Part 10 (1/2)

Then the Frost King mounts the throne, Claims the empire for his own; Hail and rain and sleet and snow Are his ministers that go On the swift wings of the blast, At his bidding, fierce and fast.

Like the seasons of the year, Your young life will change, my dear.

Now you're in your early Spring, Hope and joy are on the wing; Flow'rets blooming fresh and gay, Shed their fragrance round your way.

Summer's heat is coming fast, And your Spring will soon be past; For, where you are, I have been; All that you see, I have seen.

Hopes that beamed around my way, Cast their light on yours to-day.

All that you do, I have done; All your childish ways I've run, All your joys and pangs I've had-- All that make you gay or sad; I have sported in the brook, Truant from my work or book; Chased the b.u.t.terfly and bee, Robb'd the bird's nest on the tree; Damm'd the brook and built my mill; Flew my kite from hill to hill; Sported with my top and ball-- Childish joys, I know them all.

Childish sorrows, too I've felt-- Anguish that my heart would melt; Tears have wet my burning cheek, Caused by thoughts I could not speak.

Mysteries then confused my brain, Which have since become more plain; Much that then seemed plain and clear Has grown darker year by year; When my artless prayers I said, Skies were near--just over head; And the angels seemed so near, I could whisper in their ear.

All that I have learned since then, I would give, if once again, Those bright visions would return.

For I find, the more I learn, Further off the skies appear, And the angels come not near.

Though in better words I pray, Heaven seems so far away, That I wish, but wish in vain, That the skies were near again; That no other words I knew, But those simple ones and few, That the angels used to hear, When I whispered in their ear.

I would barter all the fame, Wealth and learning that I claim, Which a life of toil have cost, For those priceless seasons lost.

JOHN A. CALHOUN, MY JOE JOHN.

A PARODY.

This poem was the outgrowth of a newspaper controversy between John A. Calhoun, a school teacher of this county, and one of the trustees of Jackson Hall, who wrote above the signature of ”Turkey,” in which Mr. Calhoun said some rather hard things about the school trustees of the county. The poem was written at the request of the trustee, who was the other party engaged in the controversy.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, ”I wonder what you mean?”

You're always getting in some sc.r.a.pe and getting off your spleen; Keep cooler, John, and do not fret, however things may go; You'll longer last and have more friends, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, don't pout about your name; It never will disgrace you, John, but you may it defame By doing silly things, John, and things, you ought to know, Will but recoil upon yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the ”Turkey” let alone; My name is very humble, John, but then it is my own.

”There's nothing in a name,” John, and this you ought to know, That actions are the cards that win, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John; your temper must be sour; Your scholars pester you, John; you flog them every hour.

But leave the rod behind you, John, when from the school you go, Or else you may get flogged yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the terror of your name Does not extend beyond the walls which for your own you claim; So drop your haughty airs, John, and lay your wattle low, And people will esteem you more, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, just take a friend's advice; And drop your pedagogic ways (you know they are not nice;) And treat grown people with respect, and they the same will show, And use those ”open eyes” of yours, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the trustees of our schools Are not so smart as you, John, but then they're not all fools; And you have made yourself, John, appear a little low, By your abuse of these poor men, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, now let us part in peace, And may your honest name, John, so mightily increase, That half a score of sons, John, may like their father grow-- But just a little modester, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.