Part 15 (1/2)

How many blades of gra.s.s now grow where once just one was found?

Oh! Nature is the proper theme, but better Wordsworth drop, San Jose scale and coddling moth will get your apple crop.

Ben Johnson and Will Shakespeare and Goldsmith all are dead.

Put nodules in alfalfa roots not dramas in your head.

Tomato canning's orthodox if done with due dispatch, Don't let your daughter dream of fame, just show her how to patch.

The laws of sanitation soon will put the fly to flight, Then stop tuberculosis next and win the hookworm fight.

If man could live a century it may be in the strife, He'd learn to make a _living_ if he didn't make a _life_!

What matter if the primrose is beside the river's brim, A yellow primrose growing there and nothing more to him, He's caught the trick of sustenance (but lost his taste for rhyme), Though the oxen in the clover fields have had that all the time!

GRANDMOTHER DAYS

Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and old When she sat by the mantelpiece; And she wore a cap with many a fold Of ribbon and lace, as rich as gold, And worked in many a crease: And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolled From her little stone pipe whenever she told Of the quest of the Golden Fleece, Wrought me to think that Grandmother Young Was shriveled and gray when Homer sung Of the G.o.ds of ancient Greece.

But all of her marvelous mythical lore Was naught to her magical power-- Transforming a house with a puncheon floor To a palace of wealth with a golden door That lead to a castle tower-- An attic loft with a wonderful store Of things that we feared, but longed to explore-- Our grandmother's ancient dower.

Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a base Rude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase, A weed to a royal flower.

Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of grace And my child-heart wors.h.i.+pped there, When Balm-of-Gilead around the place, Like incense, for a mile of s.p.a.ce, Perfumed the glorious air; And the song that came from the feathered race In the boughs of the tangled interlace Of apple and peach and pear, Enthralled me like the magic spell Of siren music when it fell On old Ulysses' ear.

Last summer I pa.s.sed where the palace once stood Whose beauty my life beguiled; It's a cabin now; and the charmed wood Of sugar and oak, in brotherhood Of walnut and hickory, aisled For gathering nuts and the merry mood That only our childhood understood, By man has been defiled.

Oh, how can I ever cease to praise The fairy enchantment of grandmother days When I was a little child!

JUST TO DREAM

Just to dream when sapphire skies Are as blue as maidens' eyes; Just to dream when petals sow All the earth with pink and snow; Just to sit by youth's bright stream, Gazing at its crystal gleam-- Listening to the wren and dove-- Hearing only songs of love-- _Just to dream_.

Just to dream of sabre's flash When the lines of battle clash; See the army put to rout-- Hear the world's triumphant shout; Just to dream our name supreme-- Hero of a poet's theme, First among the sons of men, Master of the sword or pen-- _Just to dream_.

Just to dream when skies grow gray, Just to dream the days away-- Living over childhood's joys, Sorrow that no longer cloys; Just to muse of days that seem Like the sunlight's golden beam, Summer nights and winter's snow.

Just to dream of long ago-- _Just to dream_.

AMNEMON

”Dear, the struggle has been hard and long-- The wine-press I have trodden, Paved with flint and shard; And many times my feet have stained The flagstones of the street with blood.

Out yonder in the park where life's rich chalice Sparkles with the wine of happiness and love The world was always dull and dark to me.

Hours I have stood upon the beach And watched the whitecaps glinting In the sunlight and listened to the breakers Booming on the sinuous sh.o.r.e, While little children clapped their hands And shouted out across the waters, And gray-haired men and women shook their heads In silence and looked toward the sunset.

But everything was always meaningless to me.

Season after season I have watched the b.u.t.terflies By millions come and go And katydids each year have sung The song monotonous and pa.s.sed away.

Yesterday the sun arose upon another world.

Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue; The droning hum of beetles on the breeze Is like an orchestra of lovely music.

The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli.

For two bright hours I have strolled Among the flowering shrubbery near the seash.o.r.e, Listening to a song I had not heard for years.

And now once more that I am happy, May I not confess it all?

I did you wrong, great wrong.

There was no stain upon my life, No taint of blood within my veins.

I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong.

I did not understand my heart, And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity, I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love, And part for self-protection.

I have suffered much, but justly.

You said my story broke your heart, And left me where I stood, Pondering on the sin I had committed.

I had proved your love, but all too late.

Your talent meant a brilliant future, And I knew your great ambition.

For years I scanned the periodicals Where names of most renown in literature are found, Expecting always to see my lover's there, But always doomed to disappointment.

And yet I now rejoice That you have not achieved great fame, For otherwise I could not write this letter.