And her lips were blooming a rosy red. Then my heart spoke out with a right bold

air:

"Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"

ON THE ROAD

I's boun' to see my gal to-night-
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
De moon ain't out, de stars ain't bright -
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
Dis hoss o' mine is pow'ful slow,
But when I does git to yo' do'
Yo' kiss'll pay me back, an' mo',
Dough lone de way, my dearie.

De night is skeery-lak an' still
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
'Cept fu' dat mou'nful whippo'will -
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
De way so long wif dis slow pace,
'T'u'd seem to me lak savin' grace
Ef you was on a nearer place,

Fu' lone de way, my dearie.

I hyeah de hootin' of de owl

Oh, lone de way, my dearie!

I wish dat watch-dog would n't howl -
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
An' evaht'ing bofe right an' lef',
Seem p'in'tly lak hit put itse'f
In shape to skeer me half to def
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!

I whistles so 's I won't be feared-
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
But anyhow I's kin' o' skeered,

Fu' lone de way, my dearie.
De sky been lookin' mighty glum,
But you kin mek hit lighten some,
Ef you'll jes' say you 's glad I come,
Dough lone de way, my dearie.

HYMN

O LI'L' lamb out in de col',
De Mastah call you to de fol',
O li'l' lamb !

SUNRISE IN

THE HILLS SATSUMA

OF

Of a lonely wing on a dawn-lit bay.
Then add the gleam of a golden fan,
And I will paint you Miyoko San.

Find me the thought of a rose, at sight
Of her own pale face in a fawning stream,
The polished night

Of a crow's slow flight,

And the long, sweet grace of a willow's dream.

Then add the droop of a golden fan,
And I will paint you Miyoko San.

Lure me a lay from a sunbeam's throat,
The chant of bees in a perfumed lair,
Or a single note
Gone mad to float

To its own sweet death in the upper air.
Then add the click of a golden fan,
And I have painted Miyoko San.

Who sees the English elm-trees fling Long shadows where his footsteps pass, Or marks the crocuses that spring

Sets starlike in the English grass,
And sees not, as within a glass,
New England's loved reflection rise,
Mists darker and more dense, alas !
Than England's fogs are in his eyes.

And who can walk by English streams,
Through sunny meadows gently led,
Nor feel, as one who lives in dreams,

The wound with which his fathers bled,

The homesick tears which must, unshed,

Have dimmed the brave, unfaltering eyes That saw New England's elms outspread

Green branches to her loftier skies?

How dear to exiled hearts the sound

Of little brooks that run and sing! How dear, in scanty garden ground,

The crocus calling back the spring
To English hearts remembering!

How dear that aching memory

Of cuckoo cry and lark's light wing! And for their sake how dear to me !

Who owns not how, so often tried,

The bond all trial hath withstood; The leaping pulse, the racial pride

In more than common brotherhood; Nor feels his kinship like a flood Rise blotting every dissonant trace, He is not of the ancient blood! He is not of the Island race!

WAR

THE great Republic goes to war,

But spring still comes as spring has done,
And all the summer months will run
Their summer sequence as before;
And every bird will build its nest,
The sun sink daily in the west,

And rising eastward bring new day
In the old way.

But ah, those dawns will have a light,
Those western skies burn golden bright,

With what a note the birds will sing,
And winter's self be turned to spring
Than any springtime sweeter far,
When once again, calm entering,
The great Republic comes from war!

JUDGMENT

A DEAD Soul lay in the light of day, Desperate, wan, it had passed;

To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,

On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free, And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry each to each, “”T is

the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,

Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main,

and who calls them this time home!

And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest,

The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,

And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!

Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,

Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,

And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,

From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace."

Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show

The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go, How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,

South and North at the call stood forth, and

the whole land answered, "Here!" For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song

Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to

the grace of their country's God!

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,

To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,