Brighter skies will bend above her, When she comes; Time will fly on wings of pleasure, Joy will be a golden treasure, Life will give its gentlest graces, Home seem dearest place of places, Love shall be where her sweet face is, GRANDMA'S SLIPPERS By MRS. B. W. HUNT [These lines by Mrs. Hunt, of Eatonton, Georgia, appeared first in Judge but have been frequently reproduced.] Ah, little shoes, with huge rosette, Again to dance the minuet! For I tonight, in old brocade A hundred years! What interlude That you may dance with modern dude! No! Back within your ancient case EL DORADO A. D. 1540 By JOHN S. KENDALL The golden glory of the morn Still burns the desert under foot, Still lures the magic West, To where the wealth of India A thousand leagues of battle, The parched bones of the slain All these we leave behind us, Dark forests pressed upon us, Strange rivers barred the path: In vain the bitter tempest broke Through want and danger, toil and gloom, So only is the Lavish Land But sometimes, when I lie awake, My dinted sword and battered shield I question-what if baleful chance What if that distant Land of Gold And then my inmost soul responds We've known the joy of battle; We've borne the flag of Spain We've drained the utmost wine of life, Each seeks the thing he values most, Some call it El Dorado, And some The Journey's End; But I-the Quest alone I seek, 'LONE WITH GOD By JUDD MORTIMER LEWIS [Originally published in The Houston Daily Post prior to 1905.] When mamma tucks the covers in an' leaves me comfy there, She leans down an' she kisses me an' then she says: "Good night." She says brave tads like I am doesn't need to have no light; snark; You 'ist know 'at I gits lonesome 'lone with God an' in th' dark! Seems like mamma oughter sense it, that I git 'most skeered tu death, An' I squinch up an' I huddle down an' try tu hold my breath; When I hear th' wind go: "Whoo-ee!" an' th' stairs begin tu squeak, Then th' goose-flesh sticks out on me an' th' tears is on my cheek! An' I know th' ghosts are ha'ntin', for I hear the watch-dog bark; Gee! I sure do git crawly 'lone with God an' in th' dark! Bet yu need God, too, at nighttime! Yu don't need Him in th' day When th' sun's a-shinin' gorgeous an' yu wanter run an' play; But yu need Him right close to yu when you're almos' dead o' fright An' th' Goggle-eyes are grinnin' an' a-blinkin' in th' night-- When th' watchdog is a-whinin' an' yu 'ist lays still an' hark— My! I sure am skeered an' lonesome 'lone with God an' in th' dark. Funny how things looks so diffrunt! Playin' hooky seems a sin, An' yu swear 'f yu live till mornin' that yu'll never go ag'in When th' other fellers coax yu, an' yu wont sneak off tu swim, An' yu whisper: "Now I lay me " an' yu promise things tu Him, An' yu say yu'll keep yer soul white, an' with nary smudge ner mark, Fer a feller feels plum lonesome 'lone with God an' in th' dark. LONGING FOR TEXAS By JUDD MORTIMER LEWIS [Published in The Houston Daily Post about the year 1903.] No, it isn't hot in Texas; and the cool night dews are falling, And the katydids are chirping in the grass beside the pool; And from out the moonlit distances the mocking-birds are calling, And I know the days are hazy and the nights perfumed and cool. And I know the jasmine's blooming as it bloomed in all its whiteness, And my heart is heavy in me-for I'm far away today, And my spirit lags forever, and my tread has lost its lightness,. And I'm humming "Down in Dixie," and my heart throbs: "Look away!" Oh, it isn't hot in Texas, for the cool gulf breeze is blowing, And the cattle all are standing underneath the wide oak trees, Or are wending slowly homeward from the pasture, lowing, lowing; And a drone comes softly to me from the honey-laden bees. |