Jean Blewett: Verses about Funny

Do you know what I will love best of all
To do when I'm old? At the close of day
When the dusk comes down and the shadows play,
And the wind sings loud in the poplars tall,
I will love to get into my corner here-
The curtains drawn, and never a one
To break the stillness-to sit here alone
And dream of these good old times, my dear.

In fancy you'll come and sit by my side-
I can see your face with my eyes close shut,
With the pride and the softness clearly cut,
The obstinate chin and the forehead wide,
The oval cheek and the smile so warm,
The dark eyes full of their fun and power,
With the tender light for the tender hour,
And the flash of fire that was half their charm.

I'll whisper: 'Twas sweet when youth was our own-
The laughter, the nonsense, the freedom from care,
The castles we built high up in the air,
The secrets told to each other alone!
Not all of laughter; the world went wrong,
And the shadows pressed till my heart was sore.
I'll never be glad, I said, any more,
Never be happy, or gay, or strong.

O the sweetest thing in the hour of pain
Is to have one near us who understands,
To touch us gently and hold our hands,
Till our strength and courage come back again.
At love's swift pace you hurried to me-
Your tender words they will ring in my ears
When I sit and dream after long, long years-
The shine in your eyes through the mists I'll see.

Our lives will be lying so far apart,
And time, no doubt, will have given us much
Of weary wisdom; put many a touch
Of his withering hand on face and heart.
But I know what I will love best of all
To do at the end of the busy day,
When the dusk comes down and the shadows play,
And the wind sings low in the poplars tall.

I will love to get into my corner here,
With the curtains drawn, and never a one
To break the stillness-to sit here alone
And dream of these happy days, my dear,
And take my treasures from memory's hold-
The tears, the laughter, the songs that were sung-
O the friends we love when the heart is young
Are the friends we love when the heart grows old!

In powdered wig and buckled shoe,
Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay,
The wealthy squire rode forth to woo
Upon a first of April day.

He would forget his lofty birth,
His spreading acres, and his pride,
And Betty, fairest maid on earth,
Should be his own-his grateful bride.

The maid was young, and he was old;
The maid was good to look upon.
Naught cared she for his land or gold,
Her love was for the good squire's son.

He found her as the noonday hush
Lay on the world, and called her name.
She looked up, conscious, and her blush
A tender interest did proclaim.

For he was Hubert's sire, and she
To keep a secret tryst did go.
He said: 'Methinks she cares for me'-
That April fool of long ago.

The flattered squire his suit did press
Without delay. 'Say, wilt thou come,'
He said, with pompous tenderness,
'And share my wealth and grace my home?'

'Kind sir,' the lovely Betty cried,
'I'm but a lass of low degree.'
'The love that is controlled by pride
Is not true love at all,' quoth he.

'I hold a man should woo and wed
Where'er he wills-should please himself.'
'There is the barrier strong,' she said,
'Of pedigree, and place, and pelf.

'Could one so lowly hope to grace
Your home?' Right proud his air and tone:
'You're pure of heart and fair of face;
Dear Betty, you would grace a throne!'

'Since you so highly think of me'-
Her tears and laughter were at strife-
'You will not mind so much, maybe,
That I am Hubert's promised wife.'

Pale went the good squire's florid cheek,
His wrath flamed out-but Betty stood,
Brown-haired, red-lipped, blue-eyed and meek,
A sight to make a bad man good.

She won on him. 'But why this guile-
This secrecy?' His voice was rough.
'We feared,' she whispered, with a smile,
'You would not think me good enough.'

'An April fool am I. Come, come-
My offer stands. As Hubert's wife,'
He laughed, 'you'll share my wealth and home
And brighten up a lonely life.'

He kissed her cheek and rode away.
Unbroken was his heart, I wist,
For he was thinking of a day-
A day back in youth's rosy mist-

And of a form and of a face.
'My dear, dead love,' he whispered low,
The while he rode at sober pace,
That April fool of long ago.

You cannot take from out my heart the growing,
The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill.
'O Earth,' you cry, 'you should be old, not glowing
With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!'

Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!
Old, and my children drawing life from me!
Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!
Old, steeped in richness and fertility!

Old, while the growing things call to each other,
In language I alone can understand:
'How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother
Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!'

Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them
In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!
Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them
Healing and soothing and a hiding place.

And then, my human children, could you listen
To secrets whispered in the stillness deep
Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten-
'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.

Some tell me moving tales of love and passion,
Of gladness all too great to be pent in-
The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion-
Another cries out brokenly of sin.

While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it,
Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast,
Sobbing: 'Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it,
Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!'

The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow
I hear to-day-I heard it yesterday-
Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow
That ye may bring to me, O Century.

I answer mourner, penitent, and lover,
With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap:
'Peace, peace,' I say, 'when life's brief day is over
Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap.'

The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing,
The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears,
And yet you think I should be old, uncaring,
The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!

Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness
With all their marches, as you well can see,
Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.
March on-what are your hundred years to me

While life and growth within me glow and flourish,
While in the sunshine and the falling rain
I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish
The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?

March on, O Century, I am safe holden
In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth-
The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden
Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!

O! He was the boy of the house, you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad;
He never was sick, he never was tired,
And nothing could make him sad.

If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end,
But his bed-time came too soon.

Did someone urge that he make less noise,
He would say, with a saucy grin:
'Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir-
O sakes! I wish I was a twin.

'There's two of twins, and it must be fun
To go double at everything;
To holler by twos, and whistle by twos,
To stamp by twos, and to sing!'

His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy;
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.

You met him out on the garden path,
The terrier at his heels,
And knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.

The maiden auntie was half distraught
With his tricks as the days went by;
'The most mischievous child in all the world!'
She said with a shrug and a sigh.

His father owned that her words were true,
His mother declared each day
He was putting wrinkles into her face,
And turning her brown hair gray.

His grown-up sister referred to him
As 'a trouble,' 'a trial,' 'a grief';
The way he ignored all rules, she said,
Was something beyond belief!

It never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in racket and din,
Had only one regret in the world-
He hadn't been born a twin!

* * * * *

There's nobody making a noise to-day,
There's nobody stamping the floor,
'Tis strangely silent upstairs and down-
White ribbons upon the door.

The terrier's whining out in the sun:
'Where's my comrade?' he seems to say.
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There's no frolic for you to-day.

The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
Is sobbing her young heart out.
Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
The laugh and the merry shout.

The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him 'angel' and 'sweet,'
And the maiden aunt is nursing the boots
He wore on his restless feet.

So big, so solemn the old house seems-
No uproar, no racket, no din,
No shrill peal of laughter, no voice shrieking out,
'O sakes! I wish I was a twin!'

A man and a woman white with grief
Watch the wearisome moments creep-
Oh! the loneliness touches everything,
The boy of the house is asleep!

A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes,
A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise;
I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek.
'I had to come,' she whispered low, 'I was so tired and weak.
My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight!
I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate,
And add up figures-such a lot, and play with all my might,
Until I hurt my back-since then I just ache day and night.
'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all;
All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl.'
Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweet
Of little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet.
She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wall
To hide the tears. 'Oh, me!' she cried, 'I'm tired of it all.
I feel so hurt and useless, why can't I run about
As others do?' 'Some day, please God, you will,' I said, but doubt
Was in the eyes she turned on mine, and doubt was in her tone.
'Perhaps,' she faltered, then the pain grew harsh; the plaintive moan
Smote sharply on my heart. I knew she had but lately come
From mother's care and father's love, and all the joys of home.
'I wished I'd lived on earth,' she sobbed, 'a long, long time ago,
When Jesus came at eventide, because He loved folks so,
And just by stretching out His hand made all the sick folks well.
If it were now, oh, wouldn't I creep close to Him, and tell
All that I wanted Him to do. I'd kneel down low and say:
'It is my back, dear Jesus, please cure it right away.
I'm tired of being weak and sick, I want to jump and run,
And play at games, and laugh out loud, and have such heaps of fun!
Be good to your poor crippled girl,' and He would touch me-so-
And every atom of the pain and crookedness would go.'
I held her close, and kissed her, and soothed her off to rest,
So frail she was, so homesick for the ones she loved the best!

But yesterday I saw her, and would have passed her by
Had I not caught the greeting smile, the glance so bright and shy.
'Can this be you?' I questioned. She laughed, 'O yes, I thought
You'd hardly know me when you came, I've changed, oh, such a lot!
For see how tall and straight I am! My back don't hurt at all,
And I can stand and I can walk-I never have to crawl.
I'll tell you, it's a secret, I raced with nurse last night.
Just think of it! I raced and won,' and then, in sheer delight,
She laughed so loudly and so long the nurse looked in to say,
'Is not this little girl of ours quite boisterous to-day?'
'They are so good to me,' she said, 'I know I'll want to cry
When I start off for home next week, and have to say good-bye.
What if I hadn't come at all?'-the sweet blue eyes grew wet-
'My back would ache and throb and hurt-I'd be a cripple yet.
For folks as poor as my folks are, they haven't much to spare
For nurse's bills, and doctor's bills, and all-but won't they stare
When I go home, red-cheeked and straight, and fat as I can be?
My daddy, he will never take his dear eyes off of me;
My mamma, she will cry some tears, and bend her head and pray,
While all the others kiss and hug; then I can hear her say:
'Give me my girlie, she's been gone so many long months-five,'
And hold me close-oh, I will be the gladdest thing alive!'

When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun.
No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it fun
To have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way,
Allude to his temper as beastly, and remark that day by day
He proves himself so careless, so lacking in love, so mean,
Then add, with an air convincing, she wishes she'd never seen
A person who thinks so little of breaking a woman's heart,
And since he is-well, what he is-'tis better that they should part.

Now, no man enjoys this performance-he has his faults, well and good,
He doesn't want to hear them named-this ought to be understood.

Mary was aggravating, and all because I'd forgot
To bring some flowers I'd promised-as though it mattered a lot;
But that's the way with a woman, your big sins she may forgive,
But little things, not worth mention, you hear of as long as you live.

A few sweet peas and carnations to start a tempest, forsooth!
For Mary got in a temper-I did the same, of a truth.
I said things that weren't gentle; she pretended not to mind-
But answered back in a manner that left me away behind.

It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days,
Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways.
And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white,
Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight,
Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above,
Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love.

I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun.
Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done.
The voice of my brother waked me, crying, 'Quickly arise and come;
Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!'

'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek,
The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speak
Some of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest,
Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, 'Jim, who do you love the best?'

But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own,
And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone.
And it came to me I could never-never, since Mary was dead-
Say, 'Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said.'
Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and
the brightness take their place,
Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face.

Not a fault could I remember-she'd been perfect all her days,
With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways.
Dead-dead in her fresh young beauty-oh, I had an anguished heart
At thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part!

When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way,
'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a day
When one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake,
The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break.
It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said-
The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead.
We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know,
But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below.
'Mary,' I whispered, 'my Mary, no flowers to you I gave,
But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave.'

A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head,
And I awoke, awoke, awoke-I'd dreamed that Mary was dead!
I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud.
There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud,
But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears-
Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years.
I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forget
That dream in the blossoming orchard-I hear of it often yet.
If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: 'Oh, you're going to save
Your roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?'

And if I lose my temper-a common weakness of men-
The sweetest voice in the world says: 'You'll have to get dreaming again.'

'Twas a score of years since I'd heard the pipes,
But the other night I heard them;
There are sweet old memories in my heart,
And the music woke and stirred them.

In the armories, at the big parade
The highland regiment was giving,
A half-dozen pipers piping away-
Ah! 'twas music, as sure as your living.

Donald's lowland, he shook his head at me,
And glowered with every feature,
And a pretty young lassie just behind
Said: 'Oh, what a funny old creature! '

But the skirl o' the pipes got in my ears,
In my eyes, and made them misty;
I laughed and I cried, and Donald said low:
'Dinna act so daft, noo, Christy! '

'Do ye no see the elder sitting there?
Dinna act sae daft, my wooman.
Can ye no hear the airs o' auld lang syne
Wi'oot fashin' yersel' sae, wooman? '

But the skirl o' the pipes got in my heart,
It got in my throat and choked me,
It got in my feet, and tapped my toes,
And my shame-faced Donald poked me.

'But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand? '
'Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands,
But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid'-
He was not born in the highlands.

Do you know what I saw as I sat there?
I saw the hills and the heather,
The green, and the lads and the lassies there
All dancing the reels together.

I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocks
Standing guard like grim old watchmen.
Oh, the land o' heather and hill and loch
Must e'en be dear to a Scotchman.

And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and brave
Their flag to the breeze unfurling,
As they marched away on a morning fair
To the bagpipes' merry skirling.

My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek,
I could hear him proudly saying:
'Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,
For you'll hear our pipers playing.'

Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose-
Braver men, you cannot find them-
And few, so few, came marching home
To the loved ones left behind them.

'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm,
With a stubborn foe before them;
A soldier's grave in a far off land,
And God's blue sky bending o'er them.

As I hearkened to sweet old martial airs
I could hear my brother saying:
'Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,
For you'll hear our pipers playing.'

There are only harps in heaven, I'm told,
And maybe I shouldn't say it,
For a harp of gold's a wondrous thing
In a hand that's skilled to play it.

But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's call
They heard morning, noon, and even,
And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart,
They will hear in the streets of heaven.

They marched to the old belovèd airs
'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle;
'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears
'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.

O a harp when an angel strikes the strings
Is softer and sweeter, but try
As I will, I cannot fancy a harp
In the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.

And were an angel to proffer him one,
Methinks I can hear him saying:
''Twas not on an instrument like the same
That Pete MacKay will be playing,

'For she neffer set eyes on it before,
Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer;
She'd break the strings if she took it in hand,
She couldn't do it, whateffer.

'So please be excusing old Pete MacKay-
But hark! bring the chanter to me,
I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,'
And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.''

I told this to Donald late that night;
He said, as he sipped his toddy,
'Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night?
Yersel' is the doited body.

'And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven?
Ah, Christy, I'm that astoonded
I'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye,
For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded.'

Well, if it is heresy to believe
In the promise of the Father,
'Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,'
I am heretical, rather.

I believe when the last loud trump shall sound,
The old flag again unfurling,
My highland lads will come marching home
To the bagpipes grandly skirling.

Jack's dead an' buried; it seems odd,
A deep hole covered up with sod
Lyin' out there on the hill,
An' Jack, as never could keep still,
A sleepin' in it. Jack could race,
And do it at a good old pace,
Could sing a song, an' laugh so hard
That I could hear him in our yard
When he was half a mile away.
Why, not another boy could play
Like him, or run, or jump so high,
Or swim, no matter how he'd try;
An' I can't get it through my head
At all, at all, that Jack is dead.

Jack's mother didn't use to be
So awful good to him and me,
For often when I'd go down there
On Saturdays, when it was fair,
To get him out to fish or skate,
She'd catch me hangin' round the gate
And look as cross as some old hen,
An' tell me, 'Go off home again.
It's not the thing for boys,' she'd say,
'A hangin' round the creek all day;
You go off home and do your task-
No, Jack can't go, you needn't ask.'
And when he got in scrapes, why, she
Would up and lay it on to me,
An' wish I lived so far away
Jack couldn't see me every day.

But last night when I'd done the chores
It seemed so queer-like out of doors,
I kept a listenin' all the while,
An' looking down the street a mile;
I couldn't bear to go inside,
The house is lonesome since he died.
The robber book we read by turns
Is lyin' there-an' no boy learns
All by himself, 'cause he can't tell
How many words he'll miss or spell,
Unless there's some one lookin' on
To laugh at him when he gets done.

An' neighbor women's sure to come
A visitin' a feller's home,
An' talkin', when they look at me,
'Bout how thick us two used to be,
A stealin' off from school, an' such,
An' askin' do I miss him much,
'Till I sneak off out doors-you see,
They just can't let a feller be!
Well, I walked down the road a bit.
Smith's dog came out. I throwed at it,
An', do you know, it never howled
Same as it always did, or growled;
It seemed to say, 'Why, Jim's alone!
I wonder where's that other one?'

Afore I knew it I was down
'Way at the other end of town,
A hangin' round in the old way
For someone to come out and play.
There wasn't no one there to look,
So I slipped into our old nook.
I found his knife down in the grass
Where we'd been Zulus at the pass.
The can of bait, the hook and line
Were lyin' with the ball of twine,
An' 'Jim,' I seemed to hear him say,
'The fish will suffer some to-day.'

'Twas more than I could stand just then;
I got up to go off home, when
Someone kissed me on the cheek,
An' hugged me so I couldn't speak.
You wouldn't believe it, like as not,
But 'twas Jack's mother, an' a lot
Of great big tears came stealin' down
Right on my face. She didn't frown
A single bit-kept sayin' low,
'My blue-eyed boy, I loved you so!'
Of course, I knew just right away
That she meant Jack. My eyes are gray,
But Jack, he had the bluest eyes,
Blue like you see up in the skies,
An' shine that used to come and go-
One misses eyes like his, you know.

An' by-an'-by she up an' tried
To tell me that she'd cried an' cried
A thinkin' of the times that she
Had scolded Jack an' scolded me,
An' other things that I won't tell
To anyone, because-Oh, well,
Boys can't do much, but they can hold
Tight on to secrets till they're old.
She's Jack's relation, that's why she
Feels kind of lovin' like to me.
But when she called me her own lad,
Oh, say, I felt just awful bad;
My head it went round in a whirl-
I up an' cried just like a girl.

But say, if Jack could see us two
He'd laugh a little, don't you know;
For if I'd ever brag around
That I'd lick some one safe an' sound,
He'd laugh an' say, 'Jim, hold your jaw!
You know you're scared to death of maw.'
Oh, I'd give all this world away
If I could hear him laugh to-day!
I get so lonesome, it's so still,
An' him out sleepin' on that hill;
There's nothin' seems just worth the while
A doin' up in the old style;
'Cause everything we used to do
Seemed allus just to need us two.
My throat aches till I think 'twill crack-
I don't know why-it must be Jack.
There ain't no fun, there ain't no stir.
His mother-well, it's hard on her,
But she can knit an' sew, an' such-
Oh, she can't miss him half as much!

Joe lives on the farm, and Sam lives in the city,
I haven't a daughter at all-more's the pity,
For girls, to my mind, are much nicer and neater;
Not such workers as boys, but cuter and sweeter.
Sam has prospered in town, has riches a-plenty,
Big house, fine library-books written by Henty,
And Kipling, and Cooper, and all those big writers-
Swell pictures and busts of great heroes and fighters.
His home is a fine one from cellar to garret,
But not to my notion-in fact, I can't bear it.
I'm not hard to please, but of all things provoking
Is a woman around who sniffs when you're smoking.

Last springtime Sam said: 'Now, Father, how is it
I can't coax you oftener up on a visit?'
I couldn't think up any plausible reason,
So off I went with him to stop for a season.
Sam said with a laugh as we stepped from the ferry,
'You won't mind my wife; she's particular, very.'
It wasn't like home, that house in the city,
Our Sam took his fun at the club-more's the pity.

It is in his own house, when he has the leisure,
A man should find comfort and freedom and pleasure.
It wasn't so bad for me in the daytime,
Sam took me all over and made it a playtime;
But evenings were awful-we sat there so proper,
While Sam's wife, if nobody came in to stop her,
Read history to us, or, column by column,
A housekeeping journal, or other dry volume.
I used to wish someone would give me a prodding,
My eyes would go shut and head fall a-nodding.
She's an awful good housewife, nothing gets musty,
Or littered about, or untidy, or dusty;
But a little disorder never did fret me,
And these perfect women they always upset me.
I can stand her dusting, her shining, her poking,
But wilt like a leaf when she sniffs when I'm smoking.

I got so blamed homesick I couldn't be jolly;
I wanted our Joe, and his little wife, Molly,
My old corner at home, and all the old places;
I wanted the youngsters-who cared if their faces
Were smeared up a trifle? I didn't, a penny.
Molly tends to 'em, though she has so many.
I was tickled to death when I got a letter
From Joe, which ran: 'Dear Dad, I think you had better
Get back to the farm in pretty short order.
Molly's papered your room and put on a border;
The baby, she says, has two new teeth to show you-
If you don't hustle back the dear thing won't know you.
She says to inform you that Bob, Sue, and Mary
Are good as can be, but your namesake's contrary,
Wants granddaddy's story, and granddaddy's ditty-
And granddaddy off on a trot to the city.'
I packed my belongings. They tried to dissuade me-
Sam's wife said so proper: 'I'm really afraid we
Have not succeeded in our entertaining.'
'Oh, yes!' said I-some things won't stand much explaining.
She really meant well, but of all things provoking
Is a woman so perfect she sniffs when you're smoking.

I was glad to get home; it made me quite silly
To hear the loud whinny of Starling and Billy;
And here was the farm with its orchards and meadows,
The big maple trees all throwing their shadows,
The stubble-fields yellow, the tall stacks of clover,
The wag of the stub of a tail on old Rover.
And here came dear Mary, her hat on her shoulder,
With Sue trying hard to catch her and hold her;
Here came Tommy and Joe, always foot in their classes,
And Bob, with his features all crumbs and molasses,
Carrying a basin with fishworms and dirt in-
Oh, that scalawag, Bob, I'm morally certain
Is a chip of the old block-it just seemed to strike me
They'd named the boy rightly, for he was so like me-
All laughing and calling: 'Here's grandpa to play with!'
And Bob supplementing: 'And sleep 'ith and stay 'ith!'
And then such a hugging, with Molly behind me,
The tears came so fast that they threatened to blind me.
My heart overflowed with sorrow and pity
For the boy I had left back there in the city.
His lot is a hard one-indeed, I'm not joking-
He lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking.

The supper we had, sir, and when it was over
The walk round the homestead close followed by Rover,
Who's most like a human. You'd fancy him saying:
'See those stacks? Oh, yes, we have finished the haying!
That colt should be broken. Old friend, I'd just mention
This farm stands in need of our closest attention.'
And when, the lamp lighted, with Mary's beside me,
The boys at my feet, and Bob up astride me,
I felt like a king-I really can't write it-
Molly must take my pipe and fill it and light it,
Then plump herself down in her own little rocker
For a visit with me. Oh, she is a talker
Worth the listening to. The threshing was over,
Joe had got ten dollars a ton for the clover,
Deacon Hope had had a sharp tiff with the preacher
Over immersion, and the pretty school-teacher
Intended to marry-resigned her position.
Yes, most of the church folks had signed the petition
Against granting a license to Baker's saloon,
The Thanksgiving service would be coming on soon,
The neighbors were hearty, had every one missed me-
Right here Molly stood on her tip-toes and kissed me.
Sho! Sam's wife is handsome and cultured and clever,
But she's not the woman that Molly is-never.
Molly's smile is so kind, and her hair is so glossy,
Her brown eyes look at you so sweet and so saucy!
Yes, Joe's richer than Sam, though Joe's but a farmer,
For his home atmosphere is brighter and warmer.
Sam has lots of money, there's no use denying;
Has made himself wealthy, and that without trying;
But what chance has a man-indeed, I'm not joking-
Who lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking!

He was not especially handsome, he was not especially smart,
A great big lumbering fellow with a soft and tender heart.
His eyes were gray and honest, his smile a friendly one,
He wore his parson's suit of black on days of state alone;
At other times he went around in clothes the worse of wear,
A blue cloth cap set jauntily upon his thick gray hair.
He cared so little how he looked, so little how he drest,
That he tired the patience sorely of the ones he loved the best.
For a preacher, so they argued, should be dressed like one, of course,
But in the winter it was tweeds, in summer it was worse;
Ducks and flannels would be grimy, if the sad truth must be told,
For he spaded up the gardens of the people who were old,
And he ran down dusty highways at unministerial rate,
Going errands for the people who really could not wait.
His coat-sleeves would be short an inch, his trousers just the same,
For the washerwoman had them every week that ever came.
He cared so little how he looked, and never paused to think
That linen, duck, and flannel were such awful things to shrink.

His wife, she was the primmest thing, as neat as any doll,
And looked like one when walking by her husband big and tall.
It almost broke her heart that he refused to give a thought
To how he looked, or do the thing, or say the thing he ought.
Sometimes, though well she loved him, quite high her temper ran,
For 'tis hard on any woman to have such a careless man.

Think! when the conference president came visiting the place,
The preacher down at Coles he had a badly battered face-
One eye was black as black could be; he looked, so we've been told,
More like a fierce prize-fighter than a shepherd of the fold.
'How did it happen?' questioned him the visitor so wise,
With hint of laughter on his lips, and in his twinkling eyes.
'Old Betty Brown,' the preacher said-his wife broke in just here,
'A cross-grained spinster of the place who hates him, that is clear;
And never did a woman have a meaner tongue than hers-
The slighting things she says of him, the mischief that she stirs!'
'Fields have we,' said the president, 'in country and in town;
Believe me, Madam, most of them can boast a Betty Brown.'

The preacher stroked his blackened eye, and laughed good-naturedly.
'She doesn't like me very well, but what of that?' said he.
'The other night I found the poor old creature sick in bed,
She 'didn't want no prayin' done,' she very quickly said,
So, seeing that she was so ill and worn she could not stir,
I thought with care and patience I could milk the cow for her.
I stroked old Spot caressingly, and placed my little can,
But Spot she knew, and I came home a sadder, wiser man.'

The preacher down at Coles he was no orator at all,
But sick, and sad, and sinful were glad to have him call.
Not that he ever found a host of happy things to say;
In fact, as far as talking went, he might have stayed away.
But oh, the welcome that he got! I think his big right hand
Gave such a grip that all the rest they seemed to understand.

Some of the congregation would have liked a different man,
He couldn't hope to please them all-few ministers that can.
Once, at the district meeting, the good old farmer Bowles
Stood up and spoke his mind about the preacher down at Coles.

'There's not,' he said, 'you know it, too, a better man than he;
An' you fault-findin', carpin' folk-I say this reverently-
If the Lord 'd take an angel and gently turn him loose
To preach down here, do you suppose he'd please the hull caboose?
Not much! It's human nature to quarrel with what we've got,
An' this man is a better man than we deserve, a lot.'

But he did preach curious sermons, just as dry as they could be,
And the old folks slumbered through them every Sabbath, peacefully;
But they all woke up the moment the singing would begin,
And not an ear was found too dull to drink the music in.
For though the preacher could not boast an orator's smooth tongue,
He could reach the people's heart-strings when he stood up there and sung.

O the wondrous power and sweetness of the voice that filled the place!
Everyone that heard it swelling grew the purer for a space.
And men could not choose but listen to the singer standing there,
Till their worldliness slipped from them, and their selfishness and care.
Mourners turned their eyes all misty from the crosses tall and white
Where their loved ones slumbered softly all the day and all the night;
Listening, faith rose triumphant over sorrow, loss, and pain,
Heaven was not a far-off country, they would meet their own again.
And the white-haired men and women wished the singing need not cease,
For they seemed to see the beauty of the longed for Land of Peace.
Upward soared that voice, and upward, with a sweetness naught could stem,
Till each dim eye caught the glory of the new Jerusalem.

He was such a curious fellow, the preacher down at Coles!
One winter day the word was brought to town by Farmer Bowles
That in a little shanty, in the hollow by the mill,
Were children gaunt with hunger, a mother sad and ill,
The father just a drunkard, a vagabond who left
His family for long, long weeks of love and care bereft.
The squire talked of taking a big subscription up,
And talked, and talked, while in that house was neither bite nor sup.
O, these talking folks! these talking folks! the poor would starve and freeze
If the succoring and caring were done by such as these.

The preacher down at Coles he had not very much to say;
He harnessed up the old roan horse and hitched it to the sleigh,
And piled in so much provisions that his wife said, tearfully,
She didn't have a cake or pie left in the house for tea.
He filled the sleigh with baskets, and with bundles-such a pile!
Heaps of wood, and clothes, and victuals-everybody had to smile
As they watched the old roan canter down the crossroad, o'er the hill,
To the little cheerless shanty in the hollow by the mill.
The preacher built a fire and bade the children warm their toes
While he heard the worn-out mother's tale of miseries and woes.
He brought in a bag of flour, and a turkey big and fat-
His dainty wife had meant to dine the Ladies' Aid on that.
He brought in ham and butter, and potatoes in a sack,
A pie or two, a loaf of cake, and doughnuts, such a stack!
Ah! his wife and her good handmaid had been baking many a day,
For the Ladies' Aid would dine there-he had lugged it all away.
He brought in a pair of blankets, and a heavy woollen quilt;
Betty Brown, who happened in there, said she thought that she would wilt,
For these things the active members of the Missionary Band
Had gathered for the heathen in a far-off foreign land.
'These belong unto the Lord, sir,' Betty said, 'I think you'll find.'
But he answered her quite gently, 'Very well, He will not mind.'
'To see him making tea for the woman in the bed
Made me wish I had been kinder to the preacher,' Betty said.
Though he was so big and clumsy he could step around so light,
And to see him getting dinner to the children's huge delight!
It was not till he had warmed them, and had fed them there, that day,
That he whispered very softly: 'Little children, let us pray.'
Then he gave them to the keeping of a Father kind and wise
In a way that brought the tear-drops into hard old Betty's eyes.
She felt an aching in her throat, and when she cried, 'Amen!'
Other folks might flout the preacher, Betty never would again.

He took up the fresh air movement, but the people down at Coles
Shook their head-a preacher's work, they said, was saving precious souls,
Not worrying lest the waifs and strays that throng the city street
Should pine for want of country air, and country food to eat.
Lawyer Angus, at the meeting, spoke against new-fangled things;
'Seems to me our preacher's bow, friends, has a muckle lot of strings.'
Merchant Jones said trade was failing, rent was high and clerks to pay;
Not a dollar could he give them, he was very grieved to say.
Old Squire Hays was buying timber, needed every cent and more;
Doctor Blake sat coldly smiling-then the farmer took the floor.

'Wish,' he said, 'our hearts were bigger, an' our speeches not so long;
I would move right here the preacher tunes us up a little song.'
Sing? I wish you could have heard him-simple songs of long ago,
Old familiar things that held us-warm that golden voice and low-
Songs of summer in the woodlands, cowslips yellow in the vale;
Songs of summer in the city, and the children wan and pale,
Till we saw the blist'ring pavement pressed by tired little feet,
Heard the baby voices crying for the meadows wide and sweet.

'Now we'll take up the collection,' said the wily farmer Bowles,
And they showered in their money, did the people down at Coles.
'Here's a cheque,' said lawyer Angus, ''tis the best that I can do;
Man, you'd have us in the poorhouse if you sang your sermons through!'

The very careless fellow still goes his cheery way
Unmindful of what people think or of what people say.
Some still are finding fault with him-he doesn't mind it much-
Laughs when they make remarks about his clothes and shoes and such,
Declare his sermons have no point, and quarrel with his text,
As people will, but oh, it makes his pretty wife so vext!
'I think,' she says, 'as much of him as any woman can,
But 'tis most aggravating to have such a careless man.'

There are those who think him perfect, shout his praises with a will.
He has labored for the Master, he is laboring for Him still;
And the grumbling does not move him, nor the praises sung abroad-
Things like these seem only trifles to the man who works for God.
Farmer Bowles summed up the total in his own original way
When he spoke at the Convention that was held the other day.
'Never knew a better worker, never knew a kinder man;
Lots of preachers are more stylish, keep themselves so spic-and-span
You could spot 'em out for preachers if you met 'em walkin' round
Over on the Fejee Islands, silk hat, long coat, I'll be bound.
Our man's different, but, I tell you, when it comes to doing good
There's not one can beat him at it, an' I want this understood.
Ask the sad folks and the sinful, ask the fallen ones he's raised,
Ask the sick folks and the poor folks, if you want to hear him praised.
Orator? Well, maybe not, friends, but in caring for men's souls
There stand few men half so faithful as the preacher down at Coles.'