelling tide;

By arches grand—an aerial way—

Through space I seemed to glide.

And then when Folly claimed my view—

Exampled at the shore—

My fancy ne’er had dared to woo

Such wondrous things before!

“The great white way” made its impress—

the midnight’s glittering show—

I ne’er had dreamed such gorgeousness—

A million stars aglow.

To the City Toiler

Away from the dust and the grime of the street,

Away from the jangle and noise;

Away from the rush and clatter of feet,

Away from the lure of “the boys.”

Come out to the woods and wide meadows sweet,

Come near to nature’s employs;

Get down to the brooks where the waters are sweet

With rod and reel for your toys.

Away from the mills and excitement of marts,

Away from the factory’s din;

Away from the smoke and the toil’s weary smart,

Away from the surgings within.

Come out to the streams where the kingfishers dart

At sight of a flashing fin;

Get out to the “wild” and the copse’s deep part—

Behold the redbreast and wren.

Then smile while you may, be it dull, be it gay

And blithely sing an old song;

Contentment will sink in your heart by the way

As you go plodding along.

Then laugh at the tricks of the frolicsome jay

And hark, to the sylvan throng,

For music and sunshine will fill out the day

Until the shadows are long.

The Clovers

The clovers have no time to play,

They feed the cows and make the hay,

And trim the lawns and help the bees

Until the sun shines through the trees;

And then they lay aside their cares

And fold their hands and say their prayers,

And drop their tired little heads,

And go to sleep on clover beds.

Then when the day dawns clear and blue,

They wake and wash their hands in dew,

And as the sun climbs up the sky

They hold them up and let them dry,

And then to work the live-long day,

For clovers have no time to play.

Song Silence

No gloom there be by ingleside,

A silent song doth there abide;

The shadows dancing on the wall

Sing to us fancies great or small,

The stir of life within the clod

Creeps upward from beneath the sod,

And reaching out toward the sky

Its carol sings to cheer the eye.

The world’s attuned to song for me

And all that grow sing sympathy.

There’s music in the swaying trees—

The note is wafted by the breeze.

With smiling Nature we rejoice

In silence rather than with voice.

A silent motion charms the throng—

Where’er there’s life there is a song.

The “NAD”

[After National Association of the Deaf]

The “Nad” is out of swaddling clothes—

He’s lusty and his horn he blows,

You bet.

We all will join this hustling band

Nor make our bow to voices “canned”—

Not yet.

We like not the Procrustean bed,

Nor all with the same spoon be fed—

We’ll fight.

To check bad laws in this free land—

Stand by our cause so true and grand—

Our right.

And east and west and north and south,

By every sign and word of mouth,

We’ll sing

The praises of the N. A. D.,

And put to flight the enemy,

A-ling.

If you’re a Nad, why, that’s all right,

You’re numbered with the best tonight,

My son.

Are you a Nad? If not, why not?

Right here and now, upon the spot,

Be one!

On Leaving “The Birches”

This morn we viewed a soothing nook

Where quiet people dwell,

Amidst the groves of birch and pines—

We grieved to say farewell.

A sparkling lake was at the door,

A boat moored at the dock,

And oft we’d sailed from shore to shore

‘Round towering castle rock.

The mount above was steep and green—

Huge boulders strewn about—

Where Titans played their game of bluff

And put the Gnomes to rout.

The chipmunk and the groundhog dwelt

Hard by the rocky ledge—

Their visits oft amused us much,

Response to friendly pledge.

Groves of white limbed birches grew

In front and at the rear;

The tree-toads and the katydids

Added their mite of cheer.

The whole was a most pleasant scene

And quiet were the hours,

Where books and music had their place—

The joy was truly ours.

This peaceful scene of nature’s charms

Shifted to crowded streets,

As through by magic all was changed

To cars and rushing feet.

A part now of the madding throng

We rush from street to street,

Disturbed by whistles, clang of bells,

And raucous sounds replete.

So back unto our burdens borne

By duties stern and stark—

Withal a mighty rush of life

Far from our lake-side park.

Spook-Night

The spooks will soon be on parade

With tricks and scares all newly made,

And to their aid as volunteers

They’ve marshalled kids of tender years,

Who in the dark would seek their bed

With trembling and qualms of dread,

But strange to say, will lend their aid

To spooks and goblins unafraid,

And march thru gloom of darkest night

And tug and stain with all their might

At shutters, gates and grinning “Jacks”

And hoot and groan thru window cracks.

They’d rattle corn against the doors—

Sneak in and scrape beneath the floors.

All this and more, with lantern gleam,

To scare the girls and make them scream,

To darksome nooks the maidens hie

With glass and candle held on high

To see the shadow of their love,

Lured by the spooks from groves above;

Or o’er their heads a peel they fling

And read their fate, the letters bring.

‘Tis strange they brave the shades of hell,

All for the fancies spooks may tell.

Sir Robin’s Inspection

A robin in my cherry tree

Was flitting here and there

Inspecting all the swelling buds

Apparently with care;

And up and down the boughs he peered

With a gravity most rare,

Then cocked his head and seemed to say

“Cherries there’ll be to spare!”

A smile upon his countenance,

My fancy soon detected;

His satisfaction seemed to prove

The tree was well inspected.

He tossed his head in very glee

The buds had been protected,

And seemed to taste the flavor of

June cherries, ripe, expected.

He and his brothers claim that tree,

Though we thought we owned it,

And long disputed we their claim

With not a little credit.

At length a compromise we made

That well required some wit—

Our share, a pie or two—no more—

All else their benefit!

The Memory Window

The window of my memory wide open is today;

I see the old school on the hill, the boys and girls at play.

In their homespun and their ginghams they romp through dewy grass,

Nor heeding much the dampness—barefoot are lad and lass.

From this window I look out upon the hilltops and the streams

Where I roved in free abandon in those distant days of dreams;

And I see the shadows lengthen and the minnows in the pool

From the grapevine swing upon the bank—those days I strayed from school.

From out this memory window, I behold a maiden fair,

With braids of golden tresses—the sunlight lingering there.

And I see the color deepen on that brow of modesty,

And I wonder if she ‘members all the trysts she braved for me.

‘Neath yonder scrub I see a lad a-floundering through the snow,

In his coonskin cap and mitts and scarf breasting the winds that blow,

All for the rabbit and the grouse which dangle from his gun;

His cheeks are red and his eyes are bright, because he’s had such fun.

And then I see the meadows wide and the reapers bent at work—

It matters not if the sun shines hot, no one is there a shirk.

I see the ricks of hay pile up and the rows of golden grain,

And the hurry and the scurry when the storm-clouds presage rain.

Ah, me, there are so many scenes, I see from this window fair,

So many things I’d long forgot in those ancient days back there.

Then I close the memory window and return to life, it seems,

For the past must flow forgotten with the onward rush of streams.

When I Am Dead

When I am dead, I hope to be

Remembered—this is true—

Not for my wit or vanities

But what I did for you.

I trust my friends will think of me

And miss me some when gone,

Not for my virtues or my faith,

Nor for my native brawn,

But for the efforts I have made

To clearly spread the Truth

And bring the Light to darkened minds

And hopeful strength to youth.

The flowers of love I oft receive

While here I grope my way—

Then may you not upon my bier

A single blossom lay.

A love for man is in my heart,

And thankfulness most true

For all the blessings I receive—

For love of God and you.

Then let me rest beneath the sod

Within my narrow bed,

And fill your hearts with joyous thought

Of me, when I am dead.

When I return this borrowed life

No sorrow may you know

For any thought or act of mine,

More cheerful may you grow

In memory of some kind deed,

Or loving thought expressed,

To cheer the drooping soul of some,

As though at God’s behest.

“He did his duty as he knew,”

May this be truly said—

Then grieve ye not, nor tears be shed

For me, when I am dead.