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POETRY, VERSE & OTHER TIDBITS

Found in the Hart Scrapbook

________

 

March 26, 1932

Dear Editor:

When I get to thinking about the old days in Clayton, sentimental poetry just simple boils over in me. Here are some verses just off the fire. If I hadn’t stopped when I did tears would have been running down my withered cheek into my whiskers and my grandchildren would have been inquiring if grandpop had gone dotty.

By the way -- thanks to Arthur Strough for his illuminating notes on old York Bob. If there is anything Arthur doesn’t know about Clayton history, I’d be surprised.

Best wishes for Old Home Week. Hope Clayton will respond and put it over in a big way.

Newt Sage.

 

The Old Home Town

I wish the trail would sometime turn
And lead me back once more
To a little town that nestles
On the old St. Lawrence shore,
For I hear the river calling
And I’d like to settle down
Where I know a welcome waits me
In the old home town.

There is something still that binds me
To the place I used to know,
When I call to mind the comrades
In the days so long ago;
And I’d give all life could offer
Both of riches and renown,
Just to live the years all over
In the old home town.


With Fat and Bob I’d dip again
In Steel’s Creek swimmin’ holes,
And there row out to fish for bass
Along the Blanket’s shoals.
When Lingenfelter’s woods had turned
From green to gold and brown,
For nutting raids we’d gather
In the old home town.


We’d picnic at Bald Rock again
Beneath the ancient pine,
And I would have beside me
An old sweetheart of mine,
With the selfsame grace and beauty
And checkered gingham gown,
As the girl I left behind me
In the old home town.


Though golden youth has vanished
Like the mists that flee away
From the bosom of St. Lawrence
At the breaking of the day,
Still the remedy most potent
To erase a troubled frown
Is to greet again the old friends
In the old home town.

       Newt Sage

* * * * * * * * * * * *


Dear Sisters:

I send you a little poem which I composed myself. I am now past fifty, and all that I say in these lines is true:

My Treasures

I hold in my hand this evening,
A box long guarded with care
And oft I bend above it,
With silent tear and prayer.
Not all the gold in the mountain
Nor yet, the pearls of the sea
Could buy tonight the treasures,
This wee box holds for me.

Only a bunch of letters,
Worn and yellow with age,
And tears quickly gather
As I scan each written page.
One from a loving schoolmate,
Written thirty years tonight;
Dear Grace, it needs no letter
To keep your memory bright.

And one from my dear old mother,
That mother so far away;
It says, “I hope my daughter
You’ll never forget to pray.”
And one from the dear old father,
The last he wrote to me;
It ends, “Good night my loved one
How I’d love your face to see.”

Here’s one, the last of my letters,
What need to read it again,
When every word that is written
Is stamped on heart and brain
Here a broken band ring
Lies in its paper white;
Ah, I loved and kissed the giver
Just thirty years tonight.

Ah, me! here’s a knot of ribbon
And a lock of golden hair,
Once it lay on the head of my baby,
My baby, sweet and fair.
But the mate to that knot of ribbon
Lies on my baby’s breast,
Far, far in God’s acre---
Ah me! but God knew best.


Slowly I lock up my treasures
As the sun is going down.
Leaving a lingering trace of light
On valley, hill and town.
Not all the gold in the mountains,
Nor yet, the pearls of the sea,
Could buy tonight the treasures,
This wee box holds for me.

MRS. S. STEINER, Hanna, Wyo.

Mrs. Steiner: Your poem is beautiful and few will read it without recalling some treasure with silent tear and prayer. Particularly impressive is the third verse with its paternal love and dignity of expression, and “My Treasures” is all that the name implies -- Ed.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

There’s a dear and treasured memory
To which I shall always cling,
And that’s the memory of the songs
That I heard my Mother sing.

“Way Down upon the Swanee River,”
Annie Laurie,” and “Old Black Joe,”
Seems to me I hear her singing
In a voice so sweet and low.

And, as twilight shadows gathered
In my little bed I’d creep.
She would come and sit beside me
And sing low ‘till I would sleep.

Sometimes shadows round would gather,
Troubles waves would o’er her roll
Then she sang in trembling accents,
Jesus Lover of my Soul.”

As I listen to the music
That the young folks sing today,
It does not bring the same thrill
As when mother sang that way.

And when life’s work is over
And I reach the Heavenly shore,
The best of all its music
Will be to hear her sing once more.

* * * * * * * * * * * *


Writes Poem to Mother.

Mrs. Bernard Leddy, of Felts Mills, has received the following poem from her son, Private Francis J. Leddy, Company B, 131st Infantry, American Expeditionary Forces:

Mother.

And here’s a line to mother,
The best of all the lot,
With a simple little message,
Just a sweet forget-me-not.
It’s sent to her from some one,
Sealed with a kiss of love,
To wish her joy and comfort,
And blessings from above.

May it find her well and happy
As the morn’ I went away,
May it make her burdens lighter,
As she works from day to day.
May it chase away the wrinkles,
From the apt-to-worry brow,
And keep the smile a smiling
Till we’ve finished up this row.

There’s a brighter day a coming,
For us and those back home,
There’s ships of joy and happiness,
To sail us o’er the foam.
And sights will be most wonderful
As loved ones greet each other.
But none will be so tenderly,
When Sonny meet his Mother.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?

(in pen: 1931)

There is a strange yearning running beneath the restlessness of our time.
We live in a driving age.
A recent visitor to America summed up his impression of our civilization in these words:
You are not driving the machine of civilization;
You are being driven.”
The pressure of modern life is so very great that many men carry on their
work with a sense of insecurity and uncertainty.
We live in a moving time.
Seldom are we still.
From morning to night we are on the go.
Almost never are we alone.
The ceaseless round of engagements and the constant appeal for diversion leaves us little time to ourselves.
We have forgotten how to be quiet.
We live in a noisy era.
Noise and sound are on every hand.
We find few places of absolute quiet, and when we arrive there it takes us some time to become accustomed to the change.
So it goes -- driving, moving, noisy world.
But there is a strange yearning running beneath all this restlessness.
“Man may forget the strongest impulse in his nature because some other thing has become more clamant. (sic)
You know, even a baby that is hungry for its mother’s breast may sometimes for a little time be kept from crying by the nurse who shakes a rattle at it.
"But not for long."

“Sometimes as I look out upon my generation, it looks very like a baby, and I think someone is shaking a rattle in front of it.
“I think it will want its mother before long.”
So said Dr. Orchard, of London.
And what he finds in London we find in American and New York city.
Sometimes I think that all of this driving, moving, noisy activity is an effort to get away from an insistent inner voice, an endeavor to get away from self,
to evade the responsibilities of conscience.
But it cannot go forever.
A day of reckoning comes.
A time of facing the facts of life moves in.
Then a demand is made for an answer to such questions as these:
“Why am I here?
"What am I doing with my life?
"Where am I going?
"What will be the end of this kind of life?”
Then sober thinking takes the place of flippant indifference.
The man realizes that he must have a satisfying answer to these questions if he is to know any peace.
Instinctively he knows that the answer is found in God.
Only God can satisfy these deep longings of the human heart.
And that is why Jesus came into the world -- to show men the way to God.
He knew what was in the heart of man.
He knew that some of man’s greatest desires are hidden within.
He knew that the deepest longing of man’s soul is a hunger and a thirst after God.
So he says:
If any man thirst let him come unto Me and drink,”
And what did he mean by that save his ability to lead us to the Source of all living water -- even God himself.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry Adams Hersey.

Our Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for the joy of living, which is ours when we draw near to Thee and find ours when we draw near to Thee and find ourselves in tune with all that is beautiful in life and in nature.

Help us to attain these heights of inspiration and vision often.

Help us to retain the radiance of the best, so that some after gleam, at least, may brighten the days when we are case down and discouraged.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

HIGH TIDE

George L. Perin.

To know what the wonderful gift of life really is, one wants to take it at high tide.
Every one of us has had rare moments when he felt the flood tide of life.
We have felt that there was a joy merely in living, and when this time comes we are quite independent of outward circumstances.
In spite of clouds,
In suite of poverty,
In spite of hard work,
In spite of all adversity, there is a strong tide of joy in the very consciousness of life.
How did we come to be living?
We do not know.
Where is life tending?
We wonder but cannot answer.
What is its current meaning?
We cannot unravel the mystery;
We are simply glad that we live.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

May 13, 1923

Queen of My Heart -- My Mother

Often in memory my boyhood comes back,
Filled with its dreams of to-morrow;
Brightest of flowers seem to border life’s track,
With no thought of parting or sorrow.
Guided by love that is next to divine,
Life can not give such another;
Still let me reverently bow at they shrine,
Queen of my heart -- my mother.

There at thy footstool I learned my first prayer,
Learned there its meaning and measure;
Love’s gentle precepts by thee taught me there,
Down through life’s years I shall treasure.
Patiently guiding the wandering feet,
Of mine or of sister or brother,
No type of love ever seemed half so sweet,
Queen of my heart -- my mother.

Years have passed by with their sorrow and song;
Gently thy dear form is bending;
Slowly thy footsteps, once buoyant and strong,
Toward death’s quiet river are wending.
Oh, may this message of love I now send,
Ere you cross from this life to the other,
Brighten the way for thy soul at the end,
Queen of my heart -- my mother.

If in life’s field I have sown one good seed
To cheer my own heart at the reaping,
Or in life’s highway have done one good deed
That cheered midst the sorrow and weeping,
Thanks be to thee for thy lessons of love.
Earth can not give such another,
Guiding through life to the heaven above,
Queen of my heart -- my mother.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Home.

Frank W. Gunsaulus.

Home stands as the great breakwater against the enemies of manhood and blesses in its growth that love of the universal country of right, and truth, and holiness which elder thinkers have named Heave,

So really hear are home and heaven logically, that they have associated themselves together in that deep, unconscious vocabulary of our unwritten philosophy of life.

The true home is so like the true heaven that the true heaven is called the home of the soul.

Home is more than chairs and tables and a stove, with beds and some beautiful ornaments, just as heaven is more than a throne and a great light and a river and many beautiful streets.

Home is the embodiment of the heart’s best throbbings, the manifestation of the soul’s sweetest affections, the realization of the spirit’s dearest desires.

It is the soul’s place of peace, rather than a place to sleep in.

It is the spirit’s calm and the mind’s best resting place, rather than a place where you get your breakfast.

Home is love, crystallized.

It is the soul’s best look earthward made into a building and filled with the waves of affection.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Phillips Brooks.

It is the great boon of such characters as Mr. Lincoln’s that they reunite what God has joined together and men has put asunder.

In Him was vindicated the greatness of real goodness, and the goodness of real goodness.

____________

Abraham Lincoln.


Do not worry;
Eat three square meals a day;
Say your prayers;
Be courteous to your creditors;
Keep your digestion good;
Exercise;
Go slow, and easy.
Maybe there are other things that your special case requires to make you happy, but, my friend, these I reckon will give you a good lift.

______________

Abraham Lincoln.

For thirty years I have been a temperance man, and I am too old to change.

* * * * * * * * * *

Lincoln’s Life in Verse.

The shortest biography ever written of Abraham Lincoln, born February 12, 1809, which was written by his friend, Judge Noah Davis of New York, who helped nominate him for the president in the early sixties, was kept by Sidney Smith of 120 Mill street, Boston, for a number of years in a scrapbook. It was first published a few years ago in the Boston Journal as follows:

Almost a hundred years ago, in a lonely hut,
Of the dark and bloody ground of wild Kentucky,
A child was born to poverty and toil,
Save in the sweet prophecy of mother’s love,
None dreamed of future fame for him!

‘Mid deep privation and in rugged toil,
He grew unschooled to vigorous youth;
His teaching was an ancient spelling book,
The Holy Writ, “The Pilgrim’s Progress.”
Old “Aesop’s Fables,” and the “Life of Washington.”

And out of these, stretched by the hearthstone flame,
For lack of other light, he garnered lore
That filled his soul with faith in God.
The prophet’s fire, the psalmist’s music deep,
The Pilgrim’s zeal throughout his steadfast march,
The love of fellow-man as taught by Christ.

THANKSGIVING DAY SERMON.

Preston Bradley

Never before in the history of the world did the individual unit as a member of society have such a tremendous responsibility rest upon his shoulders.

I don’t believe that there ever was a time in the history of the world when there was occasion--when there was so much pressure for the highest expression of the complete man as there is at the present moment of history.

There never was a time in history when there were more hearts breaking;

There never was a time in history when there was more suffering:

There never was a time in history when there were more tears flowing;

There never was a time in history when there were more broken homes;

There never was a time in history when there were more fireless firesides;

There never was a time in history when there were more friendless hearts;

There never was before in the history of this world such a pressure upon the heart of man to give to the world the best it has as we have today,

There never will be such a time as this.

I feel the responsibility of being, life, today as I never felt responsibility before.

- - - - - - - - -

Oh, at this time, when the world needs love so badly;
When the world needs the very best you have;
It needs the very finest expression of your hearts;
Will you give out of your heart?

I hope that because of this sermon someone who would not have had a real Thanksgiving will have one this coming week and then you will hear a still small voice, Oh, very still, very beautiful --- it will whisper to you:

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When They Were New.

{From Yenowine’s News.}

PINS made, 1450.
Needles used, 1545.
First cast Iron, 1544.
Matches made, 1829.
First newspaper, 1494.
Coal used as fuel, 1834.
First gold coin, B. C. 206.
Lead pencils used in 1594.
First steam railroad, 1830.
Window glass used in 694.
Kerosene introduced, 1826.
First postage stamps, 1840.
Electric light invented, 1874.
First insurance, marine, 533.
First American express, 1821.
First wheeled carriages, 1659.
First illuminating gas in 1792.
Musical notes introduced, 138.
Iron found in American in 1815.
Bible translated into Saxon, 637.
Gunpowder used by Chinese, 80.
Old teestament finished, B. C. 430.
Photographs first produced, 1802.
Paper made by Chinese, B. C. 230.
Bible translated into English.
Tobacco introduced into England, 1583.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The Last Words of Great Men.

{From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat.}

“It is well.” -- Washington.

“Independence forever.” -- Adams

“It is the last of earth.” -- J. Q. Adams.

“Taking a leap in the dark. Oh, mystery.” --Thomas Paine.

“Don’t let that awkward squad fire over my grave.” --Burns.

“I resign my soul to God; my daughter to my country.” --Jefferson

“Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.” --Stonewall Jackson.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

R. L. Sharpe.

Isn’t it strange that Princes and Kings
And clowns that caper in sawdust rings,
And common folks like you and me,
Are Builders for Eternity?

To each is given a bag of tools,
A shapeless mass and a book of rules;
And each must make, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block, or a stepping Stone.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Seventy-five tons of pennies are spent by New Yorkers each day for their newspapers.
They should eventually acquire some sense.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Here today and gone tomorrow---
Life is such a transient thing,
With its day of joy and sorrow,
Things that thrill and things that sting
Changes, changes, never ending,
Days of turmoil, days of rest---
Yet, the never-ending blending
Gives to life its charm and zest!

Life’s a road that’s twisting, winding,
Over which, with loads, we tread.
Every turn of it is blinding,
Hiding that which lies ahead.
Every day we rise, or stumble---
Up and up we aim to climb,
Strong and valiant, weak and humble,
Reaching up to heights sublime!

Pawns of Fate? Ah, no---we’re masters
Of our destiny, I know!
Let us onward, upward go!
May we prize each day, and give it
Something helpful, something fine---
Let us use our life, and live it
With the best that’s yours and mine!

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Fold reverently the weary hands,
That toiled so long and well,
And while your tears of sorrow fall
Let sweet thanksgivings swell.

That life work stretching o’er long years,
A varied web has been;
With silver strands by sorrow wrought
And sunny gleams between.

How bright she always made the home!
It seemed as if the floor
Was always flecked with spots of sun
And beamed with brightness o’er.

The very falling of her step
Made music as she went;
A loving song was on her lips--
The song of full content.

O’ gently fold the weary hands,
That toiled so long and well,
The spirit rose to angels’ bands
When off earth’s mantle fell.

She’s safe within her Father’s house,
Where many mansions be,
A pray that thus such rest may come,
Dear hearts, to thee and me.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

YOUTH AND AGE.

When all the world is young, my dear,
And all the world is gay,
Your praise will be on every tongue,
And swains will throng your way;
Each youth you meet will deem you sweet
And all your charms be sung,
And life will seem a summer day
When all the world is young.

When all the world is old, my dear,
And your brown locks are gray,
No more your praises will be told,
Nor lovers round you stay;
God grant that then one true of men
Shall you as helpmate hold,
And love make sweet your winter day,
When all the world is old.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

DEAR GRANDMOTHER.

______

Grandmother paces with stately tread
Forward and back through the quaint old room,
Out of the firelight, dancing and red,
Into the gathering dusk and gloom;
Forward and back, in her silken dress
With its falling ruffles of frost-like lace;
A look of the deepest tenderness
In the faded lines of her fine old face.

Warm on her breast in his red night-gown,
Like a scarlet lily, the baby lies,
While softly the tired lids droop down
Over the little sleepy eyes.
Grandmother sings to him sweet and low,
And memories come with the cradle song
Of the days when she sung it long ago,
When her life was young and her heart was strong.

Grandmother’s children have left her now;
The large old house is a shadowed place;
< But shining out in the sunset glow
Of her life, like a star, comes the baby’s face
He lies where of old his father lay;
Softly she sings him the same sweet strain,
Till the years intervening are swept away,
And the joy of life’s morning are hers again.

Grandmother’s gray head is bending low
Over the dear little downy one;
The steps of her pathway are few to go;
The baby’s journey is just begun,
Yet the rosy dawn on his childish love
Brightens the evening that else were dim;
And in after years from her home above,
The light of her blessing will rest on him.

                ------Christian Ohio

* * * * * * * * * * * *

A LITTLE WHILE

A little while--and the anchor of the great White Ship will raise
And it will begin a journey to the far-off, distant bays,
While the snowy canvas glistens in the gently swelling breeze,
And its graceful forms reflected in the calm and placid seas.
A little while--and the tossings of the fevered soul will end
Amid shouts of sweet hosannahs as the White Ship turns the bend
And enters the harbor of safety, where many thousands wait
To welcome the happy voyagers from Earth to Heaven’s gate.
A little while--and the voices, once on earth so dear to me,
Will whisper a loving welcome to the land that is to be,
And the disappointed achings of the heart will fade away
With the silent shadows stealing from the breaking of the day.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dear mother, no words can tell how we miss you, no one can take your place.
The Golden Gates were left ajar, and angels met dear mother there,
The dear one, how we loved her, how hard to give her up.
But your memory will be cherished; you were so dear to us.


If I could feel her warm caress, and by her side take my place;
It seems oftimes I can feel the touch of her dear hand,
And hear voices of those dear ones who years before,
Have crossed the intervening space and reached the other shore.

Oftimes I have in view the dear home we loved to journey to,
If we could walk up the path once more, where she met us at the door,
And think of sweet memories of happy years and joy brought back again,
In those good old days, dear mother, and home, sweet home with you.

In her wide open doorway with the maple boughs overhead,
With her house all garnished and waiting and her plentiful table spread,
She has stood to welcome our coming, watching our upward climb,
In those dear happy days that brought us many and many a time.

It seems as if I must have heard her speak, and in the twilight I can see you
With all the love of olden days, and the lessons that you taught me guide me
Safely on my way, our hopes we shared together, and our dreams have come true,
But the dearest dream is mother and the love of home with you.

Some day we hope to meet you in the Home beyond the sky,
And though we miss you, dear mother, we know you are resting safely
With the Saviour you love so dear.
The Saviour called her home with him, her place in heaven to fill,
We can not think of her idle, she must be a homemaker still.

We know the Master called her and she has crossed the bar,
And angels from the other side welcomed our dear mother there,
And yet somewhere in that beautiful land of the country that hath no pain
Mother will watch in her beautiful doorway to bid us welcome again.


Written in loving memory, of my

dear brother, her daughter (incomplete)

* * * * * * * * * *

BE A GOOD BOY; GOOD-BYE.

_____

BY JOHN L. SHROY.

How oft in my dreams I go back to the day
When I stood at our old wooden gate,
And started to school in full battle array,
Well armed with a primer and slate.
And as the latch fell I thought myself free,
And gloried, I fear on the sly,
Till I heard a kind voice that whispered to me:
“Be a good boy; good-bye.”

"Be a good boy; good-bye.” I seems
They have followed me all these years;
They have given a form to my youthful dreams
And scattered my foolish fears.
They have stayed my feet on many a brink,
Unseen by a blinded eye;
For just in time I would pause and think;
"Be a good boy; good-bye.”

O brother of mine, in the battle of life,
Just starting or nearing its close,
This motto aloft, in the midst of the strife,
Will conquer where it goes.
Mistakes you will make, for each of us errs;
But, brother, just honestly try
To accomplish your best. In whatever occurs,
Be a good boy; good-bye.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

BABIES.

A London paper has awarded a two-guinea prize for the best definition of a baby. The lady who won the prize sent in this answer:

A tiny feather from the wing of love dropped into the sacred lap of motherhood.

The following are some of the best definitions given:

The bachelor’s horror, the mother’s treasure, and the despotic tyrant of the most republican household.

The morning caller, noonday crawler, midnight brawler. (sic)

The only, precious possession that never excites envy.

The latest edition of humanity, of which every couple think they possess the finest copy.

A native of all countries who speaks the language of none.

About twenty-two inches of coo and wiggle, with the scream filled with suction and testing apparatus for milk, and automatic alarm to regulate supply.

A quaint little craft called Innocence, laden with simplicity and love.

A thing we are expected to kiss and look as if we enjoyed it.

A little stranger with a free pass to the heart’s best affections.

That which makes home happier, love stronger, patience greater, hands busier, nights longer, days shorter, purses lighter, clothes shabbier, the past forgotten, the future brighter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Best Things.”

The best theology -- a pure and beneficent life.
The best philosophy -- a contented mind.
The best law -- the golden rule.
The best education -- self-government.
The best art -- painting a smile upon the brow of childhood.
The best science -- extracting sunshine from a cloudy way.
The best war -- to war against one’s weakness.
The best music -- the laughter of an innocent child
The best journalism -- printing the true and the beautiful only on memory’s tablet.
The best telegraphing -- flashing a ray of sunshine into a gloomy heart.
The best biography -- the life which writes charity in the largest letters.
The best mathematics-- that which doubles the most joys and divides the most sorrows.
The best navigation -- steering clear of the lacerating rocks of personal contention.
The best diplomacy -- effecting a treaty of peace with one’s own conscience.
The best engineering -- building a bridge of faith over the river of death.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

How Washington Looked

Washington was in the prime of his magnificent physical manhood at the time of his marriage, when in his twenty-seventh year. Straight as an Indian, with limbs cast almost in a giant’s mold (he was six feet three inches tall at the time of his death), his self-contained countenance, agreeable speech and dignified bearing made his personality most impressive. Probably half his time at home was spent in the saddle, and this active out-of-door life gave him a glow of health and sense of vigor. We learn from his intimate friend, George Mercer, interesting details. His skin was clear and colorless, the nose straight, the face long, with high round cheek bones, the blue-grey and widely separated eyes shadowed by heavy brows, a large, mobile mouth, showing teeth somewhat defective, the muscular arms and legs unusually long, and a well-shaped head, gracefully poised on a superb neck.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Life is But a Game of Cards

“Life is but a game of cards, which each one has to learn.
Each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack, and each a trump doth turn;
Some turn a high card at the top, while others turn low,
Some hold a hand quite full of trump, while others none can show.

Some shuffle with a practised hand and pack their cards with care,
So they may know, when they are dealt, where all the leaders are;
Thus fools are made the dupes of rogues, while rogues each other cheat.
But he is very wise, indeed, who never meets defeat.

In playing, some will lead the ace, their counting card to save,
Some play the deuce and some the tray, and many play the knave.
Some play for money, some for fun, and more for worldly fame,
And not until the game’s played out can they count up their gain.

When hearts are trumps we play for love; then pleasures deck the hour.
No thought of sorrow checks one joy in Rosy’s beauteous bower;
We dance and sing, sweet music make, our cards at random play.
And while the heart remains on top our game’s a holiday.

When diamonds chance to crown the top, then players stake their gold,
And heavy sums are won and lost by gamblers young and old.
Intent on winning each doth watch his cards with eager eye,
So he may watch his neighbor’s hand, and cheat him on the sly.

When clubs are trumps, look out for war, on ocean or on land!
For bloody deeds are often done when clubs are in the hand.
Then lives are staked instead of gold, and loving hearts may bleed;
Across the broad Atlantic, now, see! clubs have got the lead.

And last of all is when the spade is turned by hand of time;
It always finishes the game, in every land and clime;
No matter how much men may win or how much men may save,
You’ll find the spade turns up at last, and digs the player’s grave.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

An exchange says one of the new fads is men’s socks for women. There is a rumor prevalent that some women wear the trousers, but no one imagined that the socks would be appropriated. If the women continue the invasion of the wardrobe of the men there will be very few articles of wearing apparel that man can call his own. His hat, short, vest, coat, collar, tie and socks are gone. He has remaining, his chewing tobacco and suspenders---not much of a lay out for a cold day.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Look Pleasant

“We cannot, of course, all be handsome,
And it’s hard for us all to be good;
We are sure now and then to be handsome,
And we don’t always do as we should.
To be patient is not always easy,
To be cheerful is much harder still,
But at least we can always be pleasant,
If we make up our minds that we will,
And it pays every time to be kindly,
Although we feel worried and blue;
If you smile at the world and look cheerful,
The world will soon smile back at you.
So try to brace up and look pleasant,
No matter how low you are down;
Good humor is always contagious,
But you banish your friends when you frown.

“

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Somewhat “Muxed.”

“I will tell you how it is,” said the member of Nemo Council. “I met a young widow with a grown-up step-daughter, and I married that widow.

“Then my father met our stepdaughter and married her. That made my wife the mother-in-law of her father-in-law and made my stepdaughter my stepmother, and my father became my stepson. See?

“Then my stepmother, the stepdaughter of my wife, had a a son. That boy was, of course, my brother, because he was my father’s son, but he was also the son of my wife’s stepdaughter, and therefore her grandson. That made me grandfather of my stepbrother. Then my wife had a son.

“My mother-in-law, the stepsister of my son, is also his grandmother, because he is her stepson’s child. My father is the brother-in-law of my child, because his stepsister is his wife. I am the brother of my own son, who is also the child of my grandmother. I am my mother’s brother-in-law, my wife is her own child’s aunt, my son is my father’s nephew, and I’m my own grandfather.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The Muddy Farmer.

Among the stories told by the Casket, one of the earliest of the American literary periodicals, is an original one of Thomas Jefferson, which is certainly in keeping with others related of that great statesman’s simplicity of habit.

When Jefferson was vice-president he was once travelling from Philadelphia to Washington, and when night came on he had reached Baltimore. He rode up to the chief tavern there, which was kept by a Scotchman named Boyden. As he had ridden nearly all day over a muddy road, he was travel-stained; although, for that matter, his ordinary dress did not much suggest the man of fashion. Boyden was at his desk when Jefferson came in. Several young fellows were in the room, laughing and chattering. One of them touched Boyden on the shoulder as Jefferson advanced, slapping his muddy boots with his riding-whip, and winked knowingly. Boyden glanced up and concluded that the stranger was some rough farmer whose presence would be no credit to his inn. Jefferson said: “Have you a room for me?”

“A room for you?”

“Yes, I wish to have a room to myself if I can get it.”

“A room to yourself?” Boyden gasped. “No, we have no room to spare; all full -- all full.”

The vice-president turned, went out, called for his horse and rode away. On the way he was recognized, and was escorted to another inn -- the Globe tavern.

A few minutes afterward a man came into “Boyden’s and said to him:

“Did you know that gentleman who just rode away from here?”

“Gentleman?” said Boyden. “There was no gentleman here---only a farmer, a common-looking country fellow. I told him we had no room for such chaps as he!”

The caller laughed.

“Well,” he said, “that common-looking country fellow was the vice-president of the United States---Thomas Jefferson, the greatest man alive!”

“Murder! what have I done!” shouted Boyden. He called all his servants to make ready a room in his best style, and one of his friends was dispatched to find Mr. Jefferson, make apologies to him, and invite him to return. The mistake which Boyden had made was humbly explained to him.

Mr. Jefferson said to the messenger: “Tell Mr. Boyden I appreciate his kind intentions, but I have engaged rooms now, and if he had no room for a muddy farmer, he can have none for the vice-president.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

MAY THEY REST IN PEACE.

Jessalie Lyndeon Jones in New York Herald.

‘Neath a pall of snowy lilies
In the sunny land of France
We have left our soldiers sleeping
Their last sleep, and oft perchance
Some lone mother, sadly thinking
Of her boy, may say a prayer
For our heroes who are sleeping,
Sweetly sleeping “over there.”

And the little children running
To and fro, from play will stop,
And upon those mossy hillocks
Showers of blossoms they will drop.
“Round about the wooden crosses
They will plant the fleur-de-lis
For our dear ones who are sleeping,
Sweetly sleeping cross the sea.

Mothers, sisters, brothers, sweethearts
Will throughout the coming years
Tend those graves with sweet devotion.
Water them with thankful tears,
And “God’s Acre,” scarred and barren,
Soon will bloom with beauty rare
For our boys (their boys they call them),
Sweetly sleeping “over there.”

There’s a sacred chain of friendship
Reaching now across the sea,
And the mighty links that form it
Will hold through eternity.
For we-welded them together
When we, sobbing, said a prayer,
Said a prayer and left our loved ones
Sweetly sleeping “over there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Technical Students in Engineers

Enlisted Reserve

Corps.

______

Six students at Clarkson Memorial college of Potsdam were enlisted in the engineers enlisted reserve corps of the United States army, this afternoon at the local army recruiting station by Major L. B. Lawton, in charge of the Syracuse recruiting district, with offices at Syracuse. The students returned to Potsdam this afternoon and will be subject to call.

Those enlisted are as follows: Ralph H. Hoyt, aged 24 years, Lafargeville; Ross C. Hudson, aged 23 years, Potsdam; Raymond C. Schwind, aged 24 years, Potsdam; James B. Carroll, aged 23 years, Massena; Ivan L. Cheney, aged 23 years, Potsdam.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

THE DREAMS AHEAD.

(From The Buffalo Times)

What would we do, in this world of ours,
Were it not for the dreams ahead?
For thorns are mixed with the fairest flowers,
No matter what path we tread.
And each of us has a golden goal
Stretching out to the endless years;
And ever we climb with a hopeful soul,
With alternate smiles and tears.

The dreams ahead are what hold us up
Through the strain of a ceaseless flight;
While our lips are pressed to the wormwood cup
And storms shut out the light.
To some ‘tis a dream of a high estate,
To others a dream of wealth,
To some ‘tis a dream of a truce with fate,
In a ceaseless search for health.

One dreams of a hearth and a home to be;
One sees but a golden store;
While the burdened toiler dreams of rest
Where toil shall be no more,
So, ever it is, in some sweet guise,
Hope hangeth her lantern high;
Oh, the dreams ahead are the golden stars
That help us live or die.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“The Little Brown Church In The Vale”

There’s a church in the valley by the wildwood.
No lovelier place in the dale,
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale.

CHORUS

Oh, come, come, come, come,
Come to the church by the wildwood,
Oh come to the church in the dale;
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale.

How sweet on a bright Sabbath morning,
To list to the clear ringing bell;
Its tones so sweetly are calling,
Oh, come to the church in the vale.

There, close by the church in the valley,
Lies one that I loved so well;
She sleeps, sweetly sleeps ‘neath the willow,
Disturb not her rest in the vale.

There, close by the side of that loved one,
‘Neath the tree where the wild flowers bloom,
When the farewell hymn shall be chanted,
I shall rest by her side in the tomb.

This is the story of a country church in Iowa that has become a shrine because someone wrote a song about it which is now sung all over the world.

Nearly 40,000 visited the church last year, and 290 couples were married in it. One couple came from California.

Next to their homes, early settlers coming to Chickasaw county, Iowa, wanted a church most. They organized a small group November 4, 1855, and worshipped first in a log house in the village of Bradford. Then came the struggle incident to church building and common to pioneers everywhere.

Members quarried rocks for the foundation and cut down trees of native timber from which the structure was built. Finishing lumber had to be hauled by wagon from McGregor, 80 miles away. Eastern friends were appealed to and helped in the enterprise. The bell came from Troy, N. Y., and was the first church bell in the county. Its coming was an event. While it was being brought overland from Dubuque it was tolled most of the way. The building was painted brown because brown paint was cheaper than other shades and so “The Little Brown Church” was named.

In the winter of 1863 and ‘64, Dr. W. S. Pitts, conducting a singing school in a nearby community, took his singers to “The Little Brown Church” one night and there sang for the first time the song that was to make the church famous. Dr. Pitts had written the song several years before, on his first visit to the little church which with its setting of rare beauty had inspired him. But the manuscript had been laid away unused. When the author realized the song would have a strong, popular appeal, he had it published.

In 1867 the railroad was built through Nashua two miles away, and that town absorbed the village of Bradford. Not even a postoffice remains, but the “Little Brown Church” is still there and services are held every Sunday nine months of the year. The pastor is the Rev. George T. Hanna, also pastor of the Congregational church of Nashua. But services are non-denominational and ministers and people of all faiths are invited. One Sunday last summer five ministers, representing as many denominations, were present, all taking part in the same service.

Every service closes with the singing of the famous, old song. When the second stanza is reached---”How sweet on a bright Sabbath morning, to list to the clear ringing bell---” the old bell is tolled.

The rural church serving its community as the center of both social and religious activities, is fast disappearing, more’s the pity. But “The Little Brown Church” continues to call its people to worship as it did 60 years ago. May it live long and prosper! -- Capper’s Weekly

* * * * * * * * * * * *

FACE THE LIGHT

There never yet has been a day
That did not have its cloud.
There never was a human heart
That was not sometimes bowed
In tears above its losses.
So runs the world away;
And life must have its crosses
As night must follow day.

In time of loss and trial
Bear up with sturdy will,
And say, “I know that somewhere
The sun is shining still.
The clouds that hide it from me
Will pass by, soon or late,
And in that faith abiding
God’s own good time I wait.”

Keep faith in God, my comrades,
His love is over all,
His sun shines always, somewhere;
And, let what may befall.
Be sure the day will brighten,
And in that faith be led.
Who turns his back on shadows
Will find there’s light ahead.

* * * * * * * * * *

So Futile

A quarrel is a thing, that’s so futile,

Especially one that is mean.
And while we are snarling
And bitterly quarreling,
We poison ourselves with our spleen
And most of the quarrels we indulge in,
Are mere Triviality’s child--
A thing that should shame us,
And yet they inflame us
To actions and words that are wild!

And what is the good we accomplish?
I haven’t discovered it yet.
There’s no one the gainer--
And when we are saner
How often our words we regret!
The days are too precious to spoil them
With bickering, quarreling and strife--
For when we are scrapping
And snarling and snapping--
We also are shortening our life!

(1930, Western Newspaper Union.)

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