In Celestial realms where knowledge hath no end.
HARRY HOWARD,
STUDENT.
"Blessed are the pure in heart."

POEMS

BY

HATTIE HOWARD.

AUTHOR OF "POVERTY VS. PAUPERISM," "OUR GIRLS," "VIVE LA
REPUBLIQUE," "KEEPING A SECRET," "LITTLE JO,"
AND OTHER STORIES.

Vol. IV.

HARTFORD PRESS:
The Case, Lockwood & Brainard Company.
1904.

EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES OF A FORMER
VOLUME.

"We find these poems of sentiment by Hattie Howard entirely natural, spontaneous, direct, rhythmical, and free from ambitious pretense. Many of the fanciful verses have a laugh at the end; and the collection has altogether a sunny, hopeful spirit and will be welcome in this time of generally morbid expression."

"This author's verse shows a hearty, wholesome, human spirit, sometimes overflowing into downright fun, and a straightforward directness always. It is a pleasant book, sure to be welcomed by all."

"These garnered gems reveal a genuine poetic faculty, and are worthy their attractive setting. We give the book a hearty welcome."

"Many of the poems abound in playful humor or tender touches of sympathy which appeal to a refined feeling, and love for the good, the true, and the beautiful."

"This poet's ear is so attuned to metric harmony that she must have been born within sound of some osier-fringed brook leaping and hurrying over its pebbly bed. There is a variety of subject and treatment, sufficient for all tastes, and these are poems which should be cherished."

"Lovers of good poetry will herald with pleasure this new and attractive volume by the well-known authoress of Hartford. A wooing sentiment and genial spirit seem to guide her in every train of thought. Her book has received, and deserves, warm commendations of the press."

Copyright, 1904, by Hattie Howard.

Contents.

[FRONTISPIECE.]

Poems.

"The Salt of the Earth."

The salt of the earth—what a meaningful phrase
From the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveys
A sense of the need of a substance saline
This pestilent sphere to refresh and refine,
And a healthful and happy condition secure
By making it pure as the ocean is pure.

In all the nomenclature known to the race,
In all appellations of people or place,
Was ever a name so befitting, so true
Of those who are seeking the wrong to undo,
With naught of the Pharisee's arrogant air
Their badge of discipleship humbly who wear?

Do beings, forsooth, fashioned out of the mold,
So secretly, strangely, those elements hold
That may be developed in goodness and grace
To shine in demeanor, in form and in face
Till they, by renewal of heavenly birth,
Shall merit their title—the salt of the earth?

To the landsman at home or the sailor at sea,
With nausea, scurvy, or canker maybe,
'Tis never in language to overexalt
The potent preservative virtue of salt—
A crystal commodity wholesome and good,
A cure for disease, and a savor for food.

Ah, the beasts of the wood and the fowls of the air
Know all of the need of this condiment rare,
Know well where the springs and the "salt-licks" abound,
Where streams salinaceous flow out of the ground;
And their cravings appease by sipping the brine
With more than the relish of topers at wine.

Our wants may be legion, our needs are but few,
And every known ill hath its remedy true;
'Tis ours to discover and give to mankind
Of hidden essentials the best that we find;
'Tis ours to eradicate error and sin,
And help to make better the place we are in.

If ever this world from corruption is free,
And righteousness reign in the kingdom to be,
Like salt in its simple and soluble way
Infusing malodor, preventing decay.
So human endeavor in action sublime
Must never relax till the finale of time.

To thousands discouraged this comforting truth
Appeals like the promise of infinite youth:
To know, as they labor like bees in the hive,
Yet do little more than keep goodness alive—
To know that the Master accredits their worth
As blessed disciples—"the salt of the earth."

Not Gone.

They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfolding
Have left their own sweet impress everywhere;
Like flowers, while we linger in beholding,
Diffusing fragrance on the summer air.

They are not gone, for grace and goodness can not perish,
But must develop in immortal bloom;
The viewless soul, the real self we love and cherish,
Shall live and flourish still beyond the tomb.

They are not gone though lost to observation,
And dispossessed of those dear forms of clay,
Though dust and ashes speak of desolation;
The spirit-presence—this is ours alway.

Let Us Give Thanks.

If we have lived another year
And, counting friends by regiments
Who share our love and confidence,
Find no more broken ranks,
For this let us give thanks.

If, since the last Thanksgiving-time,
Have we been blessed with strength and health,
And added to our honest wealth,
Nor lost by broken banks,
For this would we give thanks.

If through adversity we trod,
Yet with serene and smiling face,
And trusted more to saving grace
Than charlatans and cranks,
For this let us give thanks.

If we have somehow worried through
The ups and downs along life's track,
And still undaunted can look back
And smile at Fortune's pranks,
For this would we give thanks.

If every page in our account
With God and man is fairly writ,
We care not who examines it,
With no suspicious blanks,
For this let us give thanks.

Sonnet.

Upon my smile let none pass compliment
If it but gleam like an enchanting ray
Of sunshine caught from some sweet summer day,
In atmosphere of rose and jasmine scent
And breath of honeysuckles redolent,
When, with the birds that sing their lives away
In harmony, the treetops bend and sway,
And all the world with joy is eloquent.

But in that day of gloom when skies severe
Portend the tempest gathering overhead,
If by my face some token shall appear
Inspiring hope, dispelling darksome dread,
Oh, be the rapture mine that it be said,
"Her smile is like the rainbow, full of cheer."

A Rainy Day.

Oh, what a blessed interval
A rainy day may be!
No lightning flash nor tempest roar,
But one incessant, steady pour
Of dripping melody;
When from their sheltering retreat
Go not with voluntary feet
The storm-beleaguered family,
Nor bird nor animal.

When business takes a little lull,
And gives the merchantman
A chance to seek domestic scenes,
To interview the magazines,
Convoke his growing clan,
The boys and girls almost unknown,
And get acquainted with his own;
As well the household budget scan,
Or write a canticle.

When farmer John ransacks the barn,
Hunts up the harness old—
Nigh twenty years since it was new—
Puts in an extra thong or two,
And hopes the thing will hold
Without that missing martingale
That bothered Dobbin, head and tail,
He, gentle equine, safe controlled
But by a twist of yarn.

When busy fingers may provide
A savory repast
To whet the languid appetite,
And give to eating a delight
Unknown since seasons past;
Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranks
Develop dull dyspeptic cranks
Who, forced to diet or to fast,
Ergo, have dined and died.

It is a day of rummaging,
The closets to explore;
To take down from the dusty shelves
The books—that never read themselves—
And turning pages o'er
Discover therein safely laid
The bills forgot and never paid—
Somehow that of the corner store
Such dunning memories bring.

It gives a chance to liquidate
Epistolary debts;
To write in humble penitence
Acknowledging the negligence,
The sin that so besets,
And cheer the hearts that hold us dear,
Who've known and loved us many a year—
Back to the days of pantalets
And swinging on the gate.

It gives occasion to repair
Unlucky circumstance;
To intercept the ragged ends,
And for arrears to make amends
By mending hose and pants;
The romping young ones to re-dress
Without those signs of hole-y-ness
That so bespeak the mendicants
By every rip and tear.

It is a time to gather round
The old piano grand,
Its dulcet harmonies unstirred
Since Lucy sang so like a bird,
And played with graceful hand;
Like Lucy's voice in pathos sweet
Repeating softly "Shall we meet?"
Is only in the heavenly land
Such clear soprano sound.

It is a time for happy chat
En cercle tête-à-tête;
Discuss the doings of the day,
The club, the sermon, or the play,
Affairs of church and state;
Fond reminiscence to explore
The pleasant episodes of yore,
And so till raindrops all abate
As erst on Ararat.

Ah, yes, a rainy day may be
A blessed interval!
A little halt for introspect,
A little moment to reflect
On life's discrepancy—
Our puny stint so poorly done,
The larger duties scarce begun—
And so may conscience culpable
Suggest a remedy.

The Subway.

Oh, who in creation would fail to descend
That wonderful hole in the ground?—
That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend
In sinuous fashion, seems never to end;
While thunder and lightning abound.

Oh, who in creation would dare to go down
That great subterranean hole—
The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town,
That gives to the city a mighty renown
And a shaking as never before?

A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the top
Where the flies are all buzzing about;
Down into its maw where the populace drop,
Who never know where they are going to stop,
Or whether they'll ever get out.

Why is it, with millions of acres untrod
Where never the ploughshare hath been,
That man must needs burrow miles under the sod,
As if to get farther and farther from God,
And deeper and deeper in sin?

O Dagos and diggers, who can't understand
That the planet you'll never get through—
Why, there is three times as much water as land,
And but for the least little seam in the sand
Your life is worth less than a sou.

Come up out of Erebus into the day,
There's plenty of room overhead;
No boring or blasting of rocks in the way,
No stratum of sticky, impervious clay—
All vacuous vapor instead.

Oh, give us a transit, a tube or an "el—",
Not leagues from the surface below;
As if we were never in Heaven to dwell,
As if we were all being fired to—well,
The place where we don't want to go!

The Apple Tree.

Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung
Around whose body have children clung,
Whose bounteous branches the birds among
Have pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung—
Was ever a tree, or shall there be,
So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see,
So welcome a boon to the family,
Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree?

How he loves to be digging about its root,
Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot,
The daintiest palate that he may suit
With the fairest and finest selected fruit.
How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size;
His delicate Greenings—made for pies;
His Golden Pippins that take the prize,
The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies.

How he learns of the squirrel a thing or two
That the wise little rodents always knew,
And never forget or fail to do,
Of laying up store for the winter through;
So he hollows a space in the mellow ground
Where leaves for lining and straw abound,
And well remembers his apple mound
When a day of scarcity comes around.

By many a token may we suppose
That the knowledge apple no longer grows,
That broke up Adam and Eve's repose
And set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes;
The story's simple and terse and crude,
But still with a morsel of truth imbued:
For of trees and trees by the multitude
Are some that are evil, and some that are good.

The more I muse on those stories old
The more philosophy they unfold
Of husbands docile and women bold,
And Satan's purposes manifold;
Ah, many a couple halve their fare
With that mistaken and misfit air
That the world and all are ready to swear
To a mighty unapple-y mated pair.

The apple's an old-fashioned tree I know,
All gnarled and bored by the curculio,
And loves to stand in a zigzag row;
And doesn't make half so much of a show
As the lovely almond that blooms like a ball,
And spreads out wide like a pink parasol
Set on its stem by the garden-wall;
But I love the apple tree, after all.

"A little more cider"—sings the bard;
And who this juiciness would discard,
Though holding the apple in high regard,
Must be like the cider itself—very hard;
For the spirit within it, as all must know,
Is utterly harmless—unless we go
Like the fool in his folly, and overflow
By drinking a couple of barrels or so.

What of that apple beyond the seas,
Fruit of the famed Hesperides?
But dust and ashes compared to these
That grow on Columbia's apple trees;
And I sigh for the apples of years agone:
For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn,
For Russets brown with their jackets on,
And aromatic as cinnamon.

Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place,
And the pear is fine in its stately grace;
The plum belongs to a puckery race
And maketh awry the mouth and face;
But I long to roam in the orchard free,
The dear old orchard that used to be,
And gather the beauties that dropped for me
From the bending boughs of the apple tree.

Two Roses.

I've a friend beyond the ocean
So regardful, so sincere,
And he sends me in a letter
Such a pretty souvenir.

It is crushed to death and withered,
Out of shape and very flat,
But its pure, delicious odor
Is the richer for all that.

'Tis a rose from Honolulu,
And it bears the tropic brand,
Sandwiched in this friendly missive
From that far-off flower-land.

It shall mingle pot-à-pourri
With the scents I love and keep;
Some of them so very precious
That remembrance makes me weep.

While I dream I hear the music
That of happiness foretells,
Like the flourishing of trumpets
And the sound of marriage bells.

There's a rose upon the prairie,
Chosen his by happy fate,
He shall gather when he cometh
Sailing through the Golden Gate.

Mine, a public posy, growing
Somewhere by the garden wall,
Might have gone to any stranger,
May have been admired by all.

But the rose in beauty blushing,
Tenderly and sweetly grown
In the home and its affections,
Blooms for him, and him alone.

Speed the voyager returning;
His shall be a welcome warm,
With the Rose of Minnesota
Gently resting on his arm.

Love embraces in his kingdom
Earth and sea and sky and air.
Hail, Columbia! hail, Hawaii!
It is Heaven everywhere.

The Taxidermist.

From other men he stands apart,
Wrapped in sublimity of thought
Where futile fancies enter not;
With starlike purpose pressing on
Where Agassiz and Audubon
Labored, and sped that noble art
Yet in its pristine dawn.

Something to conquer, to achieve,
Makes life well worth the struggle hard;
Its petty ills to disregard,
In high endeavor day by day
With this incentive—that he may
Somehow mankind the richer leave
When he has passed away.

Forest and field he treads alone,
Finding companionship in birds,
In reptiles, rodents, yea, in herds
Of drowsy cattle fat and sleek;
For these to him a language speak
To common multitudes unknown
As tones of classic Greek.

Unthinking creatures and untaught,
They to his nature answer back
Something his fellow mortals lack;
And oft educe from him the sigh
That they unnoticed soon must die,
Leaving of their existence naught
To be remembered by.

Man may aspire though in the slough;
May dream of glory, strive for fame,
Thirst for the prestige of a name.
And shall these friends, that so invite
The study of the erudite,
Ever as he beholds them now
Perish like sparks of light?

Nay, 'tis his purpose and design
To keep them: not like mummies old
Papyrus-mantled fold on fold,
But elephant, or dove, or swan,
Its native hue and raiment on,
In effigy of plumage fine,
Or skin its native tawn.

What God hath wrought thus time shall tell,
And thus endowment rich and vast
Be rescued from the buried past;
And rare reliques that never fade
Be in the manikin portrayed
Till taxidermy witness well
The debt to science paid.

Lo! one appeareth unforetold—
This re-creator, yea, of men;
Making him feel as born again
Who looketh up with reverent eyes,
Through wonders that his soul surprise,
That great Creator to behold
All-powerful, all-wise.

Epithalamium.

I.

"Whom God hath joined"—ah, this sententious phrase
A meaning deeper than the sea conveys,
And of a sweet and solemn service tells
With the rich resonance of wedding-bells;
It speaks of vows and obligations given
As if amid the harmony of heaven,
While seraph lips approving seem to say,
"Love, honor, and obey."

II.

Is Hymen then ambassador divine,
His mission, matrimonial and benign,
The heart to counsel, ardor to incite,
Convert the nun, rebuke the eremite?
As if were this his mandate from the throne:
"It is not good for them to be alone;
Behold the land! its fruitage and its flowers,
Not mine and thine, but ours."

III.

Did not great Paul aver, in lucid spell,
That they of conjugal intent "do well"?
But hinted at a better state,—'tis one
With which two loving souls have naught to do.
For, in well-doing being quite content,
Be there another state more excellent
To which the celibate doth fain repair,
They neither know nor care.

IV.

And does the Lord of all become High Priest,
And with his presence grace the wedding-feast?
Then must the whole celestial throng draw nigh,
For nuptials there are none beyond the sky;
So is the union sanctified and blest,>
For Love is host, and Love is welcome guest;
So may the joyous bridal season be
Like that of Galilee.

V.

Sweet Mary, of the blessed name so dear
To all the loving Saviour who revere,
Madonna-like be thou in every grace
That shall adorn thee in exalted place,
And thine the happy privilege to prove
The depth, the tenderness of woman's love;
So shall the heart that honors thee today
Bow down to thee alway.

VI.

O radiant June, in wealth of light and air,
With leaf and bud and blossom everywhere,
Let all bright tokens affluent combine,
And round the bridal pair in splendor shine;
Let sweethearts coy and lovers fond and true
On this glad day their tender vows renew,
And all in wedlock's bond rejoice as they
Whom God hath joined for aye.

A Fowl Affair.

I hope I'm not too orthodox
To give a joke away,
That took me like the chicken-pox
And left a debt to pay.

Let argument ignore the cost,
If it be dear or cheap,
And only claim that naught be lost
When it's too good to keep.

The proverb says "All flesh is grass,"
But this I do deny,
Because of that which came to pass,
But not to pass me by.

A body weighing by the pound
Inside of half a score,
In case and cordage safely bound,
Was landed at my door.

What could it be? for friends are slack,
And give, I rather trow,
When they are sure of getting back
As much as they bestow.

My hair, at thought of dark design,
Or dynamitish fate,
Stood up like quills of porcupine,
But more than twice as straight.

Anon, I mused on something rare,
Like duck or terrapin,
But dreamed not, of the parcel, there
Might be a pullet-in.

A mighty jerk,—the string that broke
The fowl affair revealed,
The victim of a cruel choke,
Its neck completely peeled.

The biped in its paper cof-
Fin, cramped and plump and neat,
Had scratched its very toenails off
In making both ends meat.

The only part I always ate,
That never made me ill,
Had gone away decapitate
And carried off the bill.

I pondered o'er the sacrifice,
The merry-thought, the wings,
On giblet gravy, salad nice,
And chicken-pie-ous things.

In heat of Fahrenheit degree
Two hundred twelve or more,
Where its grandsire, defying me,
Had crowed the year before,

I thrust it with a hope forlorn,—
I knew what toughness meant,
And sighed that ever I was born
To die of roasting scent.

But presto! what dénouement grand
Of cookery sublime!
'Twas done as by the second hand,
The drumsticks beating thyme.

And now the moral—he who buys
Will comprehend its worth,—
Look not so much to weight and size
As to the date of birth.

In fowls there is a difference;
"The good die young," they say,
And for the death of innocence
To make us meat, we pray.

Holiday Home.

Of all the sweet visions that come unto me
Of happy refreshment by land or by sea,
Like oases where in life's desert I roam,
Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.

I climb to the top of the highest of hills
And look to the west with affectionate thrills,
And fancy I stand by the emerald side
Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.

In distant perspective unruffled it lies,
Except for the packet that paddles and plies,
And puffing its way like a pioneer makes
Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.

Untroubled except for the urchins that come
From many a haunt that is never a home,
Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade,
Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.

All placid except for the dip of the oar
Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore,
While merry excursionists shout till the gale
Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail.

How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines
Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines,
In crystal illusion reflecting the skies
And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.

There stands a great house on a summit so high,
Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky;
And I think of the rest and the comfort up there
To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.

Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood
Can never be written, nor be understood,
Except by the weary and languid who come
To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.

From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear,
From attic and alley, from labor severe,
For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare
A world of diversion and excellent fare.

To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze,
To lie in the shade of magnificent trees—
Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl
The life-giving essence for body and soul!

Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind
The influence gentle, the ministry kind;
While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought
Of a home and a holiday never forgot.

Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men
To lovely Geneva who comes not again;
Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod,
Humanity's helper, companion of God.

In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed,
As unto a hospice by Providence led,
Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude
Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good?

Who of their abundance have cheerfully given
Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven—
To brighten conditions too hard and too sad
And make the unhappy contented and glad.

Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown
Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town,
Their monument building in many a dome
Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.

Rutha.

The days are long and lonely,
The weary eve comes on,
And the nights are filled with dreaming
Of one beloved and gone.

I reach out in the darkness
And clasp but empty air,
For Rutha dear has vanished—
I wonder, wonder where.

Yet must it be: her nature
So lovely, pure, and true;
So nearly like the angels,
Is she an angel too.

The cottage is dismantled
Of all that made it bright;
Beyond its silent portal
No love, nor life, nor light.

Where are the hopes I cherished,
The joys that once I knew,
The dreams, the aspirations?
All, all are perished too.

Yes, love's dear chain is broken;
From shore to shore I roam—
No comfort, no companion,
No happiness, no home.

Oh could I but enfold her
Unto my heart once more,
If aught could e'er restore me
My darling as before;

If God would only tell me—
Such myriads above—
Why He must needs have taken
The one I loved to love;

If God would only tell me
Why multitudes are left,
Unhappy and unlovely,
And I am thus bereft;

If—O my soul, be silent
And some day thou shalt see
Through mystery and shadow,
And know why it must be.

To every cry of anguish
From every heart distressed,
Can be no other answer
Than this—God knoweth best.

The Student Gone.

So soon he fell, the world will never know
What possibilities within him lay,
What hopes irradiated his young life,
With high ambition and with ardor rife;
But ah! the speedy summons came, and so
He passed away.

So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plans
By others misapplied, misunderstood;
And doors are barred that wait the master-key—
That wait his magic Open Sesame!—
To that assertive power that commands
The multitude.

Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove
What manhood and integrity might be—
How one from all base elements apart
Might walk serene, in purity of heart,
His face the bright transparency of love
And sympathy?

The student ranks are closed, there is no gap;
Of other brave aspirants is no dearth;
Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on,
And few shall miss or mourn the student gone,
Reposing in the all-protecting lap
Of Mother Earth.

Too soon—O God! was it thy will that one
Of such endeavor and of noble mien,
Enrapt with living, should thus early go
From all he loved and all who loved him so,
Mid life's activities no longer known,
No longer seen?

Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips
Quiver with questionings they dare not frame;
Though in the dark penumbra of despair
Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere—
All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse,
No more the same.

Could we but know, in that Elysian lore
Of happy exercise still going on
Could we but know of glorious heights attained,
Of his reward, of mysteries explained,—
Ah! but to know were to lament no more
The student gone.

The Tourist.

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land,
And prove the touring season actively begun;
His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand,
For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand—
The fool-ish one!

By caravan and car, from country and from town,
A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land;
Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down,
Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown
The tourist band.

With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot,
To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout,
The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute,
And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute—
To roam about.

From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade,
From high society's luxurious stately homes,
From lounging places by the park or promenade,
From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade,
The tourist comes.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes,
To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;
To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,
To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,
The tourist goes.

For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed,
Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom,
And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest,
Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest
For ampler room.

What is it prompts the roving mania—is it love
Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?
Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove
One's social standing, that impels the madness of
The tramp abroad?

The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer,
Importunate, but powerless response to bring;
Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere—
They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their
Vacationing.

So is the world's eccentric round of joy complete
When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam,
His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat
To impecunious, luckless multitudes who greet
The tourist home.

The Antiquarian.

Millions have been and passed from view
Benignity who never knew;
No aspiration theirs, nor aim;
Existence soulless as the clay
From whence they sprang, what right have they
To eulogy or fame?

So multitudes have been forgot—
But drones or dunces, good for naught;
Like clinging parasites or burrs
Taking from others all they dared,
Yet little they for others cared
Except as pilferers.

Not so with that majestic man
The all-round antiquarian—
No model his nor parallel;
From selfishness inviolate
Are his achievements good and great,
And thus shall ages tell.

A love for the antiquities
His honest hold, his birthright is!
And things unheard of or unread,
Defaced by moth or rust or mold,
To him are treasures more than gold,
Ay, than his daily bread.

At neither ghost nor ghoul aghast
He echoes voices of the past,
And tones like melancholy knells
Of years departed to his ear
Are sweeter than of kindred dear,
Sweeter than Florimel's.

He delves through centuries of dust
To resurrect some unknown bust,
A torso, or a goddess whole;
Maybe like Venus, minus arms—
Haply to find those missing charms;
But not the lost, lost soul.

He dotes on aborigines
Who lived in caves and hollow trees,
And barters for their trinkets rare;
Exchanging with those dusky breeds
For arrow-heads and shells and beads
A scalplock of his hair.

Had he been born—thus he laments—
Along with other great events,
Coeval say with Noah's flood,
A proud relationship to trace
With Hittites—or with any race
Of blue archaic blood!

Much he adores that Pilgrim flock,
The same that split old Plymouth rock,
Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing.
Devoid of metre, sense, and tune,
Who but a Puritanic loon
Could have devised the thing?

He revels in a pedigree,
The sprouting of a noble tree
'Way back in prehistoric times;
And for the "Family Record" true
Of scions all that ever grew
Would give a billion dimes.

There is a language fossils speak:
'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek,
But quite as dead and antiquate
Its silent syllables, and cold;
But ah, what meanings they unfold,
What histories relate!

The earthquake is his best ally—
It shows up things he cannot buy,
And gives him raw material
For making mastodons and such,
Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch
Republic's Rise and Fall."

A piece of bone can never lie:
A rib, a femur, or a thigh
Is but a dislocated sign
Of something hybrid, half and half
Betwixt a crocodile and calf—
Maybe a porcupine.

The stately "Antiquarium"
Is his emporium, his home.
He wonders if when he is gone
Will people look with mournful pride
On him done up and classified,
And the right label on.

He dreams of an emblazoned page,
The calendar of every age
Down from Creation's primal dawn;
With archetypes of spears and bones,
And tons of undeciphered stones
Its illustrations drawn.

Labor a blessing, not a curse,
His hunting ground the Universe,
So much the more his nature craves
To sound the fathoms of the sea:
What mighty wonders there must be
Down in those hidden caves!

So toils this dauntless man, alert
Amid the ruins and the dirt,
That other men to endless day
Themselves uplifted from the clod
May see, and learn and know that God
Is greater far than they.

And thus, of mighty ken and plan,
The all-round antiquarian
Pursues his happy ministry;
And on the world's progressive track
Advances, always going back—
Back to antiquity.

Poor Housekeeping.

If there is one gift that I prize above others,
That tinges with brightness whatever I do,
And gives to the sombre a roseate hue,
'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers,
Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew,
And taught me her neatness and diligence too.

So is my discomfort a house in disorder:
The service uncleanly, the linen distained,
The children like infantry rude and untrained;
The portieres dusty and frayed at the border,
By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained,
And miseries numberless never explained.

I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy,
A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe,
A slatternly matron with nothing to do;
And all the ill-luck charged to ominous Friday
Can never compare with the ills that ensue
On wretched housekeeping and cookery too.

There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner,
Gets up from the table with look of despair,
And something akin to the growl of a bear;
Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner—
One driven to fasting but not unto prayer—
Till epitaphed thus—"Indigestible Fare."

There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal,
A scene of distraction or dullness severe,
With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer,
That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal,
Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career,
Returning, if ever, not many a year.

O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper,
Though faultless in figure and charming of face,
In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of lace
Usurping the part of a common street-sweeper,
You never can pose as a type of your race
In frowsy appearance mid things out of place.

O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter,
Until you have learned how to manage a broom,
If never you know how to tidy a room,
Manipulate bread or decide about butter,
The duties of matron how dare you assume,
Or ever be bride to a sensible groom?

I covet no part with that army of shirkers
All down at the heels in their slipper-y tread,
Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed,
Who look with disdain on intelligent workers
And take to the club or the circus instead
Of mending a stocking or laying the spread.

Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping,
Where mistress and helper together compete
In excellent management, quiet and neat;
And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping,
Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweet
And home an ideal, idyllic retreat.

Going to Tobog.

Into my disappointment-cup
The snowflakes fell and blocked the road,
And so I thought I'd finish up
The latest style of Christmas ode;
When she, the charming little lass
With eyes as bright as isinglass,
Before a line my pen had wrought
In strange attire came bounding in,
As if she had with Bruno fought,
And robbed him of his shaggy skin.

She came to me robed cap-à-pie
In her bewitching "blanket-suit,"
In moccasin and toggery,
All ready for "that icy chute,"
And asked me if I thought she'd do;
I shake with love of mischief true:
"For what?—a polar bear?—why, yes!"
"No, no!" she said, with half a pout.
"Why, one would think so, by your dress—
Say, does your mother know you're out?"

"No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed;
"Because the storm so wildly raged—
But for the first delightful ride
For half a year I've been engaged."
"Engaged to what?—an Esquimau?
To ride a glacier, or a floe?"
"Why, don't you know"—her color glowed,
In expectation all agog—
"The reason why I'm glad it snowed?
Because—I'm going to tobog."

"Passer Le Temps."

So that's the way you pass your time!
Indeed your charming, frank confession
Betrays no sort of heinous crime,
But marks a wonderful digression
From puritanic views, less bold,
That we were early taught to hold.

"Passer le temps," of course, implies
A little cycle of flirtations,
Wherein the actors never rise
To sober, serious relations,
But play just for amusement's sake
A harmless game of "give and take."

While moments pass on pinions fleet,
And youth in beauty effloresces,
The joy that finds itself complete
In honeyed words and soft caresses,
Alas! an index seems to be
Of perilous inconstancy.

It may be with disdainful smile
You greet this comment from a stranger,
Your pleasure-paths pursuing while
A siren voice discounts the danger,
Until, some day, in sadder rhyme
You rue your mode of "passing time."

The Torpedo.

Valiant sons of the sea,
All the vast deep, your home,
Holds no terror so dread
As this novel and unseen foe,
Lurking under the foam
Of some dangerous channel—
As the torpedo, the scourge of ships.

Through the rigging may roar
Æolus' thousand gales,
Yet the mariner's heart
Shrinketh not from the howling blast;
Though with battle-rent sails,
Flames and carnage around him,
Cowardice never shall pale his lips.

But when powers concealed,
Threatening with death the crew,
Pave each eddy below,
E'en the bravest are chilled with fear,
Lest yon wizard in blue,
Who their progress is spying,
Touch but the key with his finger-tips.

Lo! with thunderous boom
Towers a column bright,
And the vessel is gone!
In that ocean of blinding spray
Sink her turrets from sight,
By thy potency broken,
O irresistible scourge of ships!

—Harry Howard.

Margaret.

I saw her for a moment,
Her presence haunts me yet,
In oft-recurring visions
Of grace and gladness met
That marked the sweet demeanor
Of dainty Margaret.

Like gossamer her robe was
Around her lightly drawn,
A filmy summer-garment
That fairy maidens don
To make them look like angels
Croqueting on the lawn.

The mallet-sport became her
In hue of exercise
That tinged her cheek with roses;
And, dancing in her eyes,
Were pantomime suggestions
Of having won—a prize.

No more to me a stranger
Is she who occupies
A place in all my musings;
And brings in tender guise
A thought of one so like her—
Long years in Paradise.

Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name"
Is thine—and may it be
The synonym of goodness,
Of truth and purity,
And all ennobling graces
Exemplified in thee.

Christmas Bells.

Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!
Again we hail the Christmas time;
In melting, mellow atmosphere,
The crown and glory of the year.

When bitterness, distrust, and awe
Dissolve, like ice in winter's thaw,
Beneath the genial touches of
Amenity, good will, and love.

When flowers of affection grow,
Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,
In lives severe and beautiless,
Unused to warmth or tenderness.

Let goodness, grace, and gratitude
Revive in music's interlude,
And pæan notes, till time shall cease,
Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.

Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound
Sweet memories of Him abound
Who laid aside a diadem
To be the babe of Bethlehem.

By the Sea.

I am longing to dwell by the sea,
And dip in the surf every day,
And—height of subaqueous glee—
With the sharks and the porpoises play.

To novelty ever inclined—
Instead of a calm evening sail,
'Twould suit my adventurous mind
To ride on the back of a whale.

I want to disport on the rocks
Like a mythical mermaiden belle,
And comb out my watery locks,
Then dive to my cavernous cell.

I want to discover what lends
Such terror to all timid folks—
That serpent whose mystery tends
To make one believe it a hoax.

They say he's been captured at last;
The news is too good to be true—
He's slippery, cunning, and fast,
And likes notoriety too.

Once had I such longings to be
A sailor—those wishes are o'er,
But ever in dreams of the sea
My horoscope rests on the shore.

Oh, give me a home by the sea—
A cottage, a cabin, a tent!
Existence should ecstasy be
Till summer were joyfully spent.

A Song.

Oh, sing me a merry song!
My heart is sad tonight;
The day has been so drear and long,
The world has gone awry and wrong,
Discouragements around me throng,
And gloom surpassing night.

Oh, sing again the song for me
My mother used to sing
When I, a child beside her knee,
Looked up for her sweet sympathy,
Nor ever thought how I might be
Her little hindering thing.

Oh, sing, as eventide draws near,
The old-time lullabys
Grandmother sang—forever dear,
Though in her grave this many a year
She lies who "read her title clear
To mansions in the skies."

Oh, sing till all perplexing care
Has vanished with the day!
And angels ever bright and fair
Come down the melody to share,
And on their pinions lightly bear
My happy soul away.

"Is It April?"

No, this is January, dear,
The almanac's untrue;
For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear,
In sleet and snow and atmosphere,
Will be the monarch of the year,
And terror, too.

"Is it a blessing in disguise?"
Of course, things always are;
But Arctic blasts with ardent skies
Somehow do not quite harmonize,
That try to cheat by weather-lies
The calendar.

Old Janus must be double-faced;
He promised long ago
The maple syrup not to taste,
Nor steal the roses from the waist
Of one, a damsel fair and chaste
As April snow.

O winter of our discontent!
Your reign was for a day;
Behold! a scene of wonderment,
A thousand tongues are eloquent,
For spring, in bud and bloom and scent,
Is on the way.

Christmas-Tide.

Let working-clothes be laid aside,
And Industry in festal garb arrayed;
Let busy brain and hand from toil and trade
Relax at Christmas-tide.

As moments pass by dial, so
Let gifts go round the happy circle where
In giving and receiving each may share,
And mutual kindness show.