NAY, rail not, dear, at Time in such rude way,
 ’Tis scarcely fair, since he has been our host
 For such a while. And rail not at the world,
 This grey old ivy-covered manor-house wherein
 He long has entertained us both. Since we
 Have broken bread with him, danced in his halls,
 Let us not talk of him in slighting way.
What though
 He has not given lavishly,
 For daily use, the rich things in his store?
 Rare things grow common, quite, when they are used
 In common way—you know this for yourself—
 And delicacies lose their flavor when
 The palate tires of them.
 But ah, on state
 Occasions has he not been prodigal?
 O wine of life that he has poured for us!
 Poured freely till it ran the goblet o’er,
 And trickled down in little rosy streams!
Believe me, dear, for all his length of beard
 So snowy white, his venerable air,
 Enough of youth lurks in his bosom still
 To make him lenient with foolishness.
 For often has he stolen off and left
 Us standing heart to heart,
 And has he not
 Sometimes, stilled all his house lest we should wake
 Too soon from some wrapt dream of tenderness?
 Then, too, for playthings he has given us hours
 Filled full enough of rapture unalloyed
 To cover every day of all the years
 With common happiness if properly
 Spread out.
As for this grey old world,
 It is not half so murk, so wanting in
 All light, all glow, and warmth, as some declare—
 As we oft picture to ourselves, my dear,
 It has its windows looking east and west,
 It has its sunset and its morning gold;
 The trouble is we will look toward the east
 At eventide, and toward the sombre west
 When heaven is shaking down upon the world,
 A lusty infant day. And so we miss
 The glory of the sunset and the dawn.

The Mother’s Story

SHE told a wonderful story, the mother so fair and good,
 Of the deep and strange old mystery men have never understood.
 It was such a pretty story I wove it into a rhyme
 To read to myself, when the skies were grey, at the end of summertime.
“Now listen,” she said, “my children, to every word that I say,
 Dear Marjory, share the hearthrug with your restless sister May,
 And you, my lad, with the great dark eyes, may share the couch with me,
 While the baby-girl, with doll in arms, shall sit upon mother’s knee.
Your faces change as I carry your thoughts through the ebb and flow
Of someone’s joys, and someone’s hopes, and I love to watch the glow
 In Marjory’s eyes as we talk of elves in their wild and wanton glee,
 When they make the dim old forest ring with the sound of revelry.
But May cares only to listen when I tell some quaint home tale,
 She likes a cot on a wooded hill, and flocks of sheep in the vale,
 While you, my lad, with the dreamy eyes, you love the prose and the rhyme,
 The deeds of daring, the deeds of might, of good King Arthur’s time.
To-day May asked me a question, and I’ve pondered it for hours,
 God’s acre, she said, is full of bloom—do the dead folks turn to flowers?
 There’s a tender story, my children, that may comfort you some day
 When mother sleeps in God’s acre, and the flowers blossom gay.
The soft-voiced angels of Life and Love they whispered to Christ one day
 We pray Thee that when one fair and good in the earth is laid away,
 That we in the golden dawn may go alone where the sleeper lies,
 And sing in the solemn silence the songs learned in Paradise.”
Answered Christ, “Go sing till comes springing up, up from the sod beneath,
 The lily, white as a ransomed soul, the rose with its fragrant breath.”
 A silence fell on the little group, there were tears in Marjory’s eyes,
 It was a wonderful story, and mother was O, so wise!
Then the wee girl clapped her dimpled hands, and said in her loving way,
 “When you turn to a posy, mamma, I’ll water you every day.”
 It was such a pretty story I wove it into a rhyme,
 To read to myself, when the skies were grey, at the end of summertime.

In Lover’s Lane

O, ranting bully with clamorous breath,
 O, vandal, why come you down from the North
 With frost in your breath, and wrath in your voice,
 And force in your arms to level and toss?
 You rush through the wood and threaten the trees—
 The giants of oak, of beech, and of elm,
 Playmates of yours ere age had o’ertaken,
 Stolen their vigor, their sap, and their life.
 The tender child-trees, the slender child-trees
 You worry, you beat, you fling to the earth,
 Lithe and supple are they to defy you,
 Swiftly they spring up as soon as you pass,
 Trembling a little with fear and anger,
 But whole and unhurt—the slender young things!
Is it not enough that you bend and you break,
 And make you a path wherever you go,
 But you must enter this quiet old lane,
 Shut out from the world by lattice of vines,
 Where Eve, pretty Eve, so prim and demure
Is walking with someone, taking the air?
 You rest behind them plotting new mischief,
 Rest till a soft hush falls down on the world,
 Rest till the growing things listen and laugh
 Thinking you gone to your lair in the North,
 Then you begin to stir and to mutter,
 Growing in anger, till, big with your wrath,
 On you come rushing—vandal how can you
 Liberties take with a maiden so fair?
Eve, as you walk so primly beside him,
 Keeping your distance, nor heeding his sighs.
 Chin tilted forward, eyes straight before you,
 Parasol swinging in one little hand,
 Blue gown all flounces, ribbons a-flutter,
 Dainty, and winsome, and proud as a queen!
There is no time—the boorish thing takes you—
 You and your ruffles, your ribbons and curls,
 You and your primness, your blushes, and airs,
 Straight to the arms of the man at your side.
 You have no conscience swaggering north wind,
 Else would you hasten and leave them alone;
 Why must you push her yet nearer to him?
 Buffet and beat her—you ruffian strong!
 She has to hide her face on his bosom,
 While you go whirling in ecstasy round,
 Then you loosen her bronze hair and fling it,
 Warm and electric, up over his cheek,
 Hair soft and shiny, full of allurement,
 Tempting a mortal to feel of its gold.
Down you go soberly over the fields,
 Making believe you have left them for good,
 Driving the cattle and scaring the flocks,
 Shaking the cedars that stand on the hill;
 Then, when she loosens herself from his grasp,
 Laughing and blushing, and red as a rose,
 Back you come flying on mischief intent
 Pleased to torment the fair maid in the lane.
Oh, how you buffet her, boor that you are!
 Oh, how you flutter her garments abroad!
 Clutch at her flounces, so pretty and neat!
 Worry the ribbons that hang at her waist!
 Then growing fiercer, you roar and you rage,
 Whirling and twirling to show off your strength,
 Pay no attention to prayer—or mishap—
 Drive her to shelter again in his arms.
 Watching so closely the glances she gives,
 Wondering greatly how much she regrets,
 All that has happened, since, prim and demure,
 Out from the farmhouse she started at noon.
 “Maidens are queer things,” you laugh to yourself,
 “Hiding their faces and owning to naught;
 Why must she whimper?
She’s glad to be there,
 Glad to be holding so closely to him,
 Glad to feel round her his care-taking arms,
 Glad to be list’ning to all that he tells,
 Glad that I rumpled her shiny bronze hair,
 Making her fairer in somebody’s eyes;
 Glad that I thrashed out her primness and pride,
 Glad! she’ll not own it—mark her distress now—
 Oh! but these maidens are curious things!”
Listen, old North Wind, listen and peer,
 You have no manners, no conscience, no shame,
 Words of the lovers you greedily seize—
 Seize, and go shrieking them out to the world!
 She is an angel! so fair, and so tender!
 Too good for mortal—the loveliest, best!
O, you prying, inquisitive meddler!
 One thing you miss though—the sweetest of all—
 Not even a breath of love’s first warm kiss
 Is wasted on you—O boor of the North!

O Last Days of the Year

“O last days of the year!” she whispered low,
 “You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stay
 Awhile, a little while, do you not know
 What tender things you bear with you away?
I’m thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here,
 Of all the riches that were mine the day
 There crept down on the world the soft new year,
 A rosy thing with promise filled—and gay.
But twelve short months ago! a little space
 In which to lose so much—a whole life’s wealth
 Of love and faith, youth, and youth’s tender grace—
 Things that are wont to go from us by stealth.
Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong,
 The clasp of clinging hands, the burning kiss,
 The joy of living, and the glorious song
 That drew its sweetness from a full heart’s bliss.
O gladness great!
 O wealth of tenderness!
 That were my own one little year ago,
 A bankrupt I—gone faith, gone warm caress,
 Gone love, gone youth, gone all,”
 She whispered low.
“O last days of the year!
 You take away
 The riches that I held so close and dear,
 Go not so swiftly, stay a little—stay
 With one poor bankrupt,
 Last days of the year!”

Back on the Farm

I’ll tell you what I wish I was,
 When days like these arrive,
 An’ spring puts all her gewgaws on,
 An’ all the world’s alive.
I wish I was a boy again—
 A boy back on the farm—
 A-watchin’ all the growin’ stuff,
 An’ cowslips gettin’ warm.
A playin’ round the whole long day
 As happy as a lark,
 An’ never out of mischief once
 From daylight until dark.
With such a lot of things to hear
 An’ such a lot to see,
 An’ my dog Rover at my heels,
 To keep me company.
A watchin’ the big sun go down
 Behind the tree-tops high,
 An’ wishin’ I could climb the one
 That reached up to the sky.
A-listenin’ to the katydids
 A-jawin’ in the lane,
 An’ sniffin’ up the earthy smell
 That comes before a rain.
Laughin’ to see the white-wool’d sheep
 Come skippin’ down the hill,
 An’ feelin’ such a heap of joy
 I couldn’t quite keep still.
An’ by-an’-by, a dozin’ off,
 An’ wakin’ up to hear
 My mother say: “Come in the house,
 ’Tis past your bedtime, dear.”
A longin’ takes me on these days
 When all the world gets warm,
 A-longin’ just to be a boy—
 A boy back on the farm.

He Meditates on the Critic

“Criticism is a tonic,
 Very healthy in effect,”
 Wrote he, and my verse Byronic
 Did most ruthlessly reject.
He’s a villain—deep—politic—
 Bitter things these tonics, all,
 Manufactured by the critic
 From his mighty store of gall.

Jacynth

“We have been something more than friends, Jacynth,
 You know that well, yet now you say ‘my friend,
 I give you welcome home,’ in such cold way
 I scarce believe it is Jacynth who speaks—
 Jacynth, who used to give—but let it pass.
 The new year finds me with a heavy heart,
 I come to seek the girl
 I used to know,
 The happy, trusting, tender girl, and lo—
 I find her grown into a woman proud,
 With richer dower of beauty for her own,
 But far less lovable than my Jacynth.”
Jacynth:
 “We both are changed, I think.”
Derwent:
 “It is not so.
 I am not of the sort that gets new friends
 Like fashions for each season as it comes.”
Jacynth:
 “Hark to the bells! a happy year, Derwent;
 Give me your hand and wish as much for me.”
Derwent:
 “You wish me happiness, and yet deny
 My heart the highway to it.”
Jacynth:
 “Happiness!
 I would that words might win the illusive
 Thing to carry with thee alway. How I
 Would wheedle! She cannot suit her step
 To ours for long, she wearieth of our slow
 And sober pace and flitteth where she will—
 Now near, now far away. We search in vain,
 And when we go with down-bent head and eyes
 Tear-filled, lo! on a sudden shineth round
 Our feet her rainbow hues, and to our breast
 She creepeth down with eager willingness.”
Derwent:
“There’s sweetness in thy words, such sweetness as
 Wells up from fragrant things tho’ they be dead,
 A violet’s breath lives longer than its bloom,
 So in this tender wish of thine I read
 Once on a time thy love was mine.”
Jacynth:
 “And Peace—
 Sweet Peace, whose softest note can drown the cry
 Of bitterness—Oh! I would have her keep
 Thy company, go with thee all the day,
 Sleep on thine heart from dusk till rosy dawn,
 And all such pretty joys be borne to thee
 As come with fragrant breath, and dewy lips,
 And subtle tender touch, to keep our love
 Towards God and man a warm and living thing.
 A Happy Year!
 A Happy, Happy Year!”
Derwent:
 “Nay, from the velvet heart of flower in bloom
 Comes this last wave of sweetness;
 My Jacynth,
 Love is not dead in that white breast of thine,
 O glad bells! ring ye out to all the world,
 A Happy Year!
 A Happy, Happy Year!”

Her First Sleigh-ride

ALL night the snowflakes sought the earth—the snowflakes big and white—
 They covered up the meadows brown, they bent the bushes slight!
 At morn the sun with wondrous pomp came climbing o’er the hill,
 And lent a thousand beauties to the world so fair and still.
 Ruth at the old manse window stood, a wonder in her gaze,
 “The earth was turned to fairyland” she cried out in amaze!
 Her cousin Ronald laughed and said, “This is no fairyland,
 But a Canadian landscape clothed in beauty wild and grand.”
“In Georgia you have naught like this—ice, snow and wintery gale—
 The southern air is warm and soft, the southern girls are pale,”
 Not pale the face she turned to him, in each soft cheek the red
 Flamed up, “You need not say a word against the south,” she said,
“I envy not your rosy maids their color, or their land,
 I love the warmth of our blue sky, the bloom on every hand,
 Far more than all your snow-capped hills, and forests ghostly white,
 And mournful winds that love to play a dirge both day and night!”
Thereat his father—kindly soul as ever put to sleep
 Both saint and sinner in the pew, with sermon long and deep—
 Bade him not tease a sister so, “Come, make your peace straightway,
 Then harness and bring out Black Bess, for on this glorious day
 My Ruth shall have a rare, good treat—a sleigh-ride, do you hear?
 The air will warm up towards noon, for see the sky is clear,
 Come, you should love each other well, so near of kin are you,
 My child, in Ronald you shall have a brother good and true.”
“No brother I,” the graceless youth did hastily exclaim,
 And Ruth, affronted, bade him wait until she made such claim,
 Black Bess came prancing from her stall, so smooth, so shiny-skinned,
 Give her the rein and she would race as swiftly as the wind,
 She tossed her slender head and pawed the snow-drifts as she stood,
 And shook her bells until they chimed, so eager was her mood,
 “Whoa, Bess, be patient for awhile?” said Ronald, as with care
 He tucked the robes so thick and warm about his cousin fair.
Then off they sped away—away, the snow-birds flew afraid,
 The frost came in the air to touch the cheeks of man and maid,
 The yellow sunbeams raced with them, and made a glow and gleam,
 Put rainbow colors on the bridge that spanned the frozen stream.
 A white highway they followed down into the valley wide,
 And whiter yet the sun-kissed hills that rose on either side;
 Black Bess made all her chiming bells flow music clear and sweet
 As on she sped, and on, and on—a handsome thing and fleet.
But when the forest wide was reached she took a sober pace,
 As though to give them time to note the beauty of the place,
 The giant heads were crowned with snow, the giant limbs were dressed,
 And close about the giant girths the snowy drifts were pressed.
 And Ruth, a fair and radiant Ruth, said softly “This is grand;
 Old winter makes his home I trow, in this wide northern land,
 You lacked in courtesy to-day, but this ride makes amends,
 So Ronald now, a truce, I say; let us be loyal friends.”
“No friend am I,” he said, and laughed to note her look of pride!
 “What boors you are, here in the north!” the angry maiden cried;
 “And now for home and supper warm, we’ll need them without doubt.”
Homeward they flew, Black Bess as fresh as when she started out;
 The sun with all his gorgeous train went down behind the crest
 Of one tall hill, but left a glow of crimson in the west,
 So soft, so pure, the old world lay as the young night came down,
 For covered all her gardens sere, her meadows bare and brown.
He spoke at length, “I will not be your brother or your friend.
 But I will be your lover true till life and love shall end,”
 The blue eyes looked into the brown, he bent his head full low,
 He may have kissed her tender mouth—but this no one can know.
 . . . . . . . . . .
“Ho! Ho! this winter air is fine!” the old man cried with glee!
 “Did you enjoy my treat? Your cheeks are rosy as can be,”
 “I did,” Ruth owned, and stretched her hands out to the cheerful blaze,
 “I like Canadian scenery—I—like—Canadian—ways.”

His Own Little Black-Eyed Lad

IT is time for bed, so the nurse declares,
 But I slip off to the nook,
 The cosy nook at the head of the stairs,
 Where daddy’s reading his book.
 “I want to sit here awhile on your knee,”
 I say as I toast my feet,
 “And I want you to pop some corn for me,
 And give me an apple sweet.”
I tickle him under the chin—just so—
 And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
 Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no,
 To his own little black-eyed lad.
“You can’t have a pony this year at all,”
 Says my stingy uncle Joe
 After promising it, and there’s the stall
 Fixed ready for it, you know.
 One can’t depend on his uncles, I see,
 It’s daddies that are the best,
 And I find mine and climb on his knee
 As he takes his smoke and rest.
I tickle him under the chin—just so—
 And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
 Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no,
 To his own little black-eyed lad.
I want to skate, and oh, what a fuss
 For fear I’ll break through the ice!
 This woman that keeps our house for us
 She isn’t what I call nice.
 She wants a boy to be just like a girl,
 To play in the house all day,
 Keep his face all clean, and his hair in curl,
 But dad doesn’t think that way.
I tickle him under the chin—just so—
 And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
 Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no,
 To his own little black-eyed lad.
“You’re growing so big” says my dad to me,
 “Soon be a man, I suppose,
 Too big to climb up on your old dad’s knee
 And toast your ten little toes.”
 Then his voice it gets the funniest shake,
 And oh, but he hugs me tight!
 I say, when I can’t keep my eyes awake,
 “Let me sleep with you to-night.”
I tickle him under the chin—just so—
 And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
 Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no,
 To his own little black-eyed lad.

Be Good and Glad

WHY do you sigh as days go by,
 And carry such a weight of sadness?
 To wistful eyes, the hot tears rise—
 Yet life holds store of joy and gladness.
 The sunbeams gay are out to-day,
 Then worry not about to-morrow,
 Nor shrink, nor start with beating heart,
 Nor grave fears for the future borrow.
 Let us not weep when shadows deep
 About our pathway seem to gather,
 But go our way, without dismay,
 For children we—the Lord our Father.
 I hold there must be faith and trust—
 For others’ sins a full forgiving—
 The greeting glad for sick and sad,
 If we would taste the joys of living.
 The sunlight streams, the old world dreams,
 And by-and-by the stars will glimmer,
 The lamps that swung when earth was young
 Yet have not older grown, or dimmer.
 And blind we are, or we would see
 This lesson in the skies above us;
 That all the way, by night or day,
 God watchful is, since He doth love us.

The Making Up

WE quarrel and make up again,
 And then some day,
 We quarrel, and forget, straightway,
 The making up.
The first harsh word comes tremblingly—
 We shame to fling
 It forth—Ah me! ’twill wound and sting
 What we hold dear.
Ashamed and penitent we cry
 “Forgive!” and kiss;
 There is a wealth of joy and bliss
 In making up.
The next harsh word comes easier,
 Till by-and-by,
 We think it foolishness to cry
 For peace again.
The discord swells in every line,
 And soon we grow
 So used to it we hardly know
 The once sweet air.
We quarrel and make up again
 And then some day
 We quarrel and forget, straightway,
 The making up.

O Radiant Stream

RIVER St. Lawrence, tranquil and fair,
 Soft in the sunlight, blue as the sky,
 Crowned with a beauty, tender and rare,
 And kissed by the breeze that goes hurrying by.
 Warm dost thou look, and fair as a dream,
 Speeding so merrily out to the sea,
 So strong and so gentle—O radiant stream,
 The smile of the summer is resting on thee!
River St. Lawrence, tranquil and fair,
 Winding thy way for a thousand long miles
 Past meadow and homestead, past rocks grim and bare,
 With a song for the shore, a kiss for the isles
 Lovingly cradled on thy broad breast—
 Isles without number, and fair as can be,
 O, sweet, shining river—bonniest, best—
 The smile of the summer is resting on thee!
 River St. Lawrence, tranquil and fair,
 Lightly bearing the great ships along—
 Boats with their white sails spread out in the air—
The broad rafts of timber, so clumsy and strong—
 The slender canoe, as swift as a bird,
 The Indian builds with bark from a tree—
 Thou bearest them all, unwearied, unstirred—
 The smile of the summer is resting on thee!
River St. Lawrence, tranquil and fair,
 Pure are thy waters that bask in the light;
 Thy ripples of laughter ring sweet on the air—
 The rocks bend to listen by day and by night.
 The turbulent streams rushing down from the hills
 To mingle and race with thee out to the sea,
 Steal not from thy azure—O, beauty that thrills,
 The smile of the summer is resting on thee!
River St. Lawrence, tranquil and fair,
 Onward thou speedest, so deep and so wide;
 The sunbeams that lurk on thy bosom, see there
 A tremulous tumult of love, and of pride—
 Of love and of pride for the place of thy birth—
 Thy far-away mother—the fresh-water sea—
 From whence thou didst spring forth to gladden God’s earth—
 The smile of the summer is resting on thee!
River St. Lawrence, tranquil and fair,
 Soft in the sunlight, blue as the sky,
 Crowned with a beauty tender and rare,
 And kissed by each breeze that goes hurrying by;
 Warm dost thou look, and fair as a dream,
 Speeding so merrily out to the sea,
 So mighty, so gentle—O, radiant stream,
 The smile of the summer is resting on thee!

My Sweetbriar Maid

I CALLED her sweetbriar when first we walked,
 Deep down in the winding lane,
 The wild birds sang, and we laughed, and we talked,
 Deep down in the winding lane,
 We met in the sunshine of one spring day—
 Youthful, and happy, and free,
 Into her keeping my heart flew straightway,
 Pretty and piquant, was she.
Her hazel eyes were so gentle and meek,
 But scornful her mouth and chin,
 Her brow was severe, but each rosy cheek
 Had a roguish dimple in,
 And I cried, “I love you my sweetbriar maid!”
 And then, oh moment of bliss,
 My lips to her cherry-red lips I laid,
 And tasted my first love-kiss.
’Twas ever and ever so long ago,
 But I remember it yet,
 Ah, the springtime of life, its bloom and its glow,
 The heart can never forget,
My sweetbriar maid I would give to-day,
 The wealth, the fame and the gold
 That the years have brought, if they’d roll away,
 And leave us the thrill of old.
If only straight backward old time would move—
 (Ah, wishing is all in vain),
 And leave us with youth, and joy, and love,
 Deep down in that winding lane.

My Canada

MY Canada!
 I would that I thy child might frame
 A song half worthy of thy name,
 Proudly I say—
 This is our country, strong, and broad and grand,
 This is our Canada, our native land!
My Canada!
 ’Tis meet that all the world should know
 How far thy sweeping rivers flow,
 How fair to-day
 Thy bonnie lakes upon thy bosom lie,
 Their faces laughing upward to the sky.
My Canada!
 We look alway with love and pride
 Upon thy forests deep and wide,
 And gladly say.
 “These giant fellows, mighty grown with age,
 Are part and parcel of our heritage.”
My Canada!
 So rich in glow and bracing air,
 With meadows stretching everywhere,
 With gardens gay,
 With smiling orchards, sending forth to greet
 Full breaths of perfume from their burdens sweet.
My Canada!
 Thou art not old, thou art not skilled,
 But through the ages youth hath thrilled;
 ’Tis dawn with thee,
 Thou has a glorious promise, and thy powers
 Are measured only by the golden hours.
My Canada!
 What thou art now we know full well,
 What thou wilt grow to be? Ah! who can tell?
 We see to-day
 Thy lithe form running swiftly in the race,
 For all the things which older lands do grace.
My Canada!
 With loyal sons to take thy part,
 To hold thee shrined within the heart,
 Proudly we say,
 “This is our country, strong, and broad, and grand,
 “God guard thee Canada, our native land!

Perfect Peace

Because He Trusteth in Thee—Isaiah.