Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 9

Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pus.h.i.+ng with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;-- As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked ap.r.o.n fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,-- "Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing.

Dear girl: the gra.s.ses on her grave Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pa.s.s above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,--because they love him.

_John Greenleaf Whittier._

Mother's Fool

"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife, "These boys will make their mark in life; They were never made to handle a hoe, And at once to a college ought to go; There's Fred, he's little better than a fool, But John and Henry must go to school."

"Well, really, wife," quoth Farmer Brown, As he set his mug of cider down, "Fred does more work in a day for me Than both his brothers do in three.

Book larnin' will never plant one's corn, Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born; Nor mend a rod of broken fence-- For my part, give me common sense."

But his wife was bound the roost to rule, And John and Henry were sent to school, While Fred, of course, was left behind, Because his mother said he had no mind.

Five years at school the students spent; Then into business each one went.

John learned to play the flute and fiddle, And parted his hair, of course, in the middle; While his brother looked rather higher than he, And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M.D."

Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred Had taken a notion into his head; But he quietly trimmed his apple trees, And weeded onions and planted peas, While somehow or other, by hook or crook, He managed to read full many a book; Until at last his father said He was getting "book larnin'" into his head; "But for all that," added Farmer Brown, "He's the smartest boy there is in town."

The war broke out, and Captain Fred A hundred men to battle led, And when the rebel flag came down, Went marching home as General Brown.

But he went to work on the farm again, And planted corn and sowed his grain; He s.h.i.+ngled the barn and mended the fence, Till people declared he had common sense.

Now common sense was very rare, And the State House needed a portion there; So the "family dunce" moved into town-- The people called him Governor Brown; And the brothers who went to the city school Came home to live with "mother's fool."

Kentucky Philosophy

You Wi'yam, c.u.m 'ere, suh, dis instunce.

Wu' dat you got under dat box?

I do' want no foolin'--you hear me?

Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_?

'Peah ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.

I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?

_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.

You stole it, you rascal--you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.

En time I gets th'ough wid you, n.i.g.g.e.r, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!

I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mir_an_dy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase!

En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.

I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!

Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'lf sur? I is, I's 'shamed you's my son!

En de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters-- "One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters."

En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, 'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?

Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun?

I's s'prised dat a chile er yo mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.

En I's now gwinter cut it right open, en you shain't have nary bite, Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light-- Ain't--_Lawdy!_ it's _green!_ Mirandy!

Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch!

Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich?

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; But w'en dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut I mean.

En nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant, you hunk, Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!

_Harrison Robertson._

Give Us Men

G.o.d give us men; a time like this demands Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands.

Men whom the l.u.s.t of office cannot kill; Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; Men who possess opinions and a will; Men who have honor; men who will not lie; Men who can stand before a demagogue, And brave his treacherous flatteries without winking; Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog, In public duty and in private thinking; For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds, Its large professions, and its little deeds, Mingle in selfish strife--lo! Freedom weeps, Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps.

_J.G. Holland._

Never Trouble Trouble

My good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay; He lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way, While I, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three, For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

A holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain; And when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain.

He is always prophesying ill to which I won't agree, For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.