 
A COUNTRY GIRL'S FATEBY C. F. SHERIFF. ... "When Ed. Coe, of Whitewater, Wisconsin, began some twelve years ago publishing Cold Spring items, signed by 'Greenhorn,' he published the first lines I ever wrote, at which time some spirit (or some unseen thing) seemed to be always whispering in my ear that I must write a book. "Never could I drive from me these thoughts, and situated as I was, with plenty of farm work to do, no education at all, no knowledge of such business, no friends to help me, but lots to kick me down, I can tell you I was pretty well discouraged, and if I had not had lots of courage, the contents of this book would not have been written. "This work is the only kind of work that I can get interested in, and should I pass to the mysterious beyond without gaining any name in this way, I would declare with my last breath that my life, as far as myself was concerned, had been a failure." DEW DROPS
"This little book is fondly dedicated to Raymond and Leotta, my two beloved children, who, when the shades of sorrow closed around me, stretched forth their baby fingers, and parting the curtains of gloom, revealed once more the gladsome light of a happier day."
POEMS OF A DAY.A Collection of Fugitive Poems Written Among the Cares and Labors of Daily Journalism. DEATH OF GOVERNOR HARVEYBow down thy head, O Commonwealth, 'Tis fitting now for thee to weep; Thy hopes lie buried in the grave, The flags at half mast sadly droop, The bells toll out a solemn wail, As on the southern breeze there comes, With lightning speed, the sick'ning tale! O, dreadful night! O, fatal step! O, rushing river's angry tide! Was there no quick, omniscient arm To save a life so true and tried? Breathe, lofty Pines, his requiem; Sing paeans in thy forest gloom; And ye, ye Prairies, that he loved, Bring Flora's gems to deck his tomb. O, State, bereft of him you loved, O, Mother, from thy loving breast, Our friend and brother, statesman, chief, At noon, sinks calmly to his rest! We cannot hide these scalding tears, But kiss in trust this chast'ning rod; Though reason sleeps, faith is not blind, But sees in all the hand of God. BALLADS OF WAR AND PEACE.By J. H. WHITNEY, Baraboo, Wisconsin. THE MUSTER ROLLSWhen treason, veiled in fair disguise, And clad in robes of state, Invoked the sword to cut the ties That made a nation great, Wisconsin sounded the alarm, And beat the battle-drum: Men heard from office, mill and farm, Down from the rugged northern pines, Up from the eastern coast; From riverside and southern mines, Comes forth the loyal host. From Gainesville thru the wilderness They march with fearless tread, And leave behind, as on they press, An army of the dead. Beneath the blue—above the green, Mid flowers of fairest hue, We honor now with reverent mien, The men who wore the blue. The story of the rolls is told. The records, worn and gray, Like veterans, are growing old, And soon shall pass away. But deeds of valor for a cause So just, shall ever shine, And loyalty to righteous laws Shall live, because divine. IN THE LAND OF FANCY, AND OTHER POEMS.By MRS. LIBBIE C. BAER. IN THE LAND OF FANCYNever a cloud to darken the blue, Never a flower to lose its hue, Never a friend to prove untrue In the beautiful land of fancy. Never a joy to turn to pain, Never a boon we may not gain In the beautiful land of fancy. Never a heart turns false or cold, Never a face grows gray or old, Never a love we may not hold In the beautiful land of fancy. All of life that we crave or miss, (The world denies us half its bliss), Free, untrammelled, we have in this— In the beautiful land of fancy. A COLLECTION OF POEMS.By J. R. HENDERSON, Riley, Wisconsin. Copyright, 1896, by the Author.
A NUPTIAL SALUTATIONNeighbors and friends, we have met today, At the home of Jimmie Clow, To see his daughter Mary give her hand away, And take the marriage vow. To see Willie Goodwin get a wife, And start on the matrimonial sea. Long life, health and happiness to him and his, Is the wish of this whole company. Now, Willie, lad, here's a pipe for you, It's a present from old Joe; And when you take your evening smoke You'll remember him, I know. And, Mary, lass, here's a gift for you— Ah, you'll need it yet; you'll see. Take it now, and hide it away From this laughing company. SONGS AND SONNETS.By MARY M. ADAMS. Copyright, 1901, by the Author (wife of Charles Kendall Adams, then President of the University of Wisconsin). WISCONSINSound her praise! our noble State, All her strength to deeds translate, Prove her shield when danger's nigh, Read her banner in the sky, Tell of her in song and story, All her past with love illume, Show her present robed in glory, Promise of a larger bloom. Morning maid! whose day began With the nobler life in man, Sun-crowned souls reveal thy fame, Sacred hopes thy laws proclaim. O Father! hear for her our prayer, Bid her voice Thine own decree, Let all her growth Thyself declare, Guard the light supplied by Thee! MY BEST POEM. MYRA GOODWIN PLANTZ. 1856-1914. From This poem was written to her mother on her seventy-seventh birthday. The spring is fair; it has its flowers, Its happy time of sun and showers; Then summer cometh as a queen, But autumn brings the crimson leaves And wealth of golden, garnered sheaves, And grapes that purple on the vine, With spring and summer in their wine. The morning comes with rosy light That dims the candles of the night, And wakes the nestling birds to song, And sends to toil the brave and strong. Mid-day and afternoon are spent In search of gold or heart-content; Then comes the sunset's glow and rest, And this of all the days is best. The baby comes with Paradise Still shining in his smiling eyes, And childhood passes like a dream, As lilies float upon a stream. Then youth comes with its restless heat, And manhood, womanhood, replete With care and pleasure, joy and strife, Lead to the richest part of life. And it has reached these, mother dear, The sunny, mellow time of year; Though with a climate of thine own, In constant sun thy soul has grown. Time counts not helpful, happy years— He only numbers sighs and tears; So rich in blessings, strong in truth, Thou hast not age, but richer youth. WAYSIDE FLOWERS.By CARRIE CARLTON. A SPELL IS ON MY SPIRITA spell is on my spirit And I cannot, cannot write, All the teeming thoughts of glory They come in quick succession, Like the phantoms in a dream; And they surge in shadowy billows, Like the mist upon a stream. Oh! had I but the language, I would give these visions birth; I would shadow their glorious meaning, And their untold, hidden worth. They were raised by wild thanksgiving, For a blessed answered prayer; And their fleeting, changing beauty, Held my spirit breathless there. I had pleaded, oh, how earnest For one precious, precious boon; For one gift to cheer this bosom, That was desolate so soon. Now I know my prayer is answered, And my soul would fain adore, Him whose promise is forever, And is faithful evermore. UNDER THE PINES.By ADA F. MOORE. LINES FOR THE TIMESThere's a certain class of people In this sublunary sphere— (And if I'm not mistaken, You'll find them even here), Who think the rare old precept To the old Athenians given, And esteemed so full of wisdom In this glorious age of progress Has become quite obsolete; So they choose another motto, For these latter times more meet. It is "know thyself" no longer— So they say, and who can doubt them— But "Mortal, know thy neighbors, And everything about them!" To attain this worthy object, All other cares forego; To gain this glorious knowledge, You cannot stoop too low. Heed not the ancient croakers, Who ask, with solemn phiz— "Is it anybody's business What another's business is?" No! we'd join the glorious party, That to giant size has grown, To mind our neighbor's business, And "Know nothing" of our own, Hurrah! for the Rights of Meddlers! For the freedom of our day! For the glorious Age of Progress! And for Young America! MEMORIES OF THE WISCONSIN AND OTHER POEMS.By HARRY LATHROP. THE MAN WHO LAUGHSHe loves to make another laugh And laugh himself as well, Nor any one around one-half The less of pain a man can give, The more of joy he scatters; The more excuse for him to live— Apart from weightier matters. Then emulate the men who laugh, Good health and mirth are catching, The wine of joy is ours to quaff, Life's duties while despatching. OVER THE DIVIDE.And other Verses. PRELUDEBut one of a thousand voices, Oh, how can one voice be heard, When ninety and nine and nine hundred Are chanting the same old word? But one of a thousand singers, What song can I sing, oh pray, That is not sung over and over, And over again today? VISIONS OF A CITIZEN.By PROFESSOR J. J. BLAISDELL, (1827-1896), Beloit College. EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS (p. 10).One cannot be a good citizen of Wisconsin without being a good citizen of America. One cannot be a good citizen of America without being a good citizen of the Commonwealth of all nations. One cannot be a good citizen of the world Commonwealth without being a good citizen of the Universal Kingdom of God's moral order. Wisconsin citizenship, magnificent lesson to be learned! JOHN NAGLE'S PHILOSOPHY.Complied by SYDNEY T. PRATT, Manitowoc, Wisconsin. AUTUMNThere is something in the approach of autumn, the border land of summer, that is depressing, just as if the shadow of death were brooding over the future. There are dark clouds in the sky which cut off the sunshine; there is a gloom in the heart which darkens hope and makes life "scarcely worth living." The wind has a mournful cadence, and the trees saw as if the motion were a sigh of sorrow. Everything seems to harmonize with the prevailing spirit of sadness, and animate nature moans forth a dirge. Dew drops seem like tears, and the evening breeze is a sigh. The moon itself seems to wear a garb of grief and floats among the clouds, a tear-stained Diana. It is a season for men to grow mad, for anguish to gnaw at the heart, and for melancholy to usurp the throne of reason. The retina only receives dark impressions, the tympanum transmits none but doleful sounds. One is feasted on dismal thoughts on every hand until it becomes a regular symposium of sorrow. Those imps, the Blues, that feed one on dejection, are in their heyday, implacable as a Nemesis, persistent as a Devil. They revel in gloom and drag one down to the Slough of Despond. Work is performed mechanically, and what in its nature is amusement, is now a bore. One "sucks melancholy from a song as a weasel sucks eggs," and longs for night that he may seek forgetfulness in sleep—the twin-sister of Death. A miserable world this, when the year is falling "into the sear and yellow leaf;" and there is a lingering wish that the shadows which come from the POEMS.By WILFRID EARL CHASE, Madison. FAITHMaze of antinomies and miracles! Bewildered, purblind we are led along This rock-strewn, flower-decked, mystic, wondrous way. Whence came? What are we? Whither are we led? Wherefore journey we? Why such fickle path? And Nature's myriad answers, voiced in the storm's Wild tumult, fringed on the gentian's azure cup, Or limned on human brow, we would descry,— And some we darkly guess, and some we almost know. BOOK OF THE GREEN LAKE MANSE.A SEQUEL TO THE RHYMED STORY OF WISCONSIN. MY NEIGHBOR'S CHICKENS
Sometimes I say "The Dickens! There are my neighbor's chickens!" My neighbor I like well But—let me grievance tell— I do not like his chickens;— Save when he bids me to a roast And plays the part of kindly host. My garden is most dear to me From carrot bed to apple tree, And so my patience sickens When I behold the chickens Dark gloom grows darker, thickens, In looking at those chickens. A certain scientific man Once called the hen "A feeble bird." It is, I'm sure, on no such plan My neighbor's hens are built; the word "Feeble" to them does not apply. I wish Professor would stand by And see those hens make mulching fly. Or let him watch them as they eat My cauliflower choice and sweet, Or gorge themselves on berries fine; The way they always do with mine. They run on their destructive feet From stalk to stalk, from vine to vine, Or scratch as if they dug a mine. And so, my neighbor, won't you please, My cares dispel, my troubles ease, By keeping all your hens at home? Soon, soon the very earth will freeze And then the fowls at large may roam. So I'll not need the pen of Dickens To tell my horror of your chickens! TO MY NEIGHBORS AT HILL CRESTShall I do dear Sam a wrong If I write no little song Telling how he pleases Grace, Brings the light to Tompie's face, Shares their play or runs a race, Merry all about the place? No: I'd do the duck no wrong If I failed to make the song. He'll not care for verse or rhyme. I have seen my little neighbors, Happy in their kindly labors Making Sam and others glad, So I say, "God bless the lad; Bless the lassie"; and I know That the love to Sam they show Makes their own hearts richer, truer; Makes the sky seem brighter, bluer; Makes them to us all a joy (I mean duck, and girl, and boy). So I'd surely do a wrong If I did not say in song To loved Tompie and Miss Grace (Merry all about the place) That their duck's important, quite, With his new-grown feathers white; But the more important thing Is their love; of this I sing! IN THE LIMESTONE VALLEY.PEN PICTURES OF EARLY DAYS IN WESTERN WISCONSIN. FROM CHAPTER II, pp. 37-38. Such was Neoshone, as the Indians who frequently camped there called it when the first white man stood on the bank of the river and watched the rushing waters flow swiftly by. They had borne the red man in his canoe, and around this very spot the Winnebago hunter had secured fine strings of ducks, and for generations had trapped for mink and gathered in abundance the fish that swarmed in every eddy and pool. The hill at the north was crowned with a beautiful grove of young oak trees, and, standing on its slope, the early pioneer beheld before his eyes a magnificent panorama. Valley, hillside, prairie, and plain, stretched away from the spectator's feet in varying lines and curves, while down the center rolled the grand old river. It seemed like a second Canaan, waiting for the coming of the chosen people, its soil ready to be waked by the share of the settler's plow, when crops would come forth as if touched by the magician's wand. From |
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