Poems by Hattie Howard Part 4

Much he adores that Pilgrim flock, The same that split old Plymouth rock, Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing.

Devoid of metre, sense, and tune, Who but a Puritanic loon Could have devised the thing?

He revels in a pedigree, The sprouting of a n.o.ble tree 'Way back in prehistoric times; And for the "Family Record" true Of scions all that ever grew Would give a billion dimes.

There is a language fossils speak: 'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek, But quite as dead and antiquate Its silent syllables, and cold; But ah, what meanings they unfold, What histories relate!

The earthquake is his best ally-- It shows up things he cannot buy, And gives him raw material For making mastodons and such, Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch Republic's Rise and Fall."

A piece of bone can never lie: A rib, a femur, or a thigh Is but a dislocated sign Of something hybrid, half and half Betwixt a crocodile and calf-- Maybe a porcupine.

The stately "Antiquarium"

Is his emporium, his home.

He wonders if when he is gone Will people look with mournful pride On him done up and cla.s.sified, And the right label on.

He dreams of an emblazoned page, The calendar of every age Down from Creation's primal dawn; With archetypes of spears and bones, And tons of undeciphered stones Its ill.u.s.trations drawn.

Labor a blessing, not a curse, His hunting ground the Universe, So much the more his nature craves To sound the fathoms of the sea: What mighty wonders there must be Down in those hidden caves!

So toils this dauntless man, alert Amid the ruins and the dirt, That other men to endless day Themselves uplifted from the clod May see, and learn and know that G.o.d Is greater far than they.

And thus, of mighty ken and plan, The all-round antiquarian Pursues his happy ministry; And on the world's progressive track Advances, always going back-- Back to antiquity.

Poor Housekeeping.

If there is one gift that I prize above others, That tinges with brightness whatever I do, And gives to the sombre a roseate hue, 'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers, Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew, And taught me her neatness and diligence too.

So is my discomfort a house in disorder: The service uncleanly, the linen distained, The children like infantry rude and untrained; The portieres dusty and frayed at the border, By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained, And miseries numberless never explained.

I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy, A wrapper all hole-y, a b.u.t.tonless shoe, A slatternly matron with nothing to do; And all the ill-luck charged to ominous Friday Can never compare with the ills that ensue On wretched housekeeping and cookery too.

There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner, Gets up from the table with look of despair, And something akin to the growl of a bear; Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner-- One driven to fasting but not unto prayer-- Till epitaphed thus--"Indigestible Fare."

There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal, A scene of distraction or dullness severe, With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer, That comes like the spring-time refres.h.i.+ng and vernal, Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career, Returning, if ever, not many a year.

O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper, Though faultless in figure and charming of face, In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of lace Usurping the part of a common street-sweeper, You never can pose as a type of your race In frowsy appearance mid things out of place.

O fas.h.i.+on-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter, Until you have learned how to manage a broom, If never you know how to tidy a room, Manipulate bread or decide about b.u.t.ter, The duties of matron how dare you a.s.sume, Or ever be bride to a sensible groom?

I covet no part with that army of s.h.i.+rkers All down at the heels in their slipper-y tread, Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed, Who look with disdain on intelligent workers And take to the club or the circus instead Of mending a stocking or laying the spread.

Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping, Where mistress and helper together compete In excellent management, quiet and neat; And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping, Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweet And home an ideal, idyllic retreat.

Going to Tobog.

Into my disappointment-cup The snowflakes fell and blocked the road, And so I thought I'd finish up The latest style of Christmas ode; When she, the charming little la.s.s With eyes as bright as isingla.s.s, Before a line my pen had wrought In strange attire came bounding in, As if she had with Bruno fought, And robbed him of his s.h.a.ggy skin.

She came to me robed _cap-a-pie_ In her bewitching "blanket-suit,"

In moccasin and toggery, All ready for "that icy chute,"

And asked me if I thought she'd do; I shake with love of mischief true: "For what?--a polar bear?--why, yes!"

"No, no!" she said, with half a pout.

"Why, one would think so, by your dress-- Say, does your mother know you're out?"

"No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed; "Because the storm so wildly raged-- But for the first delightful ride For half a year I've been engaged."

"Engaged to what?--an Esquimau?

To ride a glacier, or a floe?"

"Why, don't you know"--her color glowed, In expectation all agog-- "The reason why I'm glad it snowed?

Because--I'm going to tobog."

"Pa.s.ser Le Temps."

So _that's_ the way you pa.s.s your time!

Indeed your charming, frank confession Betrays no sort of heinous crime, But marks a wonderful digression From puritanic views, less bold, That we were early taught to hold.

"_Pa.s.ser le temps_," of course, implies A little cycle of flirtations, Wherein the actors never rise To sober, serious relations, But play just for amus.e.m.e.nt's sake A harmless game of "give and take."

While moments pa.s.s on pinions fleet, And youth in beauty effloresces, The joy that finds itself complete In honeyed words and soft caresses, Alas! an index seems to be Of perilous inconstancy.

It may be with disdainful smile You greet this comment from a stranger, Your pleasure-paths pursuing while A siren voice discounts the danger, Until, some day, in sadder rhyme You rue your mode of "pa.s.sing time."

The Torpedo.

Valiant sons of the sea, All the vast deep, your home, Holds no terror so dread As this novel and unseen foe, Lurking under the foam Of some dangerous channel-- As the torpedo, the scourge of s.h.i.+ps.

Through the rigging may roar aeolus' thousand gales, Yet the mariner's heart Shrinketh not from the howling blast; Though with battle-rent sails, Flames and carnage around him, Cowardice never shall pale his lips.

But when powers concealed, Threatening with death the crew, Pave each eddy below, E'en the bravest are chilled with fear, Lest yon wizard in blue, Who their progress is spying, Touch but the key with his finger-tips.

Lo! with thunderous boom Towers a column bright, And the vessel is gone!

In that ocean of blinding spray Sink her turrets from sight, By thy potency broken, O irresistible scourge of s.h.i.+ps!

--_Harry Howard._