Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 12

A Parody on "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight."

Slow the Kansas sun was setting, O'er the wheat fields far away, Streaking all the air with cobwebs At the close of one hot day; And the last rays kissed the forehead Of a man and maiden fair, He with whiskers short and frowsy, She with red and glistening hair, He with shut jaws stern and silent; She, with lips all cold and white, Struggled to keep back the murmur, "Towser shall be tied to-night."

"Papa," slowly spoke the daughter, "I am almost seventeen, And I have a real lover, Though he's rather young and green; But he has a horse and buggy And a cow and thirty hens,-- Boys that start out poor, dear Papa, Make the best of honest men, But if Towser sees and bites him, Fills his eyes with misty light, He will never come again, Pa; Towser must be tied to-night."

"Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer, (Every word pierced her young heart Like a carving knife through chicken As it hunts the tender part)-- "I've a patch of early melons, Two of them are ripe to-day; Towser must be loose to watch them Or they'll all be stole away.

I have hoed them late and early In dim morn and evening light; Now they're grown I must not lose them; Towser'll not be tied to-night."

Then the old man ambled forward, Opened wide the kennel-door, Towser bounded forth to meet him As he oft had done before.

And the farmer stooped and loosed him From the dog-chain short and stout; To himself he softly chuckled, "Bessie's feller must look out."

But the maiden at the window Saw the cruel teeth show white; In an undertone she murmured,-- "Towser must be tied to-night."

Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful And her breath came short and quick, Till she spied the family clothesline, And she whispered, "That's the trick."

From the kitchen door she glided With a plate of meat and bread; Towser wagged his tail in greeting, Knowing well he would be fed.

In his well-worn leather collar, Tied she then the clothesline tight, All the time her white lips saying: "Towser shall be tied to-night,"

"There, old doggie," spoke the maiden, "You can watch the melon patch, But the front gate's free and open, When John Henry lifts the latch.

For the clothesline tight is fastened To the harvest apple tree, You can run and watch the melons, But the front gate you can't see."

Then her glad ears hear a buggy, And her eyes grow big and bright, While her young heart says in gladness, "Towser dog is tied to-night."

Up the path the young man saunters With his eye and cheek aglow; For he loves the red-haired maiden And he aims to tell her so.

Bessie's roguish little brother, In a fit of boyish glee, Had untied the slender clothesline, From the harvest apple tree.

Then old Towser heard the footsteps, Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,-- "Bark away," the maiden whispers; "Towser, you are tied to-night."

Then old Towser bounded forward, Pa.s.sed the open kitchen door; Bessie screamed and quickly followed, But John Henry's gone before.

Down the path he speeds most quickly, For old Towser sets the pace; And the maiden close behind them Shows them she is in the race.

Then the clothesline, can she get it?

And her eyes grow big and bright; And she springs and grasps it firmly: "Towser shall be tied to-night."

Oftentimes a little minute Forms the destiny of men.

You can change the fate of nations By the stroke of one small pen.

Towser made one last long effort, Caught John Henry by the pants, But John Henry kept on running For he thought that his last chance.

But the maiden held on firmly, And the rope was drawn up tight.

But old Towser kept the garments, For he was not tied that night.

Then the father hears the racket; With long strides he soon is there, When John Henry and the maiden, Crouching, for the worst prepare.

At his feet John tells his story, Shows his clothing soiled and torn; And his face so sad and pleading, Yet so white and scared and worn, Touched the old man's heart with pity, Filled his eyes with misty light.

"Take her, boy, and make her happy,-- Towser shall be tied to-night."

Law and Liberty

O Liberty, thou child of Law, G.o.d's seal is on thy brow!

O Law, her Mother first and last, G.o.d's very self art thou!

Two flowers alike, yet not alike, On the same stem that grow, Two friends who cannot live apart, Yet seem each other's foe.

One, the smooth river's mirrored flow Which decks the world with green; And one, the bank of st.u.r.dy rock Which hems the river in.

O Daughter of the timeless Past, O Hope the Prophets saw, G.o.d give us Law in Liberty And Liberty in Law!

_E.J. Cutler._

His Mother's Song

Beneath the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day, And now beside a rippling stream Upon the gra.s.s they lay.

Tiring of games and idle jest As swept the hours along, They cried to one who mused apart, "Come, friend, give us a song."

"I fear I can not please," he said; "The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing For me long years ago."

"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried.

"There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us A mother's songs are dear."

Then sweetly rose the singer's voice Amid unwonted calm: "Am I a soldier of the Cross, A follower of the Lamb?

And shall I fear to own His cause?"

The very stream was stilled, And hearts that never throbbed with fear, With tender thoughts were filled.

Ended the song, the singer said, As to his feet he rose, "Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight.

G.o.d grant us sweet repose."

"Sing us one more," the captain begged.

The soldier bent his head, Then, glancing round, with smiling lips, "You'll join with me?" he said.

"We'll sing that old familiar air Sweet as the bugle call, 'All hail the power of Jesus' name!

Let angels prostrate fall.'"

Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell.

As on the soldiers sang; Man after man fell into line, And loud the voices rang.

The songs are done, the camp is still, Naught but the stream is heard; But, ah! the depths of every soul By those old hymns are stirred, And up from many a bearded lip, In whispers soft and low, Rises the prayer that mother taught Her boy long years ago.

When Father Carves the Duck

We all look on with anxious eyes When Father carves the duck, And Mother almost always sighs When Father carves the duck; Then all of us prepare to rise And hold our bibs before our eyes, And be prepared for some surprise When Father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs the fork, Whene'er he carves the duck, And won't allow a soul to talk Until he carves the duck.

The fork is jabbed into the sides, Across the breast the knife he slides, While every careful person hides From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip When Father carves the duck, And how it makes the dishes skip-- Potatoes fly amuck.

The squash and cabbage leap in s.p.a.ce, We get some gravy in our face, And Father mutters Hindoo grace Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around The dining room and pluck From off the window-sills and walls Our share of Father's duck.