Memories and Anecdotes Part 16

ASTER

I kissed her all day on her red, red mouth (Cats, cradles and trilobites! Love is the master!) Too utterly torrid, a sweet, spicy South (Of compositae, fairest the Aster.) Stars shone on our kisses--the moon blushed warm (Ursa major or minor, Pollux and Castor!)

How long the homeward! And where was my arm?

(Crushed, crushed at her waist was the Aster!)

No one kisses me now--my winter has come: (To ice turns fortune when once you have pa.s.sed her.) I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum) (For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!)

[Ill.u.s.tration: PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES]

Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems.

A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost every woman will a.s.sure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of the odour of a good cigar."

DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM

When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered and gone, And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on, In the times when he's idle or thoughtful, When he's lonesome, jolly or blue, And he fingers his useless matches, What is a poor fellow to do?

For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is gathered in; From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin; A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two; In this female republic of virtue, What is a poor fellow to do?

He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea, And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he may be; But when the mild cheese has been pa.s.sed, and the chocolate mint drops are few, And the coffee comes in and he hankers, What is a poor fellow to do?

It's all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine grows, And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their clothes; No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly crew; If _this_ is heaven, and he gets there, What is a poor fellow to do?

He'll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break jail, With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet's tail; He'll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory's spell, He'll go back on the women who saved him, And ask for a ticket to _h.e.l.l_!

An exact description of the usual happenings at "Breezy" in the beginning, by my only sister, Mrs. Babc.o.c.k, who was devoted to me and did more than anyone to help to develop the Farm. I feel that this chapter must be the richer for two of her poems.

LIGHT AND SHADE AT "BREEZY MEADOWS" FARM

This charming May morning we'll walk to the grove!

And give the dear dogs all a run; Over the meadows 'tis pleasant to rove And bask in the light of the sun.

Last night a sly fox took off our best duck!

Run for a gun! there a hen hawk flies!

We always have the very worst of luck, The anxious mistress of the chickens cries.

We stop to smell the lilacs at the gate, And watch the bluebirds in the elm-tree's crest-- The finest farm it is in all the state, Which corner of it do you like the best?

Just think! a rat has eaten ducklings two, Now isn't that a shame! pray set a trap!

The downiest, dearest ones that ever grew, I think this trouble will climax cap!

At "Sun Flower Rock," in joy we stand to gaze; The distant orchard, flowering, show so fair: Surely my dear, abandoned farming pays, How heavenly the early morning air!

Now only see! those horrid hens are scratching!

They tear the Mountain Fringe so lately set!

Some kind of mischief they are always hatching, Why did I ever try a hen to pet?

Here's "Mary's Circle," and the birches slender, And Columbine which grows the rocks between, Red blossoms showing in a regal splendour!

We must be happy in this peaceful scene.

The puppies chew the woodbine and destroy The dainty branches sprouting on the wall!

How can the little wretches so annoy?

There's Solomon Alphonzo--worst of all!

Now we will go to breakfast--milk and cream, Eggs from the farm, surely it is a treat!

How horrid city markets really seem When one can have fresh things like these to eat!

What? Nickodee has taken all the hash?

And smashed the dish which lies upon the floor!

I thought just now I heard a sudden crash!

And it was he who slammed the kitchen door!

By "Scare Crow Road" we take our winding way, Tiger and Jerry in the pasture feed.

See, Mary,--what a splendid crop of hay!

Now, don't you feel that this is joy indeed?

The incubator chickens all are dead!

Max fights with Shep, he scorns to follow me!

Some fresh disaster momently I dread; Is that a skunk approaching?--try to see!

Come Snip and Snap and give us song and dance!

We'll have a fire and read the choicest books, While the black horses waiting, paw and prance!

And see how calm and sweet all nature looks.

So goes the day; the peaceful landscape smiles; At times the live stock seems to take a rest.

But fills our hearts with worry other whiles!

We think each separate creature is possessed!

MARY W. BABc.o.c.k.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK]

THE OLD WOMAN

The little old woman, who wove and who spun, Who sewed and who baked, did she have any fun?

In housewifely arts with her neighbour she'd vie, Her triumph a turkey, her pleasure a pie!

She milked and she churned, and the chickens she fed, She made tallow dips, and she moulded the bread.

No club day annoyed her, no program perplext, No themes for discussion her calm slumber vexed.

By birth D.A.R. or Colonial Dame, She sought for no record to blazon her fame--

No Swamies she knew, she cherished no fad, Of healing by science, no knowledge she had.

She anointed with goose grease, she gave castor oil, Strong sons and fair daughters rewarded her toil.