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Our Flag

 
Fling it from mast and steeple,
Symbol o'er land and sea
Of the life of a happy people,
Gallant and strong and free.
Proudly we view its colors,
Flag of the brave and true,
With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars,
The red, the white, and the blue.
 
 
Flag of the fearless-hearted,
Flag of the broken chain,
Flag in a day-dawn started,
Never to pale or wane.
Dearly we prize its colors,
With the heaven light breaking through,
The clustered stars and the steadfast bars,
The red, the white, and the blue.
 
 
Flag of the sturdy fathers,
Flag of the loyal sons,
Beneath its folds it gathers
Earth's best and noblest ones.
Boldly we wave its colors,
Our veins are thrilled anew
By the steadfast bars, the clustered stars,
The red, the white, and the blue.
 

Margaret E. Sangster.

The Little Fir-Trees

 
Hey! little evergreens,
Sturdy and strong,
Summer and autumn-time
Hasten along.
Harvest the sunbeams, then,
Bind them in sheaves,
Range them and change them
To tufts of green leaves.
Delve in the mellow-mold,
Far, far below.
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
 
 
Up, up so airily,
To the blue sky,
Lift up your leafy tips
Stately and high;
Clasp tight your tiny cones,
Tawny and brown,
By and by buffeting
Rains will pelt down.
By and by bitterly
Chill winds will blow,
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
 
 
Gather all uttermost
Beauty, because,—
Hark, till I tell it now!
How Santa Claus,
Out of the northern land,
Over the seas,
Soon shall come seeking you,
Evergreen trees!
Seek you with reindeer soon,
Over the snow:
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
 
 
What if the maple flare
Flaunting and red,
You shall wear waxen white
Taper instead.
What if now, otherwhere,
Birds are beguiled,
You shall yet nestle
The little Christ-Child.
Ah! the strange splendor
The fir-trees shall know!
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
 

Evaleen Stein.

He Worried About It

 
The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more—
And he worried about it.
It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before—
And he worried about it.
It will surely give out, so the scientists said
In all scientifical books he had read,
And the whole boundless universe then will be dead—
And he worried about it.
 
 
And some day the earth will fall into the sun—
And he worried about it—
Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun—
And he worried about it.
When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps,
"Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"—
And he worried about it.
 
 
And the earth will become much too small for the race—
And he worried about it—
When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space—
And he worried about it.
The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,
That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one's thought to wander about—
And he worried about it.
 
 
And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider—
And he worried about it—
Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida—
And he worried about it.
Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens,
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines,
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans—
And he worried about it.
 
 
And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt—
And he worried about it—
Our supply of lumber and coal will give out—
And he worried about it.
Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw—
And he worried about it.
 
 
His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day—
He didn't worry about it—
His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay—
He didn't worry about it.
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,
He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub—
He didn't worry about it.
 

Sam Walter Foss.

The President

 
No gilt or tinsel taints the dress
Of him who holds the natal power,
No weighty helmet's fastenings press
On brow that shares Columbia's dower,
No blaring trumpets mark the step
Of him with mind on peace intent,
And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State,
A modest King:
THE PRESIDENT.
 
 
No cavalcade with galloping squads
Surrounds this man, whose mind controls
The actions of the million minds
Whose hearts the starry banner folds;
Instead, in simple garb he rides,
The King to whom grim Fate has lent
Her dower of righteousness and faith
To guide his will:
THE PRESIDENT.
 
 
The ancient lands are struck with awe,
Here stands a power at which they scoffed,
Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states.
Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked;
Yet human wills have forged new states,
Their wills on justice full intent,
And fashioned here a lowly King,
The People's choice:
THE PRESIDENT.
 
 
War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worlds
With hatred rent, turn to the West,
"Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked,
On every side our kingdom's pressed."
And see! Columbia hastens forth,
Her healing hand to peace is lent,
Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm,
Her sons sent by
THE PRESIDENT.
 
 
Full many a storm has tossed the barque
Since first it had its maiden trip,
Full many a conflagration's spark
Has scorched and seared the laboring ship;
And yet it ploughs a straightway course,
Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent,
On sails the troubled Ship of State,
Steered forward by
THE PRESIDENT.
 
 
STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by,
No roll of drums peals at his course,
NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you,
Your will with his: the nation's force.
And—as he passes—breathe a prayer,
May justice to his mind be lent,
And may the grace of Heaven be with
The man who rules:
OUR PRESIDENT.
 

Charles H.L. Johnston.

Lullaby

 
Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming,
With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow,
Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming,
Hear the rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go.
Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing
In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies,
Creep! Creep! Creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!
 
 
Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little clatter
Sings his rattling little, prattling little, tattling little tune;
Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter,
As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon.
Beaming little, gleaming little fireflies go dreaming
To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies.
Creep! Creep! Creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!
 
 
Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver
In the mushy little, rushy little, weedy, reedy bogs,
Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river,
In the croaking little, joking little cadence of the frogs.
Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming
Where the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise,
Creep! Creep! Creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!
 

J.W. Foley.

Chums

 
If we should be shipwrecked together
And only had water for one,
And it was the hottest of weather
Right out in the boiling sun,
He'd tell me—no matter how bad he
Might want it—to take a drink first;
And then he would smile—oh, so glad he
Had saved me!—and perish from thirst!
 
 
Or, if we were lost on the prairie
And only had food for a day,
He'd come and would give me the share he
Had wrapped up and hidden away;
And after I ate it with sadness
He'd smile with his very last breath,
And lay himself down full of gladness
To save me—and starve right to death.
 
 
And if I was wounded in battle
And out where great danger might be,
He'd come through the roar and the rattle
Of guns and of bullets to me,
He'd carry me out, full of glory,
No matter what trouble he had,
And then he would fall down, all gory
With wounds, and would die—but be glad!
 
 
We're chums—that's the reason he'd do it;
And that's what a chum ought to be.
And if it was fire he'd go through it,
If I should call him to me.
You see other fellows may know you,
And friends that you have go and come;
But a boy has one boy he can go to,
For help all the time—that's his chum.
 

J.W. Foley.

Jim Brady's Big Brother

 
Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad,
And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had;
He swung by one arm from the limb of a tree
And hung there while Jim counted up forty-three
Just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound
Across a wide creek and lit square on the ground
Just as light as a deer; and the things he can do,
So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true.
 
 
Jim Brady's big brother could throw a fly ball
From center to home just like nothing at all;
And often while playing a game he would stand
And take a high fly with just only one hand;
Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home run
And won the big game when it stood three to one
Against the home team, and Jim Brady, he showed
The place where it lit in the old wagon road!
 
 
Jim Brady's big brother could bat up a fly
That you hardly could see, for it went up so high;
He'd bring up his muscle and break any string
That you tied on his arm like it wasn't a thing!
He used to turn handsprings, and cartwheels, and he
Could jump through his hands just as slick as could be,
And circuses often would want him to go
And be in the ring, but his mother said no.
 
 
Jim Brady's big brother would often make bets
With boys that he'd turn two complete summersets
From off of the spring-board before he would dive,
And you'd hardly think he would come up alive;
And nobody else who went there to swim
Could do it, but it was just easy for him;
And they'd all be scared, so Jim said, when he'd stay
In under and come up a half mile away.
 
 
Jim Brady's big brother, so Jim said, could run
Five miles in a race just as easy as one.
Right often he walked on his hands half a block
And could have walked more if he'd wanted to walk!
And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school,
Where he is gone now, and some day, when it's cool,
He'll get him to prove everything to be true
That Jimmy told us his big brother could do!
 

J.W. Foley.

The Gray Swan

 
"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true,
Is my little lad, my Elihu,
A-sailing with your ship?"
The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,—
"Your little lad, your Elihu?"
He said with trembling lip,—
"What little lad? what ship?"
 
 
"What little lad! as if there could be
Another such a one as he!
What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was just the other day
The Gray Swan sailed away."
 
 
"The other day?" the sailor's eyes
Stood open with a great surprise,—
"The other day? the Swan?"
His heart began in his throat to rise.
"Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on."
"And so your lad is gone?"
 
 
"Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,
For a month, and never stir?"
"Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land,
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand,
The wild sea kissing her,—
A sight to remember, sir."
 
 
"But, my good mother, do you know
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the Gray Swan's deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw,
Taking it off, as it might be, so,
The kerchief from your neck."
"Ay, and he'll bring it back!"
 
 
"And did the little lawless lad
That has made you sick and made you sad,
Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?"
"Lawless! the man is going mad!
The best boy ever mother had,—
Be sure he sailed with the crew!
What would you have him do?"
 
 
"And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign
To say he was alive?"
"Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine,
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man, what would you have?"
 
 
"Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,
'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?"—"Miserable man,
You're mad as the sea,—you rave,—
What have I to forgive?"
 
 
The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild.
"My God! my Father! is it true
My little lad, My Elihu?
My blessed boy, my child!
My dead,—my living child!"
 

Alice Cary.

The Circling Year

SPRING

 
The joys of living wreathe my face,
My heart keeps time to freshet's race;
Of balmy airs I drink my fill—
Why, there's a yellow daffodil!
Along the stream a soft green tinge
Gives hint of feathery willow fringe;
Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"—
I'm glad Spring's here!
 

SUMMER

 
An afternoon of buzzing flies.
Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise;
The long white road, the plodding team,
The deep, cool grass in which to dream;
The distant cawing of the crows,
Tall, waving grain, long orchard rows;
The peaceful cattle in the stream—
Midsummer's dream!
 

AUTUMN

 
A cold, gray day, a lowering sky,
A lonesome pigeon wheeling by;
The soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades,
The shivering crane that flaps and wades;
Dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree,
The peace the river sings to me;
The chill aloofness of the Fall—
I love it all!
 

WINTER

 
A sheet of ice, the ring of steel,
The crunch of snow beneath the heel;
Loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh,
A restless pair that prance and neigh;
The early coming of the night,
Red glowing logs, a shaded light;
The firelit realm of books is mine—
Oh, Winter's fine!
 

Ramona Graham.