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1913 Tel. directory    1824 Pigots (Belfast)  &  (Bangor)   1894 Waterford Directory    1898 Newry Directory  Bangor Spectator Directory 1970

donated by John Sturgeon
(the background of this page is made up of some of the images in the scrapbook)

This book has a little Genealogical information and many wonderful poems, songs and writings

names mentioned in the book are :- J. L. Stewart, Hugh Millar, Rev. W. J. and Mrs. Sara A. McCaughan, Clara Murphy, Mr. & Mrs. J. M. Armstrong, Lily Williamson Boyd, Mr. & Mrs. P. B. Coulter, Mabel Leckey, Mr. & Mrs. C. E. Thompson


Information from The Belfast Timeline

26th July 1910 - Three people were killed and many more injured during a fire at the Kelvin Hotel on College Square East. The fire had broken out in the lounge of the hotel and many residents had to jump from windows to escape. The dead were named as Leo Morgan and Austin Vaughan, employees of the Hotel and a Mr. Cosart of Manchester. The injured were Rev W J McCaughan, pastor of May Street Presbyterian Church, Mrs. McCaughan, Miss Jennie Dunseith of Limavady who was the hotel bookkeeper, Mr. Charles Milter of Manchester, Mr. Richard E. Hine of Stockport.

August 1910 - The Rev William McCaughan who was injured in the fire at the Kelvin Hotel, College Square East, died (31st July) from the injuries he received when he had to jump from the second floor of the hotel to escape the fire and smoke from the fire.

'A Thousand Welcomes'
no information but its Robinson & Cleaver Ltd. in Belfast, looks like the Navy?

Who is Hugh Millar/Miller? thank you to Colin McGaffin for the answer :)

Hugh Miller was a renowned Scottish geologist and writer. There are a couple of photos of the grave on the "findagrave" website, you can see that they are identical to the photo on your website, with the exception that a couple of stone crosses have been placed on the ground at either side of the headstone:
 Here is a bit about him:

Cool ! on the back it gives instructions how to sew these but its very blurred and I can only make out "to be lavishly..."

no information

no information

no information

Blarney Castle

San Francisco in Ruins, City Hall

Whiteabbey Manse

San Francisco in Ruins, Jones Street Burning, Showing Hibernia Bank and Prager's Store

Burning the Knuts

Mended while you wait
Our Dreams shall come True

The grandest life, we know, is yet to come; Our dreaming shall prove true:
All the good works our souls have only planned, Those works we yet shall do.
Our eyes shall see the land most beautiful, And, after wrong and strife,
We shall be comforted with perfect love, And live the nobler life.

The Unknown Quantity

Nobody ever added up, The value of a smile;
We know how much a pound is worth, And how much is a mile;
We know the distance to the sun, The size and weight of earth,
But no one here can tell us just, How much a smile is worth.

"When you come home"
Fred. E. Weatherly

Birds in the garden, all day long,
Singing for me their happy song,
Flowers in the sunshine, wind and dew,
All of them speak to me of you.
You that I long for, near or far,
You that I follow like a star;
Day may be weary, weary and long,
You will come home at evensong.

When you come home, dear, all will be fair,
Home is not home if you are not there -
You in my heart, dear, you at my side,
When you come home at even-tide.

Birds in the garden sing no more,
Twilight is folding roof and door,
Softly the bells of evening call,
Shadow and sun for one and all!
So, when we reach the close of day,
Put your dear hands in mine and say -
"God grant that we go side by side,
When we go home at even-tide!"

When we go home, dear, when we go home,
No more to leave you, no more to roam,
God will remember! God will provide!
When we go home at even-tide!

"O Peaceful Night"
Ed. German

O Peaceful night! so calm and still!
The moonlight sleeps on vale and hill;
And soft the brooklet hurries by,
With murm'rous flow of lullaby:
Till life awakes adown the dale,
Sweet music of the nightingale.
     O peaceful night! O dream of day!
     Stay with us, stay!

O mystic night! in woodland shade,
Thou know'st a fairy-haunted glade,
Where laughing elves, with tiny feet,
Go tripping through the meadow-sweet:
Till in the silent sky afar,
Again shines forth the morning star.
     O mystic night! O dream of day!
     Stay with us, stay!

An Apologue on Baptisms For the Times

A mother hen whose infant charge,
Had come at length to walk at large,
And roamed with her abroad one morning,
Addressed them, thus is words of warning:
"Dear Presbyterian cocks and hens
Beware the rivers, lakes and fens.
In such has many a chick been found,
Through heedless rashness, dead and drowned.
So mark my words, each son and daughter,
I would not, dears, deny your water,
To drink, or for discreet aspersion,
But for your lives, avoid immersion.
No fowl of any note has ever,
Approved of plunging in a river,
And if the Scriptures broad commend it,
Be very sure they don't intend it.
Where'er they seem to teach immersion,
The fault lies in the present version,
The best authorities I know,
Have uniformly judged it so."

Unmarked amid the numerous brood,
That shared her fond solicitude,
A little drake was there as well,
(Who like the rest had chipped the shell
Beneath her soft and feathery breast)
And shared her counsel with the rest.

A while they walked in comely order,
Crossed two seed beds and one flower border,
Passed through a hedge-row, where, beyond,
The home enclosure, lay a pond.
"Now mark me, dears, each son and daughter,
If you would thrive, avoid the water.
No Commentator, worth the name,
Has mentioned plunging but in blame."
She spoke, and now the hedge-row past,
The pond lay full in sight at last:
The careful hen beheld affrighted
Her foster-child dash in delighted.
Aghast at such a strange proceeding,
So little like a fowl of breeding.
Close to the brink she took her station,
And thus exclaimed in consternation:-
"Poor thoughtless creature are you mad?
What - cocks and hens- what ails the lad?
Quick - fetch assistance - call a surgeon!
My darling son's gone after Spurgeon."

At thus she screamed in great alarm,
The drake came back and caught no harm.
But much they argued as they went,
About the aqueous element.
The one was stiff, the other stiffer,
For fowls as well as doctors differ.
And where opinions are divided,
Each bird must by his light by guided.
Sure instinct teaches hens and drakes,
But for my Christian readers' sakes,
Lest any stumbler should mistake it,
As plain as plain can be I'll make it.
In spite of every bold assertion,
The Scriptures plainly teach IMMERSION

"The Hostess' Daughter"
Queen's Island (Engineering Dept.) Male Choir

There came three travellers over the Rhine,
They stopped at an inn, and they called for some wine.

Mine hostess, you bring us right excellent wine,
But where, pry' thee, wher's that fair daughter of thine?

My masters, I bring you good wine, cool and clear,
But alas! my young daughter lies dead on her bier.

They enter the chamber with slow solemn tread,
And lo! in her bier, the fair maiden lay dead.

The first, he stepped forward and lifted the veil,
And wept as he gazed on that form cold and pale.

Ah! could'st thou, sweet maid, from death's clutch be set free,
I'd swear from this moment to love only thee.

The second he sigh'd as he hung o'er the bier,
Oh" maiden, I've lov'd thee for many a year.

Then whisper'd the third as he kiss'd her pale brow,
I'll love thee for ever, as I love thee now!

"An Emblem"
Jack Thompson

I only had a rose to give to you,
An emblem of my love so fond and true.
You coldly smil'd, we drifted apart;
The rose you cast aside
It was my heart.

When I am gone I want no wealth of flow'rs,
Dim not your eyes with tears for these last hours,
But come to me in my last deep repose,
To only kiss my brow,
And give me back my rose.

"The Fairy Pipers"
A. H. Brewer

When all the birds are gone to sleep,
And all the frogs are still;
If you would hear the fairy pipes,
Come out upon the hill.

     Come out! Come out! listen on the air!
       Up there! down there! playing ev'rywhere!
     Oh hark! oh hear! don't you hear the tune?
       Airy fairy pipers underneath the merry moon!

They'll play to you of Cupid's tricks,
Of lovely queens and kings,
Of fights and fun and politics,
And lots of other things.

The Spoken Word
Virginia B. Harrison

I heedlessly opened the cage
And suffered my bird to go free;
And, though I besought it with tears to return,
It never came back to me.
It nests in the wildwood, and heeds not my call,
Oh the bird once at liberty, who can enthrall?

I hastily opened my lips
And uttered a word of disdain
That wounded a friend, and forever estranged
A heart I would die to regain.
But the bird once at liberty, who can enthrall?
And the word that's once spoken, O who can recall?

Long Ago
Leslie Leigh Ducros

Do you remember once, long years ago,
We leaned above the little rustic fence
And watched the gleaming sunbeams sinking low
Behind the woodlands, far away and dense?
The summer breezes lightly brushed your cheek,
Your hair was gilded by the fading glow -
My heart which, until now, had fluttered meek,
Was boldened, and kissed you - long ago.

Do you remember how, then, years ago,
We wandered by this path upon the hill,
And how when night fell you were loth to go,
But lingered by the rippling, splashing rill?
I tried to speak and banish doubts forlorn;
My words rushed forth in rapturous overflow;
You, laughing, mocked my tender hopes to scorn -
Your laugh was, oh! so silvery - long ago.

Do you remember, long, long years ago,
That night when countless stars bedecked the skies,
I, turning, torn with pangs of bitter woe,
Beheld love's fickle light within your eyes?
I caught your hands and vowed I would not part
With them until your lips had whispered low
The inner secret passions of your heart.
Then you confessed you loved me - long ago?


Although short men may sometimes be clever, probably the ideal man of the majority of women is tall.  Chiefly, perhaps, because Napoleon was a little man, a certain well-known writer has recently started a campaign against the men of big stature.  It is true that Julius Caesar, the Duke of Wellington, M. Thiers, and the great Nelson were little men, but then Bismarck stood six feet eight inches in height, Beaconsfield was six feet high, Gladstone about five feet ten inches, Lord Salisbury and Sir William Harcourt over six feet, Mr. Chamberlain is about five feet nine inches, Mr. Balfour, Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, and Lord Curzon are all over six feet; President Lincoln was a tall man and so is Lord Kitchener.  Turning to other walks of life, there have been many distinguished men of letters like Thackeray, or famous artists like Leighton, who have been anything but short of stature.  Little men may not like to believe it, but there is much to be said, after all, for the men who can always carry their heads high and take a lofty view of things.

Where Quair Rins Sweet
Rev. James Nicol, 1769-1819

Where Quair rins sweet amang the flowers,
Down by yon woody glen, lassie,
My cottage stands - it shall be yours,
Gin ye will be my ain, lassie.

I'll watch ye wi' a lover's care,
And wi' a lover's e'e, lassie,
I'll weary heaven we' mony a prayer,
And ilka prayer for thee, lassie.

'Tis true I hae nae mickle gear;
My stock it's unco sma', lassie;
Nae fine-spun foreign claes I wear,
Nor servants tend my ca', lassie.

But had I heird the British crown,
And thou o' low degree, lassie;
A rustic lad I wad hae grown,
Or shared that crown wi' thee, lassie.

Whenever absent frae thy sight,
Nae pleasures smile on me, lassie;
I climb the mountain's towering height,
And case a look to thee, lassie.

I blame the blast blaws on thy cheek;
The flower that decks thy hair, lassie,
The gales that steal thy breath sae sweet,
My love and envy share, lassie.

If for a heart that glows for thee,
Thou wilt thy heart resign, lassie,
Then come my Nancy, come to me -
That glowing heart is mine, lassie.

Where Quair rins sweet amang the flowers,
Down by yon woody glen, lassie,
My cottage stands - it shall be yours,
Gin ye will by my ain, lassie.

Partick - D. Campbell

After the years of wandering
How sweet, my heart, how sweet,
At last to turn and homeward bring
The weary, way-worn feet.

And oh, my heart, the song you sing
With love and joy is sweet
After the weary journeying
A waiting heart to meet.

In one embrace awhile to cling,
As heart to heart doth beat,
After the years of wandering,
How sweet, my heart, how sweet.

After life's weary wandering
In this poor world, to greet
The one we gave with sorrowing
To God; how sweet, how sweet.

I'd Mourn The Hopes That Leave Me
Words by Thomas Moore, Air, "The Rose Tree"

Song For Twilight
Bryan Waller Procter

Hide me, O twilight air,
Hide me from thought, from care,
From all things foul or fair,
Until to-morrow!
To-night I strive no more;
No more my soul shall soar;
Come, sleep, and shut the door
'Gainst pain and sorrow!

If I must see through dreams,
Be mine Elysian gleams,
Be mine by morning streams
To, watch and wander;
So may my spirit cast
(Serpent-like) off the past,
And my free soul at last
Have leave to ponder.

And shouldst thou 'scape control,
Ponder on love, sweet soul;
On joy, the end and goal
Of all endeavour;
But if earth's pains will rise,
(As damps will seek the skies,)
Then, night, seal thou mine eyes,
In sleep for ever.

The Fellow that's Doing his Best
"The Washington Post"

There's a song for the man who is lucky and bold,
For the man who has fate on his side;
There are cheers for the folk that are jingling the gold,
And are drifting along with the tide.
But the man who is striving to get to the land,
And facing the hungry wave's crest,
We quite overlook, for we don't understand,
The fellow that's doing his best.

But he has his rewards when the story is done,
Though we smile as he plods on his way,
For his own self-esteem is the prize he has won,
As obscurely he's stood in the fray.
And he knows the affection of home and of friends,
And, the pleasures of honest-earned rest;
There are peace and goodwill, as the twilight descends,
For the fellow that's doing his best.


Why do some married women get uninteresting and dowdy?  Why?  Because their husbands do not appreciate them as they did before marriage.  Having given her his name, a man gives his wife up to a monotonous life, unbroken by kindly, cheering words or caresses.  Before marriage his brain was fertile in planning pleasant little outings - a day's excursion to the country or seaside, or a visit to the theatre; but after marriage these little attentions cease.  Yet they are just as full of pleasure to the busy woman, whose life is spent almost entirely within the precincts of her house, and who is probably even more in need of little holidays than when she was in her parents' home.  Some husbands, again, show lack of appreciation of the appearance of their wives.  If a husband does not take a pride in his wife's appearance either she may turn to a man who does, or she may become slatternly and careless as to her looks.


Generally speaking, a man likes to be told he is handsome, whether he is or not.  He likes to be told he has small feet.  This is a tip for wives,  There is more virtue in a pair of tight shoes in keeping a man at home in the evenings than in all the Ten Commandments.  It pleases a man to be asked for advice.  You don't need to take it.  Most men have advice to give away, and they are willing to bestow it on women gratis.  It pleases a man for a woman to depend on him.  This is the reason why many foolish girls could get two husbands apiece, while strong-minded women remain old maids.


"Love" is the touchstone of virtue.
Giving all and asking nothing in return.
An excellent salve for wounds and bruises of all kinds.
A wrapping of the heart-strings around a cherished object.
A drop of precious attar drawn from the heart of the flower.
Love is light which reveals hidden beauty, and brings to life joy.
"Love" is the lump of sugar that sweetens life's cup of tea.
Love is a weapon that will conquer men when all other weapons fail.
Love is that which levels all things - with the possible exception of the head.

The Evening Cloud
John Wilson (Christopher North)

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.

Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven,
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

Eliza Cook

"There is a land that bears a well-known name,
Though it is but a little spot;
A say it is the first on the scroll of fame,
And who shall say it is not?
Of the deathless ones who shine and live
In arms, in arts, or song;
The brightest the whole world can give,
To that little land belong."

Earl of Southesk

"O happy, happy, happy is life
For Joe (that's me) and Jenny my wife!
All of the neighbours are happy and say -
'Never were folk so happy as they!'
O happy are we! for love, you see,
Fetters a heart and makes it free.!

The Lift of the Heart
"Atlantic Monthly"

When we stand with the woods around us
And the great boughs overhead;
When the wind blows cool on our foreheads
And the breath of the pines is shed'
When the song of the thrush is ringing -
Wonderful, rich, apart -
Between the sound and the silence
Comes a sudden lift of the heart.

When we seek with the clearer vision
That grief the revealer brings,
For the threads that are shot together
In the close-wrought web of things,
And find that pain is woven
Into love and joy and art -
Between the search and the solace
Comes a sudden lift of the heart.

And when life's farthing candle
Gutters and flares and sinks;
When the eye no longer wanders,
And the brain no longer thinks;
When only the hand plucks idly
At the sheet till spirit part -
Does there come between living and dying
A sudden lift of the heart?

A Bright World

Some say this world is a cold, cold world,
But it's always been bright to me,
With its hearthstone fires and warm desires,
Of the things that are yet to be.
And if I must labour I wait,
And trust to the fields I have sown,
For I know there is truth in the promise of youth -
I shall some time come to my own.

Some say this world is a bad, bad world,
But it's always been good to me;
With its errors there live dear hearts that forgive,
And hope for the things to be.
This world is not old nor cold,
This world is not sad nor bad,
If you look to the right, forgetting the night,
And say to your soul, "Be glad!"


The Bright Side
"Chicago Chronicle"

"Go pluck from every flaming bush
The dewy rose of morn,
And keep the ruby-coloured cup,
But cast away the thorn;
Retain the flower's golden heart
But not the bitter smart.

"Go look on life in every scene,
The gloomy and the gay,
Remembering the splendid ones
And cast the rest away.
Recall the ones with love aglow,
But turn away from woe.

Go sip from all the cups of life
In all her ways among,
But banish all the thought of dregs
And keen upon your tongue
The honey, sweetest draught of all,
But throw away the gall"

Estimate of Success
Clara B. Castle

It is not, always, to have willed thy gain;
It is not always to have gained thy will;
But rather is it, always to have caught
The present moment from time's flying wheel,
And tossed it, unregretted, to the past,
Stamped with the highest purpose of they soul.

An Autumn Song
Clinton Scollard

How the wind is keening through the coppice,
Crying, child-like, through the stocks of corn!
In the wheat no more the scarlet poppies
Tangle like the scattered shreds of morn.

Sough the pine-tops, and the sound is eerie
As the sunset sobbing of the sea;
Dusks the far horizon chill and dreary,
While above the banded song-birds flee.

Towards us hastens one, no vernal comer,
Who will silence all the meadow mirth,
Till the memory of the vanished summer
Will seem like a paradise on earth.

But with your companionship for guerdon
(Eyes and lips remembrancing the flowers!)
Without murmur will I bear the burden
Of the fetters of the icy hours.

For your smile will be perennial token
Of the gladness that the days will bring
When the long white quietude is broken
By the marvellous magicry of spring.

Florence Wilkinson

Her hands are made for loving,
Her lips for stainless truth,
And her clear eyes are beautiful
With changeless youth.

Think Twice
A. May, Westminster, London

Before you push a brother down,
Think twice.
Before at other's sins you frown,
Think twice.
Withhold the gossip's idle sneer,
The thrust that draws the bitter tear,
For Fortune's favouring gale may veer,
Think twice.

The mercy you to others show,
That mercy you shall some day know;
With other's faults be kind, be slow -
Think twice.

A Few Kisses

The mother's kiss, the seal that binds the scroll of her sacred memory.
The sister's kiss, the guard put upon our lips to speak no ill of women.
The wife's kiss, the talisman of virtue.
The sweetheart's kiss, the right of devotion, and the sceptre of command.

Isaac Watts

To be angry about trifles is mean and childish; to rage and be furious is brutish; but to prevent and suppress rising resentment is wise and glorious, is manly and divine.


Cheerfulness easily carries burdens which would crush discontent.
Live so that when winter's snow is on your head, the flowers of spring shall be at your heart.
A good example is the best kind of good advice.
The more kind deeds one does, the more one will wish to do.
Keep a good watch over your own conscience, and you will not be likely to judge other's rashly.
Those who are true to the best they know to-day, will know a better best to-morrow.
Hold on to the truth, for it will serve you well, and do you good throughout eternity.
The truly generous is the truly wise, and he who loves not others, lives unblest.
"If I can put some touches of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman," said G. Macdonald, "then I feel that I have wrought with God."
It is a good plan to start the morning cheerfully.
It is the little disagreements that pave the way for the big heartaches.

Charles Lusted

Can love forget the sweetness of old days,
That lingers like the scent of April flowers?
Can she forget her deep and winding ways,
Her joy-embosomed hours?

What voice could hush her soul-revealing words,
That almost seem to kiss in their caress,
Or lilt like music from full-throated birds,
Engulfed in happiness.

There is no power to make the heart forget
The dewy softness shining in Love's eyes;
When lips have kissed and souls in passion met,
That moment never dies.

For Love regards her memories more than light,
And treasures oft the falling of a tear;
She hides her secrets in ambrosial night,
In silence makes them clear.

And when Love, like the splendour of the rose,
Droops to the end, and her soft petals fall;
She, through say eyes, can see the past unclose,
And eddying bliss recall.

Could she forget how madly life did swell,
When heart knocked heart in rapture and regret;
And joy met sorrow in a long farewell,
Could Love, such love, forget?


By a piece of good luck the new recruit had been appointed orderly to his captain, and the latter was now giving him instructions.  "You rise at five o'clock," he said, "shave yourself and clean your boots and equipment.  Then you clean my boots, buttons, belt, shave me, see to my horse, which you must groom thoroughly.  After that go to your hut, help to serve out breakfast, and after breakfast lend a hand at washing up."
     The recruit, whose face had been growing longer and longer, then said, "Beg pardon, sir, but is there nobody else in the Army but me?"

Love Letters - A Warning
by Beatrice Fairfax

Have you ever written a love letter?
If so, has it been to a man you really loved, or to a man you merely thought yourself in love with?  There is nothing in which you should show more wisdom and discretion than in letter-writing.  A young girl will imagine she is in love and will proceed to pour out her heart on paper.  Later, when she has entirely out-grown her interest in the man, she will wish sincerely that she had never penned those gushing sentiments.  If the man is the right sort he will destroy the letters, or at least never show them to anyone.  But how is a young, inexperienced girl going to be sure that he is the right sort.  Her heart very often runs away with her head, and she makes many mistakes ere she learns to judge men,
There is probably no harm in anything she has said, but written words assume greater importance than spoken ones, and there is no knowing what harm the foolish little epistles may spark.  Save your love letters until the right man comes along.  He is the only man who will properly appreciate them.  Any other man may treat them respectfully though, but if he saves them they are likely after his marriage to fall into his wife's hands, and she may not treat them so kindly.
Woman are not very generous toward their husbands' old sweethearts, you know.  Even though they may not be jealous, they will not be able to resist a little touch of malice, and your poor little letters will, in all probability, be subjected to ridicule.  When you write to a man make your letters as friendly and nice as possible, but don't make them sentimental or gushing.
If a man leaves one or two letters unanswered drop the correspondence, for the chances will be that he has grown weary of writing.  Letters do not mean as much to men as they do to women, for the simple reason, that they receive so many more of them. Every man receives business letters, and his personal correspondence is more or less a secondary affair.  Most men are careless about letters: they let them lie about in bureau drawers, etc., and any unscrupulous person may read them.
A mother wrote me just the other day that her son was receiving letters from a girl every day. "She is a very foolish girl," said the mother, "for my son is too young to marry, and could not support a wife. The girl writes him the most sentimental love letters. She makes no secret of leaving them for him and saying they are love letters."  The mother asks me to tell the girls how very foolish they are to write such sentimental trash.  You know, girls, a real love letter is not necessarily full of terms of endearment.  Some of the most beautiful love letters ever written have been absolutely free from gush of any sort.  All through them the spirit of ineffable love has breathed, but it has been so exquisitely and delicately expressed that it has made the letter almost a poem.  But you don't want to waste your best and tenderest thoughts on a man whose name you will have all but forgotten in a few years.  Don't write your real love letters until the real sweetheart comes.  Save your best for him.  He is the man who has the right to the very best you can do in the love letter line.  And even with him always hold yourself a little in reserve.  Let your letters be sweet and loving, but never let them be too cloyingly sweet.


Little children, you must seek
Rather to be good than wise,
For the thoughts you do not speak
Shine out in your cheeks and eyes.

If you think that you can be
Cross and cruel, and look fair,
Let me tell you how to see
You are quite mistaken there.

Go and stand before the glass
And some ugly thought contrive,
And my word will come to pass
Just as sure as you're alive!

What you have and what you lack,
All the same as what you wear,
You will see reflected back;
So, my little folks, take care!

And not only in the glass
Will your secrets come to view;
All believers, as they pass,
Will perceive, and know them, too.

Goodness shows in blushes bright,
Or in eyelids drooping down
Like a violet from the light;
Badness in a sneer or frown.

Out of sight, my boys and girls,
Every root of beauty starts;
So think less about your curls,
More about your minds and hearts.

Cherish what is good, and drive
Evil thoughts and feelings far;
For as sure as you're alive
You will show for what you are.


Mrs. Edwin was showing Selma, the new Swedish maid "the ropes"  "This," she said, "is my son's room. He is in Yale."
"Ya?" Selma's face lit up with sympathetic understanding.  "My brudder bane there, too."
"Is that so?" What year?" asked Mrs. Edwin, somewhat surprised.
"Ach, he bane got no year; the yudge yust say, 'You, Axel, sixty days in yail.'"


The landlady bustled up to her new lodger as he came down to breakfast the first morning.
"Good morning, sir," she wheezed
"Good morning," said the lodger
"I hope you've had a good night's rest," said the landlady
"No," said the mild-mannered little man, "your cat kept me awake."
"Oh," said the landlady, tossing her head, "I suppose you're going to ask me to have the poor thing killed."
"No, not exactly," said the gentle lodger, "but would you very much mind having it tuned."

Lisburn 1920

Oh, Mary, poor Lisburn's a wonderful sight
It resembles an old ruined village by night
In places the footpaths are clear for the feet
But soon you are forced to step on to the street;
If folk ask the reason, of course, they are told,
Lest they might think 'twas someone just digging for gold.
Yet back to my own troubled town would I flee
Where I placed on a throne by the side of the sea

Some kind-hearted persons who like to abuse
Remarked, "Were our constables having a snooze?"
Why don't they join up, then, when dangers arise?"
We'll watch them form fours, and buzz off with the flies;
It's easy to sit by our fireside at night,
And picture ourselves putting armies to flight;
Could the big Prussian Guards, were they brave as could be,
Drive our good "Old Contemptibles" into the sea?

I doubt ere our town is its old self once more
There'll be fruit a few times on the crab-tree next door;
But may buildings replace the old ruins at last
So grand and so tall that the moon won't get past;
And should fate decree I'll be digging for gold
Sweet prayers for old Lisburn I will never withhold;
So farewell, dear reader, I may yet meet with thee
Where the Lagan skirts Lisburn on its way to the sea.

Open The Door
"British Weekly"

Open the door, let in the air;
The winds are sweet, and the flowers are fair,
Joy is abroad in the world to-day;
If our door is wide, it may come this way.
Open the door!

Open the door, let in the sun;
He hath a smile for every one;
He hath made of the raindrops gold and gems;
He may change our tears to diadems.
Open the door!

Open the door of the soul; let in
Strong, pure thoughts which shall banish sin,
They shall grow and bloom with a grace divine,
And their fruit shall be sweeter than that of the vine.
Open the door!

Open the door of the heart; let in
Sympathy sweet for stranger and kin,
It will make the halls of the heart so fair
That angels may enter unaware.
Open the door!

Preferred the Burglar

The burglar's wife was in the witness-box and the prosecuting attorney was conducting a vigorous cross-examination.
"Madam, you are the wife of this man?"
"You knew he was a burglar when you married him?"
"How did you come to contract a matrimonial alliance with such a man?"
"Well,"  the witness said, sarcastically, "I was getting old, and had to choose between a lawyer and a burglar."
The cross-examination ended there.


Louis C. Minette, accepted for enlistment in the United States Marine Corps at Tulsa, Okla, recently said that his mother was an American who married a Frenchman in Italy. He was born on a ship flying the Spanish colours while lying in the English Channel. At the age of 5 his parents died in Sweden, and he was adopted by a German, who brought him to the United States.  His adopted father is not a naturalised citizen.  "Would you class him as 'the man without a country?' said the recruiting sergeant. "Man without a country nothing," said the sergeant, "I'd class him as a League of Nations."


Williams was defending a man in a murder case.  The case looked hopeless, the prosecution was soon done.  Williams rose.  In a quiet, conversational tone, Williams began to talk to the jury.  He made no mention of the murder.  He just described in vivid colours a pretty country cottage hung with honeysuckle, a young wife preparing supper, and the rosy youngsters waiting at the gate to greet their father on his return home for the evening meal.  Suddenly Williams stopped.  He drew himself up to his full height.  Then, striking the table with his fist, he cried, in a voice that thrilled every bosom - "Gentlemen, you must send him back to them."
A red-faced juror choked, and blurted out - "By George, sir, we'll do it!"  Williams, without another word, sat down, and ten minutes later the jury brought in a verdict of acquittal.  The  prisoner wept as he shook his counsel's hand. "No other man on earth could have saved me, as you have done, Mr. Williams," he sobbed.  "I ain't got no wife or family, sir."

Don't Marry....

1. A man who is opposed to Total Abstinence.  You will never change him, and your life will likely be miserable; he may continue to love you, but the fascination of the drink grows with amazing speed.
2. A man who is always smoking.  You meet him on the street, in the house, in a place of public amusement, in the company of man or in the company of ladies, his pipe is there too; it seems glued to his teeth.  Such a habit, carried to excess is not what you expect to see in a gentleman.
3. A man who is always surrounded with dogs and whose whole conversation is limited to the canine species.  No matter who may be present, no matter even if it be on the Sabbath, he and his dogs are obtruded into the discourse.  This indicates coarseness of mind, and, generally, lack of consideration for others, for association generates likeness.
4. A man who has no religion.  Not to attend church is a sign that there is no grace in the soul.  Such a man never blames himself.  His irreligion is traced to the inconsistencies of some professing Christians.

The Mysterious Guests
by Ralph G. Taber

I had three friends, I asked one day
That they would dine with me;
But when they came I found that they
Were six instead of three.

My good wife whispered: "We, at best,
But five can hope to dine.
Send one away. I did. The rest.
Remaining numbered nine.

!I too, will go," the second cried.
He left at once, and then,
Although to count but eight I tried,
There were remaining ten.

"Go call them back!" my wife implored;
"I fear the third may go,
And leave behind, to share our board,
Perhaps a score or so."

The second one then straight returned,
As might have been expected;
He, with the ten, we quickly learned,
Eleven made. Dejected,

We saw the first returning; he,
With all the rest, turned round,
And there, behold" were my friends three,
Though six they still were found.

(For those of you who yet may find
My riddle too complex,
I'll say the friends I had in mind
Were "S" and "I" and "X")

Such a Surprise

A well-know Chicago clergyman who is a widower and the father of two charming grown daughters is also something of a wag.  During his vacation last summer, he sent the following telegram to his daughters:
"Have just married a widow with six children. Will be home to-morrow."
The next day he arrived alone and found his daughters in tears.
"Wh-where id the w-widow?" they sobbed in unison.
"Oh," he replied, a merry twinkle in his eye, "I married her to another man."


Marry when the year is new,
Always loving, kind and true,
When February birds do mate,
You may wed, nor dread your fate.
If you marry when March winds blow,
Joy and sorrow both you'll know,
Marry in April when you can,
Joy for maiden and for man.
Marry in the month of May,
You will surely rue the day,
Marry when June roses blow,
Over land and sea you'll go.
They who in July do wed,
Must labour always for their bread,
All who wed in August be,
Many a change are sure to see.
Marry in September's shine,
Your living will be rich and fine,
If in October you do marry,
Love will come, but riches tarry.
If you wed in bleak November,
Only joy will come remember,
When December's snows fall fast,
If you marry, love will last.

Marry in Lent, and you'll live to repent.

To change the name and not the letter,
Is a change for the worse, and not the better.


If your tongue be in good condition for doing a little acrobatic work, try reading the following word curiosity aloud.  It may be familiar too some of you, for it is one of the treasures that was dug up out of an old scrap-book:
If you stick a stick across a stick
Or stick a cross across a stick
Or cross a stick across a stick
Or stick a cross across a cross
Or cross a cross across a stick
Or cross a cross across a cross
Or stick a cross stick across a stick
Or stick a crossed stick across a crossed stick
Or cross a crossed stick across a cross
Or cross a crossed stick across a stick
Or cross a crossed stick across a crossed stick
Would that be an acrostic?

Green Be The Turf Above Thee
(On the death of Joseph Rodman Drake)
Fitz-Greene Halleck

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven,
To tell the world their worth;

And I who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine;

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts now words are free -
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.

The Greenwood
William Lisle Bowles

Oh, when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is hummed round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green -
     Oh! then 'tis sweet,
     In some retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove.
With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together.

But when 'tis winter weather,
     And crosses grieve,
     And friends deceive,
     And rain and sleet
     The lattice beat -
     Oh! then 'tis sweet,
     To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring,
We roamed through the greenwood together.

A. E. L. - Belfast

Oh, boar her on deck with a tender hand,
That the light of her darkening eye,
May rest on the hills of her native land
Once more before she die.

The harvest moon with her loveliest smile
On the glassy ocean played;
And touched the cliffs of the sea-girt isle;
The home of the dying maid.

That moon which shines on her dying bed
Sees the church in the lonely dell,
And perchance the hands of a mother spread
As she prays, "God guard her well."

Then the gleam of her death-lit eye flushed bright
As her eager glances sped,
O'er many a lone and misty height,
And many a rocky head.

And a tear o'er her pale cheek slowly fell-
'Twas the last from the ceasing rills -
The welcome fond and the last farewell,
To the old heart cherished kiss.

'Thank God,! she sighed, "that my prayer is given;
I have gazed on the wished for strand;
And my soul shall return to its native Heaven,
And this frame to its native land."


"I wish that I had some good friends to help me on in life!" cried idle Dennis, with a yawn.
"Good friends! why, you have ten!" replied his master.
"I'm sure I haven't half so many, and those I have are too poor to help me."
"Count your fingers, my boy," said his master.
Dennis looked at his large strong hands.
"Count thumbs and all," added the master.
"I have, there are ten," said the lad.
"Then never say you have not got ten good friends, able to help you on in life.  Try what those true friends can do before you begin grumbling and fretting because you do not get help from others."
If you are not your own friend it is foolish to expect others to befriend you.  Providence only helps those who help themselves.


Again, all pearled with April tears,
The heavy hemlocks stand,
And, with a voice unchilled by years,
The pines on either hand
Are moaning out their sibyl song,
Unknown, yet unforgot,
As once again I stroll along
The well remembered grot.

The birds are here, the wild flowers, too,
The soft, secluded air,
And overhead the patch of blue,
But still less bright and fair,
Around me all these beauties spread,
Since she for whom alone
They blossomed once, is passed and dead,
And youth and beauty flown.

Still her sweet image shines from out
That little darkling pool,
Her rustling robes seem blown about
By every zephyr cool;
The iris 'neath yon violet's hood
Seems like her laughing eye,
Soft, velvet whispers fill the wood,
And through the copses sigh.

But still they are but phantom sounds,
But dim illusions they,
That only serve to haunt my rounds
With longings far away,
And still my soul from out the grot
Strains forth its yearning sight
For the vanished and the unforgot
Beyond the coasts of night.

Moan, solemn pines, through all the years,
Your strange and sibyl song,
Still gem the boughs with April tears,
Oh, spring-tide, full and strong!
But never more my steps may stir
This tryst with joyous tread -
My thoughts among the things that were
A part of one that's dead.

Thomas E. Mayne

It's fair to be in Erin when summer skies are mellow,
When ditch and dyke with many a spike of blossomed whin grow yellow,
Oh! it's sweet to be in our countrie on dewy fields and fallows
When tiny trout swim all about the sandy, sunny shallows,
When the western wind is blowing kind through thorn and beech and salley,
And the rowan slim and gowan trim grow green on hill and valley,
Beneath' our sun there is not one but loves the land that bore him,
And joys to toil on Irish soil with Irish heavens o'er him;
And here's good luck to one and all, by salley-tree and sagan,
From Galway Bay to Donegal, from Bantry to the Lagan.


Mrs. Brown was getting thoroughly tired of the continual borrowing of her neighbour, Mrs. Smith.  First it was some household utensil, then little articles of grocery, and so forth.  One morning Mrs. Smith's little girl came to the door.  "Please, Mrs. Brown," she said, "Mother says would you lend her a little bit of blacklead and some margarine?"
Mrs. Brown was annoyed and determined to stop the borrowing.  "Tell your mother I've got other fish to fry," she snapped.
The little girl went but was back again in two minutes with a dish and another request. "Please, ma'am, mother says could you lend her some of the fried fish?"


Mr. Grant Hill, Vice-President of the C.P.R., told the following story recently when addressing the New Zealand Railroad Club, Boston, Mass.:- "I was going down one of the lakes in British Columbia on one of our steamboats, and from the deck when she touched at one place I happened to look over and saw on a shop sign, 'C.P.R. Barber Shop, Cut Rates.'  So I said to the General Superintendent. 'Well, it is a little bit of a shock, you know, Nobody has any right to use those words except the Canadian Pacific Railway, and unless we are running that barber's shop, I think we ought to ask him to get another sign.'  He got the name of the barber, and wrote to him.  It was an Irishman that wrote him back, and the letter was written in language that I can hardly imitate.  The Irishman said that he had received our letter.  He said that he knowed the C.P.R. owned all the railroads, and the steamboats, most of the good lands, but it was the first time that he had ever heard that they owned every damned letter in the alphabet.  And he added, 'I want you to understand further, gentlemen, that that stands for something a good deal better that the Canadian Pacific Railway; that is the initials of my old mother in Ireland, Clarissa Patricia Reardon, and what are you going to do about it?' He said, 'I notice that you did not say anything about cut rates.  You have not been doing anything like that yourselves round here.'  We did not interfere with the sign.


Away far up on the breezy hills
Is the spot whose charm my spirit fills.
It isn't the houses, it isn't the folk;
It's just the feelin', that somehow awoke
As I wandered round on my daily toil
And felt the spirit of the very soil
Steal into my soul, and fill my heart
With a peace no other scenes can impart.
Though I wander far from its haunts away,
Midst scenes of beauty and pleasures gay,
Yet still I turn to the dear old spot;
I love every stone in its lowliest cot.
I love the wee children that play in the street;
Their smiles to me are like honey sweet,
Though it's cold in the winter as folks agree,
The name of Clough is aye dear to me.


In Northern France, during the war, a young pilot was dashing along a road on a motor bike when he saw a Staff car pulled up by the roadside.  While the driver was making the necessary adjustments a young red-tab stretched his legs.  The young pilot threw himself from his machine, and, addressing the staff officer, said, "Can I be of assistance?"  "No, thanks," said the youthful red-tab.  "It's only a minor trouble."  "Right-o," said the pilot.  I seem to know your face, old chap. Who are you?"  "I'm the Prince of Wales, and you?"  The pilot grinned unbelievingly and then answered with his eyes twinkling, "Oh, I'm your pater, the King."  Three days later the Prince visited a certain famous flying squadron.  On entering the messroom the first person to catch his eye was the pilot he had met on the road. Instantly the Prince's face broke into a smile of greeting, and he advanced with outstretched hand.  "Hallo, dad." he said.

IF !

If any little word of mine
May make a life the brighter,
If any little song of mine
May make a heart the lighter,
God help me speak the little word,
And take my bit of singing
And drop it in some lonely vale,
To set the echoes ringing!

If any little love of mine
May make a life the sweeter,
If any little care of mine
May make a friend's the fleeter,
If any lift of mine may ease
The burden of Another,
God give me love, and care, and strength
To help my tolling brother.


I heard a good one the other evening.  A man, obviously unwashed and unshorn for a couple of days, was making himself somewhat aggressive shortly before the fatal hour of Curfew.  Said a humorist: "I can see what it is, my boy. You've been out last night and had a good fish supper.  I can see the fish bones sticking out of your jaw.  Here's fivepence; spend a penny on a tram home now and get a shave with the rest in the morning."  (First time I've heard bristles on the chin described as "fish bones")


I know of a land where the streets are paved
With the things we meant to achieve;
It is walled with the money we meant to have saved,
And the pleasures for which we grieve.

The kind words unspoken, the promises broken,
And many a coveted boon
Are stowed away there in that land somewhere -
The land of "Petty Soon."

There are uncut jewels of possible fame,
Lying about in the dust,
And many a noble and lofty aim
Covered with mould and rust.
And, oh, this place, while it seems so near,
Is further away than the moon!
Though our purpose is fair, yet we never get there -
The land of "Pretty Soon."

It is further at noon than it is at dawn,
Further at night than at noon;
Oh! let us beware of that land down there -
The land of "Pretty Soon"

The Price of a Kiss
James McMeekin, Springburn, Glasgow

(Sentence of one month's hard labour has been passed at Hastings on a lad for kissing a girl at a Bank Holiday fete.  The Home Secretary has ordered an inquiry)
Hech, sirs, the law is going mad,
Tae put in gaol a winsome lad,
For stealin' frae a pretty miss
Alas, a solitary kiss.

A month's hard labour for a kiss,
Wha e'er heard o' a case like this?
Is justice noo a sad misnomer?
An' charity as dead as Homer?

Ma sang, if s' should get their due
For sic offence, I'm thinkin' noo,
Some e'en in gaol wad lang remain,
An' never kiss a lass again.

Keep On
W. T. Airdrie

What though a cruel world doth scorn
The high ideal within thee born;
And hopes lie crushed that in the morn
Were bright and fair?
     Keep on.

What though thy path be dark with fears,
Beset with thorns, baptised with tears;
There is a Friend, thy soul's voice hears.
Oh, trust and pray!
     Keep on.

Live for the hopes still left in life,
Live out the good, live down the strife;
Let not the spirit in thee die,
He'll help thee win,
     Toil on.

Judd Mortimer Lewis in "American Magazine"

Life's a game of go and hustle, life's a thing of rush and bustle,
Life's a play of brain and muscle, life's all jump and buzz and whirr;
Life's a game at whose beginning all the world is set a spinning,
That the very thought of winning is itself a splendid spur.

Life's a thing of rough-and-tumble, life's a thing of laugh and grumble,
Life's a thing of grab and fumble, life's a thing of jolt and jar;
Life's a stretch of daisied meadows, life's a place of glints and shadows,
Life's a thing of maids and widows, smiles and tears and there you are.

Life's a thing of self-styled winners, millionaires and saints and sinners,
Men who have and haven't dinners, thing of riff-raff steal and toil;
Men who go their ways a-laughing, men who go their ways a-chaffing,
Men who go their ways a-quaffing, men whose only thought is spoil.

Maidens wide and maidens witty, maidens beautiful and pretty,
Painted women - O the pity! always changing yet the same,
Thing of low and high endeavour, thing of push and pull forever,
Game for dolts and players clever, thing of love and glee and shame.

But who plays the game a-loving, lifting, helping never shoving,
Laughing, singing, turtle-doving through its jars and outs and ins,
With a wife and little laddie or wee lass to call him daddie,
Doesn't do so very badly - he's the chap who truly wins.

A Hundred Years from Now
Lambert Norman Jackson

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
We will not care at all;
It will not matter then a whit -
The honey or the gall.
The summer days that we have known
Will all forgotten be and flown;
The garden will be overgrown
Where now the roses fall.

A hundred years from now, fond heart,
We'll neither know nor care,
What came of all life's bitterness
Or followed love's despair.
When all these years have flown, sweetheart,
The grief will all be o'er;
The sea of care will surge in vain
Upon the careless shore.

A hundred years from now, sweetheart,
We will not mind the pain;
The throbbing crimson tide of life
Will not have left a stain.
This song we sing together, dear,
Will mean no more than means a tear;
Let's build one castle more in Spain,
And one more dream dream here.

The Hame Road

It's a saft wind the hame wind
Ower a waste o' sea;
A saft wind the hame wind
For you an' for me.
There's music in its sighin',
An' magic in its spell;
O, the sweetness o' the hame wind
Nae tongue can tell.

It's a braw road the hame road
At the turn o' day,
A braw road the hame road
When the heart is wae.
The feet never weary,
Though sair be the track,
It's the brichtest o' a' roads
The road leadin' back.


Rest is not quitting
The busy career;
Rest is the fitting
Of self to one's sphere.

'Tis the brook's motion,
Clear without strife,
Fleeting to ocean,
After this life.

'Tis loving and serving
The highest and best;
'Tis onward, unswerving;
And this is true rest.


I wonder why I toil away
My heart replies: "For someone!"
Why may I never rest a day?
Because - because of "someone."
I hear the tramp of many feet.
The din of business in the street;
But over all I hear the sweet -
Sweet little laugh of "someone."

His work is never hard to do
Who thinks all day of "someone;"
He labours well whose heart is true -
And fondly true - to "someone."
Men strive for wealth; men bravely go
Where danger is for fame; but, oh!
The sweetest joy a man may know
Is just to toil for "someone."

My Own Countree
David H. Morehead in "Munsey's Magazine"

'Tis a weary way to my own countree -
'Tis many a mile and far,
And the trackless moors and the shifting sea
Forever between us are.

But at night, when I lie in the strangers' land,
And the daily task is done;
When the sky with a starry web is spanned
For the feet of angels span;

Quick as a dream may bear me, then,
I cross the leagues of foam
And come to my own countree again -
The dear land of my home!

In my own countree love waits for me,
And through the changing year
My name is spoken tenderly
By lips forever dear.

And there my spirit doth abide,
And there I fane would stand;
Nor shore nor tide can e'er divide
My heart from that loved land!

"Oh, Erin, Mt Country"
In answer to "D, H.'s" request J. Fraser, 56 Paterson Street, S.S., Glasgow, sends the original of the above out of One Thousand Songs, or the Songster's Pocket Companion, printed in 1854:-

Oh, Erin, my country, the sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far distant land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends I shall never see more.
And thou, cruel Fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no peril can chase me;
Ah, never again shall my brothers embrace me,
They died to defend me or live to deplore.

"Oh, sad is my fate," said the heartbroken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine or danger,
A home and a country remain not for me.
Ah, never again in the green shady bowers,
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours;
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
And strike the sweet numbers of Erin for me.

But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw;
Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing -
Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh.
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be the fields, sweetest isle of the ocean;
And thy harp striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin Mavourneen, sweet Erin-g-bragh.

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood,
And where is the bosom friend dearer than all?
Where now is my cabin door, so fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire all weep for its fall.
Ah, my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure,
Tears like the rain may fall without measure,
But raptures and beauty they cannot recall,
Erin Mavourneen, sweet Erin-go-bragh.

Erin, Dear Erin
Another song beginning "Oh, Erin, my country!" is kindly sent by Mrs. Ellen Gormley, 8 Craighead Rows, Stonefield, Blantyre:-

Oh, Erin, my country, though strangers may roam
O'er thy hills and thy valleys I once called my home;
Thy lakes and thy mountains no longer I see,
Yet warmly as ever my heart beats for thee.

     Oh, cushla machree, my heart beats for thee;
     Erin, dear Erin, my heart beats for thee.

Years have pass'd o'er me since first that we met,
Yet lived I a thousand I ne'er could forget
The true hearts that loved me, the bright eyes that shone
Like the stars in the heavens, and of days that are gone.


Dearest land of my youth, I may see thee no more,
But memories treasure the bright days of yore;
My heart's greatest wish, the last sigh of my breast,
Shall be given to thee, dearest land of the West.


The Irish Exile in India
The following song has been kindly sent by Mr. Duncan Bone, Riccarton Road, Hurlford, Ayrshire, in the hope that it may interest the reader who inquired for "Oh, Erin, My Country," and other readers:-

By the side of the Ganges, whose mystical wave
Oft serves as a tomb to the exile and slave,
I mourn, but in vain, for the dear, beloved few
That bound me for ever, dear Erin, to you.

In vain does the East all its treasures display,
Or the free Asiatic enliven the day;
My bosom still beats for the dear, beloved few
That mourned my departure, dear Erin, from you.

Unchanged is my heart, though my spirit's subdued,
The sunshine of hope oftentimes will intrude,
And tempt me to sigh for the dear, beloved few
That bound me for ever, dear Erin, to you.

When the woes of the careworn exile shall cease,
And the mandate of death brings a final release,
O, the last throb of Nature's eternal adieu
Shall be mingled in blessings, dear Erin, for you.

Farewell, honoured land of my forefathers' birth!
Dear isle of delight, Heaven's favoured on earth!
To thy green-mantles bowers and mountains of blue
O, Erin, my country, for ever adieu.

"Hail, Fairest Land!"
"Possibly the following song is the one 'D. H.' is in search of," writes Mr. Henry Evans, Chapel Square, Coleraine, Co. Derry, Ireland:-

Oh, Erin, my country, although thy harp slumbers
And lies in oblivion, nor tunes they old halls,
With scores one kind hand to enliven its numbers,
Or strike the rude dirge to the sons of Fingal.
Oh, Erin, my country, I love thy green bowers,
No music to me like the murmuring rill,
The Shamrock to me is the fairest of flowers,
And what is more dear than thy daisy-clad hill?

Then, hail, fairest land of old Neptune, proud Ocean,
The land of Saint Patrick, my parent agra;
Cold, cold must the heart be and void of devotion
That loves not the music of Erin-go-bragh.

Oh, where is the country can rival old Ireland?
Where is the nation such heroes can boast?
In battle they're brave as the lion or tiger,
They're brave as the eagle that flies round the coast.
The wind often shakes both the Rose and the Thistle,
While Erin's green Shamrock lies hushed in the dell,
Securely it lies while the stormy winds whistle,
It lies undisturbed in the mien of the vale.


Scatter Blessings

Scatter blessings little darling,
Life for you has just begun,
Let your smiles be bright and kindly,
As the rays of setting sun;
Hearts will lighten at your coming,
Tears be dried and cease to flow,
If you scatter on your pathway
Kindly blessings as you go.

Scatter blessings, gentle maiden,
They are better far than arts,
Practiced only for the moment
On some unsuspecting hearts;
But the blessings last for ever!
After you are old and grey
Some fond heart will love and cherish
Words that never fade away.

Scatter blessings, white-hair'd mother,
Don't forget the shadow's life
That has naught of joy and sunlight,
Only mingled woe and strife.
Scatter blessings, welcome blessings,
On your pathway here below;
They will never be forgotten,
Scatter blessings as you go.

Life's Sunshine
Leigh Mitchell Hodges

Let in a little sunshine
Each day on some dark life;
The world's in need of light, let thine
Gleam brightly through the strife!

A gentle word is better
Ofttimes than gift of gold;
A smile may break the fetter
That long some heart did hold.

Few rarer gifts are ours
Than hand-clasps warmly given;
And kind deeds are the flowers
That make of earth a heaven.

So let each passing day
Record some kind deed done;
Go smiling, giving, all thy way;
Be of thy world the sun.

From Scotia, To Her "Greys."
A. M. Soutar - Aberdeen

In days of yore to deck my broo ye won me laurels rare,
Upon the battlefield wi' you nae ither can compare;
If in the right ye're sent to fight ye carena where ye go;
Aye ready, ready, day or night, to dash upon the foe.
War trophies won upon the field are on your banners raised;
Ye forward charge, the foreman yield, the world stands amazed.
Enrolled upon the scroll of fame when bloody war is staid,
My gallant "Greys" will get a hame beneath my auld grey plaid.

"She That Was"
By Edith Miniter

Met her in the summer,
Year o' '61,
Beaued her round considerable,
Found her heaps o' fun;
Asked her if she'd have me,
Swapped a kiss an' vow;
"Soon," says I, "they'll call you
She that was a Howe."

Quarreled in the winter,
Year o' '62,
Couldn't seem to suit her,
Not with tryin' to;
Spoke up rather spunky,
"Well, good-bye, for now;
Wait for me, my lady,
Always be a Howe."

Thought my heart was bu'sted,
Up to '73,
News that she was married
Somehow got to me;
"Mebbe they'll be happy,"
All I would allow.
"Me? I misremember
She that was a Howe."

Visited the old town,
Year o' '98,
Saw the Widder Dascombe,
Knew I'd met my fate;
Offered hand, also heart,
Mortgage, an' a cow;
All I'd got since losin'
She that was a Howe.

Well, the parson spliced us
Year o' double naught;
Though as poor as church mice,
Joy! it can't be bought!
Feeble hands, scanty locks,
Wrinkles on my brow -
No account now I've got
She that was a Howe.

On Duty Elsewhere

An Irish soldier had lost an eye in battle, but was allowed to continue in the service on consenting to have a glass eye in its place.  One day, however, he appeared on parade without his artificial eye.  "Nolan," said the officer, "you are not properly dressed.  Why is your artificial eye not in its place?"  "Sure, Sir," replied Nolan, "I left it in me box to keep an eye on me kit while I'm on parade."


First Artist - "Well, old man, how's business?"
Second Artist - "Oh, splendid! Got a commission this morning from a millionaire. Wants his children painted very badly."
First Artist, pleasantly - "Well, old boy, you're the man to do it!"

Bonnie Dundee

Let ither toons boast o' their sweet bonnie lasses
And send forth their praises far ower the braid sea,
But their beauty o' figure and face ne'er surpasses
The lasses that's nurtured in Bonnie Dundee.
Sae modest their mien, their fair beauty adorning,
And kindly the love-light that beams in their e'e;
Then here's tae the lasses that's fair as the morning -
The sweet, winsome lasses o' Bonnie Dundee.

Prize of 2s 6d - Robert Forbes Rutherford, 194 Ferry Road, Dundee.

Molly's Easter Hat

When Lent began, said Molly,
"There's not a bit of doubt
That very many luxuries
I'm quite as well without.
And now since self-denial
Is the fashionable craze,
I'll practise it in earnest
For the coming Forty Days.

"I'll forego expensive bon-bons
(They're unwholesome, anyway),
I'll purchase fewer flowers,
I'll omit the matinee.
I'll countermand the order
For that reckless 'tailor-made'
(I'm not quite sure that after all
'Tis a becoming shade).

"I'll buy no more new novels
(I've already such a lot),
But improve my mind by reading
Our old set of Walter Scott;
And of each unspent shilling
I'll keep a strict account,
And to some worthy purpose
I'll devote the whole amount."

So Molly through the weeks of Lent
Did worldly wiles combat,
And with denial's net results
She bought her Easter hat.

"Pictoral Comedy"

The Ever-Cherished Thistle

[An octogenarian Scotsman in America having received the gift of a thistle from Glasgow hugged it and kissed it, so overcome was he that all he could say was "A thistle! A thistle!" After he recovered himself, he gave orders that when he died he was to be buried with the national emblem in his bonnet.]
"A thistle! A thistle!" the exile cried,
His withered cheeks wet with tears,
And his loyal heart flushed with the fire of youth,
Though 'twas seared with the weight of years.
"A thistle! A thistle!" he cried again,
As he hugged it to his breast;
"Let ma bannet and it be placed wi' me
In the yird where I'm laid to rest."

No rough burr thistle was this, I trow,
That thus stirred the old man's blood;
But a silver one made in his native land -
The land of the mountain and flood.

Prize of 2s 6d - James Buchan Harvieston Lodge, Gorebridge

Time Passes On
Renfrew - A. Holland

Time passes on, it seems that years
Have passed - it only days can be
When first in mine your hand you pressed,
And with trembling lips confessed
The love that filled your heart for me.

Could I have then my lot foreseen
Have tasted then this bitter gall
Had read the falseness of that heart -
But, ah! how well you played your part!
I made of thee my all!

Time passes on. How soon shall we
Have passed beyond this worldly ken;
Tears and reproaches are in vain,
Yours was the pleasure, mine the pain -
But, ah! 'twill yield you nothing then.

Verses for the Month
"Kindergarten News"

We learn by doing, little folks,
No matter what the work may be,
Just try with all your might, and find
How one by one our giants flee.

Don't say I can't before you try,
But try and see what you can do;
For if you're helped by others, why,
'Tis others do the work, not you.

See that gay bird in yonder tree,
How soft and warm he builds his nest,
He asks no help from you or me,
But tries to do his very best.

And if, like birdie, little ones,
Your very best you try to do,
You'll find how easy will become
The tasks that seem so hard to you.

A Bargain

He married her for her beauty,
She married him for his gold;
She was delightfully charming,
He had riches untold.
Each considered the bargain
A fortunate one and fair -
The rare and radiant maiden
And the tottering millionaire.

He tried the Money Market,
Where they took his wealth away;
Took all of his precious millions,
And laughed at his dumb dismay.
She lost her sylph-like beauty,
Her chin has become a pair,
And, all things duly considered,
The bargain they made was fair.

Charles Lusted

Waste not, dear Love, the swift, glad hours
But passionate kisses take and give;
To-day enfolds us - it is ours,
To-morrow, Love, we may not live.

To-morrow life may sleep in dust,
Or sadden like a mateless dove;
And then, too late, a tear stained trust,
To warm the cold, still lips of love.

So cloud no pleasure of to-day,
To-morrow, Love, no pleasure knows;
Love blossoms in a flower-like way,
Go, pluck it, as one plucks the rose.

All worthless unto us the years -
The years that pause not on the wing;
They will not fry regretful tears,
The ruined past they cannot bring.

But e'er, dear Love, all virgin-white
To-day yet fronts is breast to breast;
And if, day-wise, love fades in night,
Come, kiss, and leave to fate the rest.

Twelve Commandments to the "Business Girl."
The following little list was compiled some years ago by a young girl just starting on a business career.  It has proved an invaluable help to her, she says, and so she gladly "passes it on" to any who are interested:

1. Be honest.
2. Don't worry.
3. Be courteous to all.
4. Keep your own counsel.
5. Don't complain about trifles.
6. Be loyal to your employer.
7. Don't ask for vacations.
8. Be businesslike, not womanish.
9. Be prompt - a little ahead of time, if possible.
10. Be neat and attractive but unobtrusive in your person.
11. Take kindly criticism in the spirit in which it was intended.
12. Do the very best you can each day and every day, so that when there is a chance for promotion, you will not only be "called, but chosen."

The Midnight Star
E. G. Bennetts - Keekle Terrace

When midnight shades are deepest
O'er earth, and sea, and sky,
'Tis then, sweet star, thou keepest
Thy faithful watch on high;
Brighter orbs awhile may glisten,
Others boast a prouder name,
But when they're sunk in darkness,
Thou, alone, art still the same.

So in life's hour of trial,
When faithless friends depart,
May we still keep, unchanging,
One true and constant heart;
Then how dark so e'er our future,
Love will shed its own sweet ray,
And before its gentle lustre
All our grief shall melt away.

Evening Meditations
John McKean - Kirkliston

The calm of eve steals softly down the dell
Gray shadows lengthen on the green hillside;
Faintly, afar, sweet chimes a village bell,
Relic of the curfew which tolled low at evening tide,
As pious monks devout their prayers said,
Put out their lights, and, lonesome, went to bed.
Now they are gone, their name and fame forgot;
Decay presides where piety used to dwell;
Cold the stone walls where the sagas sat and thought;
Now ivy is sole inmate of their cell.
Night's darkness deepens, and swift down the glen
The river rushes as long years before -
Meet simile of passing lives of men,
Who come and go, but to return no more.

The Other Way

When you've got a little money
That you think you will invest,
And a business friends informs you
That a certain stock's the best,
You have noticed by the papers
That it's rising ev'ry day -
But no sooner have you bought it
.yaw rehto eht seog ti nahT

When you hear your uncle's ill you
Quickly to his bedside go,
For you know that by his will you
Will receive a thou. or so,
And you're waiting ev'ry minute
Just to see him pass away,
When he makes a desperate effort
.yaw rehto eht og sgniht dnA

So it is all through a lifetime,
First we're up and then we're down;
Just as soon as we are smiling
Something comes to make us frown,
And as soon as we are certain
That the sunshine's here to stay,
And we're feeling blithe and happy -
.yaw rehto eht og sgniht nehT

The Flight of Love
Evelyn Phinney, In the February "Century"

To spring the flowers return, to winter frost,
These their particular jewels have re-won,
Life owns no treasure that is wholly lost,
Love, art thou only gone?

The humbler boasts of nature, by thee scorned,
The fickle planets and the changing year,
Behold! their lesser heaven have readorned!
And dost thou not appear?

I mourn not that my heart, unworth, is lone,
Nor that I shiver over embers ceased;
But that fair Truth is robbed of sceptre, throne,
The greatest made the least.


The smallest bark on life's tumultuous ocean
Will leave a track behind forevermore;
The lightest wave of influence, once in motion,
Extends and widens to the eternal shore.
We should be wary, then, who go before
A myriad yet to be; and we should take
Our bearings carefully, where breakers roar,
And fearful tempests gather; one mistake
May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake.

Do We Forget?
(By S. O. H. Dickson, in the "Pilgrim")

Do we forget when winter snows lie deep
Above the beds where our beloved sleep,
And we no longer wildly weep -
Do we forget?

Because, when comes the holy Christmas-tide,
And love and joy are scattered far and wide,
We check our sighs, and strive our tears to hide -
Do we forget?

Do we forget, because with mute lips pressed
To fading pictures, all our love unguessed,
Lies locked secure within our patient breast -
Do we forget?

Because, across the widening golf of years,
There comes no loving word to quell our fears,
No watchful hand to brush away our tears,
Do we forget?

Do we forget? Nay, in each heart there lies
A secret place, where hid from mortal eyes,
Dwells, strong and true, a love that never dies,
Nor can forget!

Fate and Lace Work

Of Course I loved him. (One, two, three,
And slip the fourth.) Dear fellow! yes,
He fairly worshipped me. (Now look;
This time you take two stitches less.)
Quite tall, well built; his eyes were gray -
(You pull that thread the other way,

Two loops.) A dimple in his chin,
The sweetest hair. (My dear, observe.)
He was a poet. (Now begin
The second row, and make a curve.)
I'm sure you'd like to read the rhymes
He wrote me. (Round the edge, three times.)

Poor boy! His fate was very sad;
He died quite young. (Another one,
But not so tight.) It broke my heart.
(There, that is very nicely done.)
He was my first love, and - my last.
(Be careful, dear; don't go so fast.)

My husband? Oh, the kindest soul!
I met him (now the pattern shows)
In London. We were married there;
And - oh, well, yes! - as marriage goes,
I'm happy. (Keep the thread quite straight,
Or it will tangle.) Such is fate! - Selected.

The Hearts Desire

A cripple in the wayside grass,
I watch the people come and go;
To many a fair abode they pass.
Ladies and Knights, a goodly show.
But though my lips prefer no sound,
No less from all men I inquire:
"Oh say, I pray you, have you found
The country of your heart's desire?"

Some pass with pity for my lot,
Some pass, nor heed, and others fling
A glance of scorn that wounds me not,
Who in my heart am murmuring:
Ah, could you buy, or could you sell,
How gold and gem, and hall and squire,
You'd gladly give, like me to dwell,
In the country of the heart's desire!

You travellers in lands afar,
With that world-hunger in your eyes,
On every sea your galleys are,
Your glances dare the darkest skies;
Yet for some land unseen, unguessed,
Your eager spirits faint and tire;
I know the country of your quest -
The country of the heart's desire.

A sudden terror veils your round,
You lovers, even as you greet;
So close, so dear, your lives are bound,
Your spirits have no room to meet.
Have peace! There is a deeper faith,
And there s a diviner fire,
A love more strong than time or death,
In the country of the heart's desire.

And friends pass by with loyal mien,
They are together - lonely yet!
A subtle barrier between,
A longing and a dim regret.
But they are wholly satisfied,
And they have done with doubt and ire,
With grief and parting, who abide.
In the country of the heart's desire.

My country is a dream, you say?
Nay, yours are dreams, and they shall cease,
And yours are visions, day by day,
Wherein you strive to find your peace.
But fair, and fadeless, and supreme,
The home to which all souls aspire,
The only land that is no dream,
The country of the heart's desire.

Good and Bad

"Eh, Tonal, and hoo are ye?
"That's guid"
"No sae guid either. I marrit a bad wife"
"That's bad"
"No sae bad either. She had a wheen sheep"
"That's no bad"
"Ay, but they had the rot"
"That's bad"
"No sae bad either. I selt them and bocht a hoose"
"That's guid"
"No sae guid either. The hoose was burnt"
"That's bad"
"No sae bad either"
"Hoo's that?"
"She was in it"

Is Ireland as of Yore?
Eugene Davis

Oh, tell me are the skies as blue
In Ireland as of yore?
Do valleys wear that verdant-hue
They once so proudly wore?
Do zephyrs o'er her meadows sigh?
Can pilgrims' eyes see still
The fern leaves on the mountain high,
And heather on the hill?

     Do rivers run
     Thro' forests dun,
     Or by each castle hold,
     With pattering feet,
     And cadence sweet,
     As in the days of old?

The Grave In My Heart
January 29, 1900

They are covering the graves of our heroes,
With the loveliest flowers they can bring,
And the tender memories mingle,
With the fragrant blossoms of spring.
For the graves belong to the nation;
She claims and makes them known,
And she counts among her heroes,
He who once was mine alone.
Yes, they cover the graves of the brave ones,
With tender and reverent hand,
And the low and mournful music,
Steals soft forth o'er the land.
They cover the graves of our soldiers,
Each one in his place apart;
They cover the graves with the flowers-
What shall cover the grave in my heart?

The faith in his wisdom and kindness,
The knowledge of infinite love,
The trust in the hand that guideth,
The comfort that comes from above.
The memory of days he was with me,
Ere the pulse of my heart seemed stilled,
The treasure that heaven now holdeth
Because of his law unfulfilled;
These blossoms shall sweeten and hallow,
With their silent subtle art,
And heap up their blessed comfort -
They shall cover the grave in my heart.

Harriet Hathaway

With anguish sweet, full oft I trace,
Resemblance in a tiny face;
And kiss, despite the quick surprise,
'Neath lashes long, the velvet eyes.

There's one whose voice evokes my tears,
(My mother calls across the years)
So patient, cheerful, tender, true,
Its music stirs my grief anew.

The Parting
William Motherwell

Oh! is it thus we part,
And thus we say farewell,
As if in neither heart
Affection e'er did dwell?
And is it thus we sunder,
Without a sigh or tear,
As if it were a wonder,
We e'er held other dear?

We part upon the spot,
With cold and clouded brow,
Where first it was our lot,
To breathe love's fondest vow!
The vow both then did tender,
Within this this hallowed shade,
That vow we now surrender;
Heart-bankrupts both are made.

Thy hand is cold as mine,
As lustreless thine eye;
Thy bosom gives no sign
That it could ever sigh!
Well, well! adieu's soon spoken,
'Tis but a parting phrase,
Yet said, I fear heart-broken,
We'll live our after days!

Thine eye no tear will shed,
Mine is as proudly dry,
But many an aching head
Is ours, before we die!
From pride we both can borrow,
To part, we both may dare,
But the heart-break of to-morrow,
Nor you nor I can bear!

Life's Meaning
Adelina Fermi

In youth methought to find life's day
A path o'erstrewn with flowers;
With sweet delight and joyous mirth
To fill the golden hours.
Alas! the sky grew overcast,
Each flow'ret drooped its head,
The way of life grew rough and steep,
And wearisome to tread.

Life proved to be an April day
Of sunshine blent with rain;
I blithely sang the victor's song,
Then came defeat again.
"What meaneth life?" I wistful cried,
"Why all this strain and stress?
Why come the clouds to hide the sun,
And mar earth's loveliness?"

Anon, methought I heard a voice,
So soft, yet sweet and clear;
It bade me see the goal of life,
And forward press nor fear;
It told of coming triumph songs
To crown the end of strife;
That earth is but the school for Heaven,
And death the gate of life.

Becalmed at Eve
Arthur Hugh Clough

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail, at dawn each day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied;
Nor dreamt but each the self-same-seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so - but why the tale reveal
Of those whom, year by year unchanged,
Brief absence joined anew, to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged.

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered;
Ah! neither blamed, for neither willed
Or wist what first with dawn appeared.

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too!
Through winds and tides one compass guides -
To that and your own-selves be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare;
O Bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last unite them there!


There are many things, besides sorrow's self, that come through sorrow's gate - gentleness, tact, sympathy, strength, beautiful traits of character, which seem to find no other mode of entrance into life.  Long for unclouded joy as we may, it still remains thru that few of us would choose for our most valued friend one who has never suffered.  The eyes that have not known tears must needs lack something of tenderness.  The heart that never has been torn with anguish and loss has never sounded its own depths, and cannot measure those of another.  The soul grows strong through storm and conflict, if it ever grows strong at all, and, however sweet a nature may be, we find it incomplete and unsatisfying if it has never known the softening, hallowing touch of grief.  There are dark pages in our lives where we would gladly have changed the story if we could.  There are wounds that still ache, and losses that even yet are hard to bear; but however we may feel about the sorrow itself, there are few of us who would be willing to give up all that it brought and taught us - to be just what we were before it touched us.  There are some precious gains that come through sorrow's gate.


The massive gates of circumstance
Are turned upon the smallest hinge,
And thus some seeming pettiest chance
Oft gives our life its after tinge.

The trifles of our daily lives,
The common things scarce worth recall,
Whereof no visible trace remains,
These are the main-springs after all.

Andrew Lang

My Love dwelt in a Northern land,
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand
The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lively-white
About the coming of the light,
They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green
Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!


Oh, set your heart on better things
Than those on earth that bloom;
The fairest earthly flower that springs
Will find an early doom.
And though you wander where you will,
Believe me, while you live
A something will be wanted still
This world can never give.

The Old Familiar Faces
Charles Lamb

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me; I must not see her -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly -
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood;
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces.

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me.  All, all are departed -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

The Old Story
Mary N. Prescott

By the pleasant paths we know
All familiar flowers would grow,
Though we two were gone;
Moon and stars would rise and set,
Dawn the laggard night forget,
And the world move on.

Spring would carol through the wood,
Life be counted sweet and good,
Winter storms would prove their might,
While the seasons sped;
Winter frosts make bold to bite,
Clouds lift overhead.

Still the sunset lights would glow,
Still the heaven-appointed bow
In its place be hung;
Not one flower the less would bloom,
Though we two had met our doom,
No song less by sung.

Other lovers through the dew
Would go, loitering, two and two,
When the day was done;
Lips would pass the kiss divine,
Hearts would beat like yours and mine,
Hearts that beat as one.


Look where the dawn creeps over the hills,
And steals away by the mountain rills,
Chasing the shadows of night along,
Cheering each bird to its morning song.
So, when the shadows of life are past,
And the dying man breathes forth his last,
A brightness shall chase the gloom away,
And herald the light of Eternal Day.


G. Arthur

Dear Tom, it's nearly past belief
That I can make ye oot a thief,
But just as sure as donkeys bray,
Ye've stole my loving he'rt away,
An' sae I write tae lat ye know
I'd coont it bliss divine
If ye wad only hurry up
An' tak' me for yer valentine.
Castle Douglas

A Grave Prospect

A certain beadle fancied the manse housemaid, but was at a loss for an opportunity to declare himself.  One Sunday, when his duties were ended, he looked sheepish, and said, "Mary, wad ye tak a turn, Mary?"  He led her to the churchyard, and, pointing with his finger, got out, "My fowk lie there, Mary. Wad ye like to lie there?"  The hint was taken, and she became his wife.

2's Every Girl Should Learn

2 sew
2 cook
2 mend
2 be gentle
2 value time
2 dress neatly
2 keep a secret
2 be self - reliant
2 respect old age
2 avoid idleness
2 darn stockings
2 make good bread
2 keep a house tidy
2 make home happy
2 be above gossiping
2 control her temper
2 take care of the sick
2 sweep down cobwebs
2 take care of the baby
2 humour a cross old man
2 marry a man for his worth
2 read the very best of books
2 keep clear of trashy literature
2 take plenty of active exercise
2 be a helpmate to her husband
2 be light hearted and fleet footed
2 wear shoes that won't cramp the feet
2 be a womanly woman under all circumstances


It would be interesting to know if the writer of the following lines still retains the affections of his inamorata, or if the confession that "she loved him long ago" was only a passing fancy:-

Long Ago

Do you remember once, long years ago,
We leaned above the little rustic fence
And watched the gleaming sunbeams sinking low
Behind the woodlands, far away and dense?
The summer breezes lightly brushed your cheek,
Your hair was gilded by the fading glow -
My heart which, until now, had fluttered meek,
Was boldened, and I kissed you - long ago.

Do you remember how, then, years ago,
We wandered by this path upon the hill,
And how when night fell you were loth to go,
But lingered by the rippling, splashing rill?
I tried to speak and banish doubts forlorn;
My words rushed forth in rapturous overflow;
You, laughing, mocked my tender hopes to scorn -
Your laugh was, oh! so silvery 0 long ago.

Do you remember, long, long years ago,
That night when countless stars bedecked the skies,
I, turning, torn with pangs of bitter woe,
Beheld love's fickle light within your eyes?
I caught your hands and vowed I would not part
With them until your lips had whispered low
The inner secret passions of your heart,
Then you confessed you loved me - long ago

Fashion's Phases
From "Punch"

When first I whispered words of love,
When first you turned aside to hear,
The winged griffin flew above,
The mammoth gaily gamboll
'd near;
I wore the latest thing in skins,
Your dock-leaf dress had just been mended
And fastened up with fishes' fins -
The whole effect was really splendid.

Again - we wandered by the Nile,
In Egypt's far, forgotten land,
And watched the festive crocodile
Devour papyrus from your hand.
Far off across the plain we saw
The trader urge his flying camel;
Bright shone the scarab belt you wore,
Clasped with a sphinx of rare enamel.

Again - in Trojan's plains I knelt;
Alas! in vain I strove to speak,
And tell you all the love I felt,
In more or less Homeric Greek.
Perhaps my helmet-strap was tight,
And checked the thoughts I fair would utter,
Or else your robe of dreamy white
Bewildered me and made me stutter.

Once more we change the mise-en-scÚne,
The white road curves across the hill;
excitement makes you rather plain,
But on the whole I love you still.
As wreathed with veils and goggles blue,
And clad in macintosh and leather
Snug in our motor built for two,
We skim the Brighton road together.


I planted scorn: it died in the garden mould.
I planted love: it bore a flower of gold.
I planted doubt: it withered, lacking root.
I planted faith: it ripened precious fruit.

To The "Funny Folk"
Clara J. Denton

This world had too much grief and pain,
Too many tears by half;
And so, my blessings do I give
To those who make me laugh.

Then let the croakers pass along;
Their talk is but as chaff,
While strength is in the playful words
That stir the lightsome laugh.

True, serious moods must have their place,
For work is life's great staff;
But they toll best who now and then
Send forth the merry laugh.

And so, since shadows form of life
By far the larger half,
Our fervent blessings let us give
To those who make us laugh.

The Language of Jewels

Agate - Long life and health
Amber - Disdain
Amethyst - Peace of mind
Aquamarine - Misfortune and hope
Bloodstone - I mourn your absence
Beryl - Thou wilt not forget me
Cat's Eye - Platonic love
Chrysolite - Disappointed love
Diamond - Pride
Emerald - Success in love
Garnet - Fidelity in every engagement
Jade - Unloved but remembered
Jasper - Pride of strength
Jet - Sad remembrance
Lapis Lazuli - Nature's nobility
Moonstone - Pensiveness
Opal - Pure thoughts
Pearls - Modest loveliness
Ruby - Courage and success in dangerous and hazardous enterprise
Sapphire - Innocence
Topaz - Fidelity
Turquoise - The most brilliant success and happiness in life


Forget each kindness that you do
As soon as you have done it;
Forget the praise that falls to you
The moment you have won it;

Forget the slander that you hear
Before you can repeat it;
Forget each sting, each spite, each sneer;
Wherever you may meet it.

James Thompson

Give a man a horse he can ride,
Give a man a boat he can sail;
And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,
On sea nor shore shall fail.

Give a man a pipe he can smoke,
Give a man a book he can read;
And his home is bright with a calm delight,
Though the room be poor indeed.

Give a man a girl he can love,
As I, O my love, love thee;
And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate,
At home, on land, on sea.


Can I see another's woe
And not be in sorrow, too?
Can I see another's grief
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

Little Kindnesses
D. G. Bickers

You gave on the way a pleasant smile,
And thought no more about it;
It cheered a life that was sad the while,
That might have been wrecked without it.
And so for the smile and fruitage fair
You'll reap a crown sometime - somewhere.

You spoke one day a cheering word,
And passed to other duties;
It warmed a heart, new promise stirred,
And painted a life with beauties.
And so for the word and its silent prayer
You'll reap a palm sometime - somewhere.

You lent a hand to a fallen one,
A life in kindness given;
It saved a soul when help was none,
And won a heart for heaven;
And so for the help you proffered there
You'll reap a joy sometime - somewhere.

Popping the Question

This is a question, dearest love,
I never dared to ask,
Though often on my lips it's pressed,
When in your smiles I'd bask.
And now, before my courage fails,
I'll pop the question, sweet -
So answer this, and tell me, dear -
How are your poor feet?

Just Give it a Thought

How little it costs if we give it a thought,
To make happy some heart each day!
Just one kind word or a tender smile,
As we go on our daily way;
Perchance a look will suffice to clear
The cloud from a loved one's face,
And the press of the hand in sympathy
A sorrowful tear efface.

One walks in sunlight, another goes
All weary in the shade;
One treads a path that is fair and smooth;
Another must pay for aid.
It costs so little! I wonder why
We give it so little thought;
A smile - kind words - a glance - a thought,
What magic with them is wrought.

The Mother
"Woman's Journal"

She was so tired of toil, of everything,
Save loving those who needed all her love!
Her heart was like the golden heart of spring,
When white clouds sail above.

Autumn of life and tears were hers, and yet
She sang and loved and gladdened us the while;
Nor storms, nor snow could make her once forget
Young April's radiant smile.

She was so weary; but we never guessed
How weary, till she smiled at set of sun,
And whispered, as she drifted into rest -
"My loving now is done."

"Tired of all save loving." Let this be
The epitaph inscribed where now she lies;
Time shall not hide the words, nor memory
The love look of her eyes.


He - Why does this theatre have its orchestra concealed?
She - Why? Just wait until you hear it play!

Nora Mi? age 12

She was only a waif of London,
Poor, timid, starving, and cold;
Yet her face was that of an angel,
And her hair like a shower of gold;
And, as I came up closer,
She stretched out her little hands blue:
"Buy a small box of matches, sir;
Only a penny for two."

I bought them, and went home saddened,
Such sights I could not bear;
And all night my dreams were haunted
By the child with the beautiful hair.
She surely was an angel,
Not meant for this rough world's strife,
And I said to myself, "I will do my best,
To brighten that little life."

For days I strove to find her,
But my efforts were all in vain;
The child with the beautiful face was gone,
And to think of it gave me pain;
And, try as I would to forget her,
She haunted my memory still;
And for ever, till life is over,
The best place in my heart she'll fill.

Ah! too late I thought of trying
To lighten her burden of care;
And she lay, while I was dreaming,
Beyond all human care.
Yes, truly she was an angel,
Not meant for this rough world's strife,
And her little spirit had flown above,
To share a happier life.


Mr. Crimsonbeak (at breakfast) - "How long do you suppose it would take to come from the moon to the earth, dear?
Mrs. Crimsonbeak - I don't know, and, what's more, I don't care; but if you are going to give that as your excuse for getting home late last night, it won't do.


A widely known philanthropist in Chicago gave a slum child's version of the story of Eden.  She was sitting with other children on the curb outside a public house, and her version of the story was as follows:-
     "Eve ses, 'Adam, 'ave a bite!" 'No.' ses Adam, 'I don't want a bite!' 'Garn!' ses Eve, 'go on, 'ave a bite!'  'I don't want a bite!' ses Adam.  The child repeated this dialogue, her voice rising to a shrill shriek.  "An' then Adam took a bite," she finished up.  "An' the flamin' angel he came along wid 'is sword, an' e' ses to 'em bof, 'nah, then - ahtside!"


"Now," Bobby, go and kiss your little sweetheart and make it up," said Bobby's mother.
"No, I won't."
"Go and tell her how much you love her, and how sorry you are."
"No, I won't! Pa says he got into a breach of promise case by telling a girl that, and had to marry the old thing.  No risks for me, thank you."


Forget the slander you have heard
Forget the hasty unkind word
Forget the quarrel and the cause
Forget the whole affair, because
Forgetting is the only way
Forget the storm of yesterday
Forget the chap whose sour face
Forgets the smile in any place
Forget the trials you have had
Forget the weather if its bad
Forget you're not a millionaire
Forget the grey streaks in your hair
Forget the home team lost the game
Forget the umpire was to blame
Forget the coffee when its cold
Forget the kick, forget the scold
Forget the plumber's awful charge
Forget the milkman's bill is large
Forget the coalman and his ways (weighs)
Forget the heat of summer days
Forget wherever you may roam
Forget the duck who wrote this poem
Forget that he, in social bliss
Forgot himself when he wrote this
Forget to ever get the blues
But don't forget to pay your dues.

A Rift in the Lute
Robert Watt

We had a tiff, as lovers will,
A trifle, nothing more;
But yet it was enough to make
Two hearts feel rather sore.
She deftly laid the blame on me,
Which I, of course, resented,
And as the rift still wider grew,
To part we two consented.

The days rolled on, I saw her not;
Oh, how my heart did long
For her, although within my mind
I knew that she was wrong;
The words I used were kindly meant,
No slight did I impute
To cause a jarring note, much less
A rift within the lute.

A week passed by, we chanced to meet
As rain in torrents fell;
I proffered her a friendly shade -
The sequel - All is well.
The rift is healed, yes, quite forgot,
A happy lot is ours;
And while we live we'll bless the hand
That sends the summer showers.


At what age do men and women marry?
This is not a guessing competition, but a perusal of the hard and fast figures furnished by Mr. Long in a pointed reply to a question asked in the House of Commons.  And the answer given is for men 28 and for women 26 years.  But, whereas the men have all along for the last forty odd years married at eight and twenty, the women previously married at 25, and now at a little over 26.  The reason for this phenomenon has been variously stated, and probably is to be found in that most generally given explanation, the growing independence of the sex.  Women nowadays have so many careers open to them besides matrimony, and can support themselves in so many ways, that the inducements to an early marriage at any rate are decreasing day by day.  And so it comes about that, while the men still steadily marry at 28, the women's average age for matrimony is increasing slowly but surely.  If this state of affairs continues, and the ratio of the two ages goes on altering as at present, it will before so very long be necessary to modify the prohibition that "a man may not marry his grandmother," or at any rate many a lady of like venerable age!  It is a prospect to be shuddered at!  But before such a state of affairs comes to pass something will probably turn up to avert it.  At any rate it is devoutly so to be hoped.


If any little word of mine
May make a life the brighter,
If any little song of mine
May make a heart the lighter,
God help me speak the little word
And take my bit of singing,
And drop it in some lonely vale,
To set the echoes ringing.

If any little love of mine
May make a life the sweeter,
If any little care of mine
May make a friend's the fleeter,
If any lift of mine may ease
The burden of another,
God give me love and care and strength
To help my toiling brother.

By S. C. Bowman, L.D., Maghera

Dear Brethren of the Templar Star,
In holy cause combined,
Press onward, upward, in the fight,
Nor cast a look behind.
Press forward to the distant time
When broad and bright displayed,
We'll rear the banner with the words:
"Down lies the liquor trade."

In every town of Fatherland,
With churches all around,
The dens of drink and infamy
On every side abound.
We'll sound the trumpet far and wide,
And then from dale and hill,
The patriots, full of earnest zeal,
Will rally, with a will.

We stand amazed that fellow men,
Endowed with wisdom's grace,
Can seek the drinker's loathsome den,
A fountain of disgrace -
From which there flows a stream of woe
Upon their blighted lives,
Upon their home, their own fair fame,
Their children, and their wives.

Now, comrades, all together stand
In friendship's union true;
And by the help of Heaven above
Our aims we will pursue.
Rise in your strength and crush the foe
Which blasts our Fatherland,
And for the might of God and right
Take your determined stand.

The Joy of Coming Home
Margaret E. Sangster

There's joy in sailing outward,
Though we leave upon the pier,
With faces grieved and wistful,
Our very dearest dear;
And the sea shall roll between us
For perhaps a whole round year.

There's joy in climbing mountains,
In fording rushing brooks,
In poking into places
We've read about in books,
In meeting stranger people
With unfamiliar looks.

But the joy of joy is ours,
Untouched by any pain,
When we take the home-bound steamer
And catch the home-bound train;
There's nothing half so pleasant
As coming home again.


When a girl is eighteen she thinks the best time of a woman's life must certainly be from eighteen to twenty-two. When she has passed her twenty-second year, she is decidedly of opinion that from then until the age of twenty-eight really marks the limits of the best time, and when thirty comes on the scene she is ready to give way to all those who believe a woman to be then at the zenith of her life.  It is generally maintained that after twenty-five the average woman begins to attain her physical and mental perfection, and that for some eight or ten years after this she still retains her charms undiminished.  After this time, of course, it depends entirely upon the woman whether she chooses to advertise her years, or by her charming personality and clever dressing conceal all ravages of time.

Self Sacrifice
Mabel Earle

There was a little stream which had its birth
Far from the dusty ways that men have trod,
Locked in from all the stains and stress of earth,
And sheltered by the silent hills of God.

What summons lured it onward from the sweet,
Hushed shelter of the woods that made its home?
What called if forth against its banks to beat,
And fret its heart on cruel rocks to foam.

Set free beyond the pine tree's clasping shade,
Swift, hurrying waters o'er the cliff-side sweep,
Transfigured in the sunlight, unafraid,
Dashed into glory in their wild, glad leap.

Yet had they stayed their feet, nor sped to bring
Their gift of health and cleansing forth to light,
Slow creeping death had choked them at their spring,
And sodden fens had buried them from sight.

Here, giving all, life's all to them is given;
Clear sun and rainbow crown their falling foam,
And far off shines beneath the boundless heaven,
That boundless ocean which shall be their home.


Once on a time, a merry maid
Said: "I will jest with love!
Armoured by pride, I'm not afraid
Of all the gods above!
I'll clip this cunning Cupid's wings
If he attack my heart;
And when in tender words he sings,
I'll force him to depart!"

Mere men fall victims to maids' wiles!
But gods their tactics know!
Great Cupid hears the threat and smiles,
And slyly bends his bow!
The arrow flies! The maid defies!
Love leaves at her behest!
But, ah! she finds, 'mid tears and sighs,
Love's dart fixed in her breast!

Forget-Me-Not reader

Do not intrude into your hostess's affairs.
Go directly when the call or visit is ended.
Do  not make a hobby of personal infirmities.
Do not overdo the matter of entertainment.
"Make yourself at home," but not too much so.
Do not make unnecessary work for others, even servants.
Do not gossip; there are better things in life to think about.
Be courteous, but not to the extent of surrendering principles.
When several guests are present, give a share of attention to all.
Introduce games or diversions, but only such as are agreeable.


Have you a little baby boy
A few months more than two years old,
With soft brown eyes that brim with joy,
And silken ringlets bathed with gold;
Who, toddling, follows you around
And plays beside you near the hearth;
Whose prattle is the sweetest sound
To you of all glad notes on earth?

Have you a little baby boy
Who when the voice of slumber calls
Reluctant leaves each tattered toy
And in your strong arms weary falls;
Who yawning, looks with sleepy eyes
Into your own and faintly smiles;
Then shuts his lids and quiet lies,
And drifts away to Dreamland's isles?

Have you a little one like this,
Who puts all troubling thoughts to flight
When climbing up, he plants a kiss
Of love upon your lips at night?
If so, then humbly bend your knee
And lift your heart in thankful prayer,
For you are richer far than he
Who, childless, is a millionaire!


I heard an old farmer talk one day,
Telling his listeners how
In the wide, new country, far away,
The rainfall follows the plow;
"As fast as they break it up, you see,
And turn the heart to the sun,
As they open the furrows deep and free,
And the tillage is begun,
The earth grows mellow, and more and more
It holds and sends to the sky
A moisture it never had before
When its face was hard and dry.

"And so wherever the plowshares run
The clouds run overhead;
And the soil that works and lets in the sun
With water is always fed."
I wonder if that old farmer knew
The half of his simple word,
Or guessed the message that heavenly true
Within it was hidden and heard?
It fell on my ear by chance that day,
But the gladness lingers now
To think it is always God's dear way
That the rainfall follows the plow.

A Temperance Lesson
J. W. Foley

John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn,
The day that first we met,
I had a bank account, John,
I would I had it yet.
Your warmth was so engaging,
Your spirit thrilled me through,
I drew out my account, John,
And gave it all to you.

John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn,
The day when first we met,
I had a good, clear eye, John,
I would I had it yet.
You've rimmed it round with red, John,
Your handiwork it shows,
And liberalities fantastic,
You've taken with my nose.

John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn,
The day when first we met,
I had a steady hand, John,
I would I had it yet.
I was the master then, John,
Nut in the years somehow,
You've put me on my back, John,
You are the master now.

Sand Castles
J. M.

I watch the children on the shore,
With pail and spade at play;
I watch, and threescore years and more
Seem but as yesterday.

I watch them digging dike and well'
Mole, bulwark, bastion brave,
With shining pebble, weed, and shell,
Opposite the hostile wave.

Beneath the sun their red towers rise,
With walls embattled wide;
A kerchief on their flagstaff flies,
I watch the turning tide.

Their glacis glitters, fenced with stone,
Alternate black and white;
To them both seem alike unknown,
The coming sea and night.

They cannot think their castle's port
Is fenced around in vain;
They toil as though their tiny fort
For ever would remain;

Nor dream their ramparts must decline,
Which now so boldly stand,
And that to-morrow's sun will shine
But on the bare wet sand.

Ah, idle work! and yet I think
They are as wise as we,
Who build our castles on the brink
Of a more awful sea.

Hutcheon, 18 Garturk Street, Glasgow (unclear)

The day has been long and dreary,
With ceaseless patter of rain,
And the dragging hours have brought me
Only some heartache and pain.
As I turn my sad face homeward
The night drops down from above,
And my heart is yearning, yearning,
For a touch of the arms I love.

The arms that have never failed me,
The refuge to which I flee;
All day, mid the jar of the city,
I dream of them waiting for me -
Dream of their rest and their welcome
After a daytime of care.
Oh, arms outstretched in the gloaming;
Oh, arms of my easy chair!


Even a Persian kitten can upset the workings of a diplomatic body.  The Belgian Embassy in London is stated to be in tears, and unable to do any work, owing to the loss of a juvenile tortoiseshell cat, and has asked one of the big dailies to make known the facts.  The paper has gladly undertaken the task, and asks anyone who has found a kitten with a diplomatic air about it to bring it at once to its sorrowing owners.


Keep the sunshine in your heart,
Wear a smile;
Live a happy, hopeful life
All the while;
Do some helpful work each day
As God's leading lights the way.

Ask for calmness from above;
Keep your place:
Let the Master's mind and thought
Help your trace
Heaven's purpose day by day,
In noiseless. tender way.

Days will come and days will go,
Yet 'tis well;
For in joy or sorrow's hour
Life shall spell
God's dear message, line by line,
In this life of yours and mine.


Mrs. Murphy had an unhappy knack of saying the wrong thing, and her husband warned her to be careful as she left on a visit of condolence to Mrs. Casey, whose husband had hanged himself in the attic a week before. When she came back she looked crestfallen. What have you done, asked Murphy?  Och, don't know, she said, I was that careful, Shure I made up my mind to say nothing of her man, and when I went in she was doing the washing.  This wet weather is bad for drying, she says to me.  Oh, I tell her, you needn't bother.  You've such a fine attic for hanging things in. Then she up and show me out.


Guinevere - Didn't absolutely ruin your life when you had to break off your engagement with Jack?
Elaine - Not absolutely, but I will say that Jack was one of the only five men I ever thought of as the only man in the world.


"Yes," said the chairman sadly, "our temperance meeting last night would have been more successful if the lecturer hadn't been so absent-minded."  "What did he do?"  He tried to blow some imaginary froth from a glass of water."

by Archdeacon Sinclair

Who is there among us who has not some little secret drawer or box with careful lock, and sometimes we steal alone to our room, and unfasten that little hiding-place which looks so common, and take out some treasure which is perhaps more precious to us than gold?  What is it?  Only perhaps a little lock of hair, only a withered violet, only possible a faded packet of old letters, quite out of date, only perhaps a little baby's shoe.  Yet there are old voices and memories connected with those slight things which make their value to us quite inestimable.  And as we look at them the sunny scenes come back of the days that are no more, and there is a magic in them which surpasses the wand of the magician.  We love them for the sake of that dear one to whom they once belonged, to whom we feel they still belong.

The Old Home
Mary Marnock

Was ever a home like the old home,
With its merry banter and glee?
Was song ever sung like the old song,
Just under the old roof-tree?
And, say, did the sweets of the after time
Expel quite the dear days of old?
Did love ever feel like the old love,
With never a whiff o' cold?

In the fire-light's bright glow we, romancing,
Would trace for the future to spell;
And carelessly challenged the embers
Mysterious problems to tell.
The teardrops afalling - oh, pardon,
As memory liveth again;
Was ever a home like the old home
And loving so rampant as then?


Somebody says a wife should be like roasted lamb - tender and nicely dressed.
A crusty old bachelor adds, "And without sauce."


There are few right thinking persons who would deny that business men ought to confide in their wives.  First of all, a woman cannot feel that her husband has given her his whole heart when he keeps from her the whole course of his business life.  No doubt it is generally done from a good motive.  The husband thinks he is saving his wife worry and trouble, but in most cases he is doing the exact opposite, for every wife with right feeling would gladly lesson her husband's burdens by sharing them.  Nor does a sensible woman care for the left handed compliment that her pretty head was not meant to bother with figures.  True marriage is a true union in everything where all is open, and the griefs and the sorrows of each are shared by both and comfort drawn from the mutual sympathy.  A man who does not confide in his wife deliberately shuts himself out from his chief consolation.

A Prize Thought
Kate Taylor

If you're in a stormy mood
Try to quell it,
If you have an angry thought
Do not tell it,
If a painful chord there is
Do not wake it,
If a truce of peace exists
Do not break it.

At The Last

Come when weak and worn I'm lying,
And my spirit shrinks aghast;
Come to me when I am dying,
Let me see thee at the last.
Cheer my sinking heart and sight
With the beauty of thine eyes -
Eyes of wonder and delight,
With the charm of sunlit skies.

Let the last sound I shall hear
Be the cadence of thy voice,
Breathing back the story, dear,
Of my first and only choice;
Let the last touch I shall feel
Be the pressure of thy hand,
Then I'll know that love is real
E're I reach the silent land.

Sunshine Song

Would you make some saddened heart
Just a little lighter?
Would you make some burdened life
Just a little brighter?
Drop a word of hope and cheer,
Set the echoes ringing
With your notes of endless joy
As you go a-singing.

Would you smooth the rugged path
Down along life's highway?
Would you plant the rose of love
In some lonely byway?
Just a deed of kindness done
Clears the path before us,
And the lilies of God's love
Bloom and blossom o'er us.

Just a smile will often show
Faces wreathed in beauty;
Just a little word of cheer
Lightens every duty.
Sprinkle sunshine as you go,
Comfort the distressing,
And your glad reward shall be
Heaven's choicest blessing

I Saw From the Beach
Thomas Moore

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
A came when the sun o're that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy, we have known.
Each wave that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning,
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
When passion first waked a new life through his frame?
And his soul - like the wood that grows precious in burning;
Give out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!


If I knew the box where the smiles are kept,
No matter how large the key,
Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard,
'Twould open, I know, for me.
Then over the land and the sea broadcast,
I'd scatter the smiles to play,
That the children's faces might hold them fast
For many and many a day.

If I knew a box that was large enough
To hold all the frowns I meet,
I would like to gather them, every one,
From nursery, school, and street;
Then, folding and holding, I'd pack them in,
And, turning the monstre key,
I'd hire a giant to drop the box
To the depths of the deep, deep sea.

Love's Ways
Madison Cawein in the "Smart Set"

An instant only and her eyes
Flash lightning like the angry skies;
And o'er her forehead, curving down,
Fell dark the shadow of a frown.

Then, backward, deep and stormy fair,
She tossed the tempest of her hair;
Then of her lips' full-rose disdain,
Made a pink-folded bud again;

Then, quicker than all utterance,
All changed, and at a word, a glance,
Her anger rained its tears, then passed,
And she was in my arms at last;

The austere woman, doubly dear,
And lovelier for each falling tear,
But why we quarreled how it grew,
I cannot tell, I never knew.

Perhaps 'twas love; he who, with tears,
Would show how fair a face appears;
As, after storm, the sky's more blue,
A wild flower's fairer for the dew.

Edwin Markham

Precious the home, though but a rifted rock
Where way-worn shepherd tarries with his flock;
Precious the friendly covert, though it be
Only the shelter of a lonely tree.
Dear is that world-old, warm, heart-pulling thing,
To man and beast and bird one gladdening;
Dear is the roof, the hole, the lair, the nest -
Hid places where the heart can be at rest.

But home will greaten as the years go by,
Probing the soul and lifting the low sky;
When Beauty shall step downward from her star
To smile away the blemish and the scar;
When Science shall draw down Orion's band
To ease the burden of the Woman's hand,
And all the Powers of the Earth and Air and Fire
Shall be the lackeys of the heart's desire.

And home will sweeten in the coming days,
When widening love shall warm these human ways;
When every mother pressing to her face
Her child, shall clasp all children of the race.
Then will the rafter and the oaken beam
Be laid in music and the poet's dream -
Then Earth, as far as flies the feathered foam,
Shall have in it the friendly feel of Home.

Wild Weather
J. H. Knight-Adkin

I am out of tune with laughter and the warm, red glow of the hearth,
With the kindly word and the smile, and the faces of friend and kin;
For the voice of the storm has called to summon me out on its path,
For the storm without has called to the stormy heart within.

I will go out to the night, where the wet wind wanders and cries
In the tortured dark that is filled with the scent of the rain-soaked clay,
Where the moan of the tossing trees goes up to the smothered skies,
Where the earth seems lost and forlorn beyond the healing of day.

I will go up through the fields, where the mud catches hold of my heel,
Where the dank soil mutters and gasps 'neath the weight of my foot as I pass,
And where, half seen in the gloom, the populars stagger and reel,
And like a drowned man's hair is the sodden mesh of the grass.

I will bare my brow to the weather and drink in the night like wine,
The rain and the wind and the dark where the lightnings flicker and flee,
And the soul of the earth shall speak in the storm to this soul of mine,
And the earth my mother shall answer the riddle of life for me.

For the fields are met to-night with all the tears of the world,
And the sough of the trees is charged with the sorrow of deeds ill done,
And the soul of the earth is torn in gusts by the wind, and hurled
This way and that in the dark - but light will come with the sun.

W. S. Cowper - Bishopriggs

Oh! hears't thou the blackbird calling,
Hid in the snowlit den;
His mate is perched in the rose bush
Deep in the leafless glen.
Oh, ho! for the spring he's singing -
A bud and a bit of green -
And the hollow is sweetly ringing,
While only the snow is seen.

And here in the shade I'm waiting,
Hid in a sheltered nook,
Awaiting my darling coming
Down by the frozen brook.
Oh, ho! for the spring I'm sighing,
A maid with a ruddy cheek,
And a couple of arms supplying
The warmth and the love I seek.

She comes, and my heart is joyous,
The spring comes with her too;
And two of the purest roses
Look up to meet my view.
Oh, ho! for the bliss of meeting
The one you have wanted long;
You couldn't explain such a greeting,
No, not in the sweetest song.

The Belle of Long Ago
"Chicago Record-Herald"

I watch her sitting, rocking there,
And gazing dreamily away;
Her hands are wrinkled now that were
So plump and smooth and soft one day;
Her hair that once in ringlets hung
Forms one wee coil as white as snow;
Once she was free from cares and young -
Perhaps she flirted long ago.

Her nose droops down, her lips are drawn,
She sighs for loved ones gone before;
The lustre from her eyes is gone,
Her once round cheeks are round no more;
Yet once, perhaps, her glance was coy,
Perhaps it made her smile to know
That for her cruelty some boy
Was broken-hearted long ago.

She rises slowly, bent and small,
And moves with feeble, careful tread;
She wears a sombre garb, and all
The graces from her form and fled;
But once, perhaps, she tripped along
In airy robes - the note of woe
In some forgotten poet's song
She may have given, long ago.

Ah, Time, thou rogue! I see her now
In all her youthful grace and charms -
Behold the ringlets on her brow,
The rounded whiteness of her arms.
I hear her merry laugh; she skips
Down flowery ways, her cheeks aglow
With pleasure at the sweet words from lips
That fell to dust long, long ago.


Three things to love: Courage, gentleness, affection.
Three things to admire: Intellect, dignity and gracefulness.
Three things to hate: Cruelty, arrogance and ingratitude.
Three things to delight in: Beauty, frankness and freedom.
Three things to like: Cordiality, good-humour and cheerfulness.
Three things to avoid: Idleness, loquacity and flippant jesting.
Three things to cultivate: Good books, good friends, and good manners.
Three things to contend for: Honour, country and friends.
Three things to govern: Temper, tongue and conduct.

A Song of Trust
Stokely S. Fisher

The darkness is so deep! The rugged road
          Is steep to climb,
And I am faint beneath the heavy load
          Borne all the time:
But still I'll sing, I will not be cast down,
The cross I bear will lift me to a crown.

Behind the cloud I know his face concealed -
          Still he is near;
And night is but the shadow of his shield -
          How can I fear?
The thorns that tear my wayward feet are set
To guard the heav'nward path, lest I forget.

When I can see thee mirrored in my tears
          'Tis sweet to weep;
Since thy love waits beyond the rushing years
          Death is but sleep;
The gates of gloom are glory's portals, too;
Shine thou for me, O star, when I pass through!

When I am Dead
Christina Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree;
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dew drops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply, I may remember,
And haply, may forget.


Her sleeves are 1830
And her skirt is '61.
Her tresses in the manner
Of Louis Quinze are done.
Her hat is quite Colonial,
Her brooch is pure antique.
Her belt is 1850.
But when you hear her speak,
What year the maid belongs to
You do not wonder more.
Her dress is many periods,
But her slang is 1904.
                      - Washington Post

The Grave of Highland Mary
In reply to request by "Johnny Cope," Mr. James Barbour, jun. ("The Auld Sang Singer"), sends the following (for the same song we are also indebted to Mr. Thomas Campbell, Dreghorn):-

An honest man was Duncan Dow,
His native place was Glendruel,
In a wee bit clachan in the west,
No far ayont the hills o' Cowal.
Where he comes frae mak's nae odds,
Be it Mull or Skye or Kerry;
Some auchty years hae slipped awa'
Since he dug the grave for Highland Mary.

     Chorus -
If ere you gang tae Greenock toon,
And has jist a half-an-oor tae tarry,
Gang west intae the auld kirkyard
And see the grave of Highland Mary.

Mary Campbell was her name,
'Twas in Greenock toon this lass resided;
The Poet aft ca'd her his ain,
And to mak' her his he had decided.
But had he lived he'd mourned yet
For the losing o' his flooer sae early;
And the best lines that e'er Burns made
Was his prayer to Heaven for Highland Mary.


If e'er you chance to cross the burn -
It is but right you all should know it -
Away doon in auld Greenock toon
Lies the relict of the Ayrshire poet.
If e'er you chance to gang that way
And hae ony time ava to tarry,
gang west intae the auld kirkyard
And see the grave o' Highland Mary.


An Elgin Poet on the Grave of Highland Mary
"Several songs, 'Johnnie Cope,' could be identified with the title 'Highland Mary's Grave,'" writes Mr. James M. Taylor, 13 Fraser Street, Aberdeen, but probably the one you refer to is the poem written by "La Zeste," the Elgin poet, who wandered all the way on foot to Greenock, and composed the following lines on the spot:-

Oh, Mary, dear departed shade,
This is indeed thy place of rest,
The lingering star above thy head,
And by thy lover bard embraced.
I've wandered far to see thy grave,
And on its sod a teardrop lave.

Tho' I will never sing like him,
Nor draw the tears from others' eyes -
E'en now my own are waxing dim
As bending from the grave I rise -
Yet proud that I have kissed to-day
The sod that wraps his Mary's clay.

Tho' thousands come to visit here
And wander thro' the auld kirkyard,
Perhaps not one may shed a tear
For Mary or sweet Coila's bard.
With giddy souls and hearts of steel,
They cannot feel as poets feel.

Fair bloom to-day Montgomery's flowers,
And green the woods so sweetly sung -
'Twas there ye spent those golden hours
When youth was yours and love was young.
Adieu! some day my muse, soft thing,
Of Highland Mary's grave may sing.

Helen Adair

I think of thee at sunset's dying ray,
When merry birds are hushed in slumber deep,
As through the wintry, wooded paths I stray,
Or o'er brown moors where length'ning shadows creep,
And deepen in the twilight soft and grey - I think of thee.

When o'er the pine wood steals the last bright gleam
Of wintry radiance, fleeting fast away,
And chill winds, sighing, breathe into my dream,
Then me n'ries throng; as light the dead leaves play,
So lonely, in the twilight's ling'ring beam - I long for thee.

I think of thee at night, for thee I pray
In silence dark when sad hearts lonely wake,
And though pale morning finds thee far away,
Yet still in gladdening hope I comfort take;
So, fondly, at the dawning of the day - I wake to thee.

I think of thee although thou art not nigh;
Absent I sorrow, but still look beyond;
My heart still bound with every tender tie.
Thrills with sweet hope, and may not long despond;
So, gladly, the long years of waiting by - I'll dwell with thee.

His Valentine

My Valentine! I seize my pen
To write to you the yearly verse;
I shall not tune my lyre again
To raptures which my soul immerse;
I shall not praise your sapphire eyes,
Nor sing the archness of your look -
Ah, no! I chant your bread and pies,
My Valentine, for you can cook!

My Valentine, I love the glow -
The ruby glow so softly spread
Upon your tempting velvet cheek
When you have been a baking bread.
Your hair is golden, thick, and fine.
In gleaming coil, and curl and loop,
And best of all, oh, one divine,
I never find it in my soup.

My Valentine! Let others write
Their lyrics to our hands and brow,
Your biscuits are as feathers light,
Your cakes are tempting, anyhow.
Let others sing your charms so sweet,
With poetaster's gentle art.
For me, the things you make to eat
Have won the highway to my heart.

On Christmas Day

I saw her gowned in filmy lace,
With violets on her breast;
She looked so fair I almost then
My love for her confessed.
But there is many a soft blue eye
And cheek that shames the rose,
So still I dallied with my heart.
Nor hastened to propose.

On Christmas Day I took a walk
Beneath the branches bare
And at her door a smell of herbs
Was wafted on the air.
I peeped within. The wintry sun
Shone on her curls of gold;
A neat white apron neatly bound
Her waist of slender mould.

Beneath her white and skilful hands
A noble turkey lay;
I watched her dress it, and my doubts,
Like mist, dissolved away.
Exhaling savory whiffs of thyme,
And plump with golden fat,
She popped it in the waiting range -
My hearty went pit-a-pat.

Entranced, I saw her leave the pies
And run in eager haste,
With gravy rich, from time to time,
Its juicy sides to baste.
And when, a symphony in brown,
She dished that bird divine,
I boldly stepped inside the door,
And asked her to be mine.

Verses For The Month

What can little children do
In the Master's vineyard fair?
What can little hands there find
Light enough for them to bear?
What can little eyes there find
Needing much their watchful sight?
What can little hearts bestow
That shall make some burden light?
Little feet are light and swift
On love's errands they can run;
Little fingers soft and deft
Many a task have bravely done;
Little eyes can surely see
Every true and goodly thing;
Little hearts can always feel
Sympathy for suffering.
Surely we can something do
That shall help the cause along,
If it nothing greater be
Than to sing some little song.

Mother !
Liverpool - Fred W. Scothern

Mother, most dear, thy sacred name
With joy my heart fills, just the same
As when a boy I loved to see
Thy dear, sweet face light up with glee,
And ask me, "Where ever have you been?
What have you done - whom have you seen?"
If but to schoolhouse I had gone,
You missed me when you were alone.
Longing to see your boy so dear,
His heart to comfort and to cheer.
When little woes and griefs I told,
You would at once some joy unfold,
Holding me in your love's embrace,
Where many a time I found a place.
Time goes apace, a man I grew;
But still thy loving kindness knew.
It cheered my heart in life's rough way,
Helped me along from day to day.
A welcome home, a cheery smile,
My troubles oft you would beguile;
Would soothe the sorrow, dry the tear,
As time to time they would appear.
Your kind advice and words so dear,
Would chase away all doubt and fear;
A tender word, a loving kiss,
Put all things right that were amiss.
Thus many a time my heart found rest
With secret sure in mother's breast.
Alas, dear mother, thou art gone,
And I am left on earth alone;
Yet, not alone, for memory clings
Around my heart, and comfort brings
My heart to look to higher things
Than earthly joys, and find relief
In knowing that you share my grief.
That your dear eye is looking on
My journey here till Heaven is won;
When, mother dear, I hope to rest
With thee amongst the happy blest.

A Tribute to Robert Burns
Robert Smart - Harthill

A greater name than kings has he
Who sang with such poetic glee
The songs that ever dear shall be
To Scottish hearts;
Those soaring strains, sublime and free,
A joy imparts.

Of bonnie Doon and winding Ayr,
And Scotia's scenes beyond compare,
He tuned the lyre with skill so rare
Their praise to tell,
And brought to banish grief and care
His gift's grand spell.

His was a lowly, humble birth,
Yet out abroad o'er sea and earth,
Far distant lands have learned his worth,
His name revere,
Who set the chords of songful mirth
All sounding clear.

Where'er mankind oppression spurns,
And freedom's star it brightly burns,
Where sullen slavery ne'er returns
With evil frown -
There shall the songs of Robbie Burns
Have high renown.

My Love is on Her Way
Joanna Baillie

Oh, welcome bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome moth and drowsy fly
That to mine ear comes humming by!
And welcome shadows dim and deep,
And stars that through the pale sky peep;
Oh welcome all! to me ye say
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is on the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound,
That steals along the stilly ground.
Oh, dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour?
Oh, noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to this fall of night?

The Phantom Fleet

A cold wind chilled us, as we paced the deck,
One summer night, upon a summer sea;
A nameless fear crept over us, of wreck,
Of watery woes, and breakers on the lea.
"Icebergs!" From lip to lip the whisper passed;
We huddled close; our pulses ceased to beat;
As, bending slow before the freshening blast,
Bore down the Phantom Fleet.

First, shadowy and pale, like spectral ships,
Along the deep in solemn ranks they came;
And then the starshine broke along their tips,
And clothes their aspects with resplendent flame.
Green, beryl, blue, and many an opal gleam
O'er the huge crystals of the seas were cast;
Their fearful beauty held us like a dream,
As one by one they passed.

The last one came to close to our side
We almost scraped it with our swinging spars;
We scarcely breathed as o'er the heaving tide
It bore away beneath the silent stars;
And then, as spire by spire, and tip by tip
We watched the monsters in the distance fade,
Our deep suspense sprang, quivering to the lip,
And, as we gazed, we prayed.

We thought of those whose fate is hid in gloom -
Of the proud steamers that had sailed from shore,
Away, afar, out o'er the barren foam,
Under the stars, but to return no more.
What might have been their doom we imaged now,
As from our own fell peril we drew breath -
The towering iceberg topling o'er the prow,
The crash, the mid-sea death!

The shriek, the groan, the wild arms tossed on high,
The rush for boats, the fight for live in vain,
The settling down, the last faint bubbling cry,
The dark, calm sea, and all serene again;
And lastly, looking down, those phantoms grey,
Ghostly and ghastly in their silent might,
Moving in stately symmetry away -
Away into the night.

Oh! when on life we hold such slender lease,
We are the sport of every idle gale;
We guide our course o'er all uncertain seas,
And keenest vigils cannot all avail,
We know not when, from realms of icy death,
What chilling fate may loom up in the night
To whelm our hopes, and cause us, with a breath,
To pass from mortal sight.


So you're going to leave us, dearie, for a land so far away,
But there's no home like the old home, whatever the folks may say;
We cannot go with you, dearie, though it's oh! so hard to part,
For to leave the dear old cottage, father would break his heart.

You'll sometimes think of us, dearie, for often we'll think of you,
As we sit in the chimney corner, just as we used to do;
You'll have your dear ones around you, away in that far-off place,
But our old hearts will be aching, for a sight of our darling's face.

Yes, the cot will soon be empty, and we shall have gone to rest,
But God will take care of you, dearie; trust Him, for he knows best,
Wherever you go, my dearie, life brings trouble and pain,
But there's peace in Heaven, my dearie, where we shall meet again.

The Fussing Place
Youth's Companion

I have to go to the Fussing Place
When I'm very bad.
And mother has such a sorry face,
And her eyes look sad.
But she says, in just the firmest tone,
"The boy that fusses must stay alone,"
When I have been bad.

At first I pretend I do not care,
And I hum a tune,
And walk off quick with my head in the air,
But pretty soon
I begin to hate the Fussing Place,
And to be there seems a great disgrace;
So I stop my tune.

And then I think of mother's eyes,
With that sorry look,
And soon I think it is time to surprise
Her over her book,
So I hunt up a smile and put it on
(For I can't come out till the frowns are gone.)
How happy she'll look!

The Fussing Place? Oh, it's where you're sent
When you're naughty and mean,
And there you must stay till you're good again
And fit to be seen.
It's up in the attic or under the stairs
Or seated on one of the kitchen chairs,
And, oh, you feel mean!

But it doesn't matter much where it is,
This old Fussing Place,
For the very spot that seems so bad
When you're in disgrace
Is nice enough when you're loving and true'
So it's not where you are, but how you do,
That makes it a Fussing Place!

Summer's Eve
Michael Drayton (born 1570)

Clear had the day been from the dawn,
All chequered was the sky,
Thin clouds, like scarfs of cobweb lawn,
Veil's heaven's most glorious eye.

The wind had no more strength than this,
That leisurely it blew,
To make one leaf the next to kiss
That closely by it grew.

The flowers, like brave embroidered girls,
Looked as they most desired,
To see whose head with orient pearls
Most curiously was tyred.

The rills that on the pebbles played
Might now be heard at will;
This world the only music made,
Else everything was still.

(Sonnet) - Charles J. McCullagh

Thou shalt have Sorrow; it shall ever be
Thy portion here as long as thou shalt stand
On earth's cold ground, far from that glowing land
Which looms far off in its eternity -
Oh, yes, lone Sorrow, thou dost daily see
The tearful eye, the thin and icy hand
Of lonely man, who cannot here command
One smile from Joy in his voluptuous glee.

But, Sorrow, thou dost teach us that all pain
And suffering here shall bring us peace at last;
That all our woes will bring eternal gain
When life's low fever is for ever past;
And as the sunshine follows storm and rain,
So Joy shall brighten skies now overcast.

The Brave Little Man
William Page Carter, in "Leslie's Monthly Magazine"

All torn, but sweet, is the old straw hat,
As it hangs on the rack in the hall,
There's mud from home on two little shoes
Where he played on the hills last fall;
There's dust on the kite, and little stick, the horse
Stands still as ever he can,
Listening, perhaps, in the corner there
For the voice of the brave little man.

There's never a song of bird, nor bloom
Of rose that blows in the spring,
Nor shout of boy, nor gleam of sun,
But where some tears will cling.
There's never a flash of the evening star
On the hearthstone's fireside,
Of winter night but will bring some tears
For the brave little man that died.

Kind friends they were; we kiss them for him,
And lay them out of sight -
The two little shoes, the torn old hat,
The little stick, horse, and kite;
And down in his pocket a rusty nail,
A bit of chalk and string,
A broken knife, an alley or two.
Oh! the birds, the bloom, and the spring!
And star of God at morning's song,
Noon-time and twilight tide,
One sweet little face, some tears will come
For the brave little man that died.

Lily Williamson Boyd, With Mr. and Mrs. P. B. Coulter's Compliments, 35 Seymour Street, Lisburn, 9th March 1921

Clara Murphy, With Mr. and Mrs. J. M. Armstrong's Compliments, 8 Ormeau Road, Belfast, 4th July, 1921

Mabel Leckey, With Mr. & Mrs. C. E. Thompson's Compliments, 48 Eldon Street, York, 12th Sept., 1923

The Elliot Pedigree

A correspondent writes:- The sale of Stobs Castle, which is situated in Minto parish, Roxburghshire, serves to remind people interested in such matters that the Earl of Minto, like many another Peer, is not the head of his surname.  Lord Minto's ancestor was the fourth (Burke erroneously says second) son of Gilbert Elliot of Stobs - "Gibbie wi' the gowden garters" - while the gentleman who has just sold the ancestral home of his race, Sir W. F. A. Elliot, the eighth baronet of Stobs, is descended direct from the eldest, Lord Minto being thus a cadet of his house.  Burke, curiously enough, in his "Peerage" omits to show from which of the sons of the dandy with the gorgeous knee-bands the Minto branch descends, but it derives from Gavin of Grange.  Both Gavin and his eldest brother had sons called Gilbert, and the cousins were created baronets, being distinguished men in their day
     Contrary to general acceptation Elliot is not an ancient name on the Scottish Border, dating only from the 16th century, and then as a corruption of Elwood, a very ancient pre-Norman-Saxon personal name, a contraction of Ethelwold.  As Elwoods they were a strong Border clan, of which the Laird of Redheugh was chief.  Whether Stobs became representative is not clear.  A totally different race called Eliott belonged to Forfarshire, where there is a river so called, and where the surname is found in the 15th century.  It is therefore strange that the present chief of the Border clan should have adopted their mode of spelling.  But the oldest of all the people of similar surname are English of Norman descent.  A William Aliot came to England in the Conqueror's days, and in the course of time the initial letter was changed to E. These Aliots or Eliots flourished at an early period in the south-west of England, and of whom the Earl of St. Germans is the head.  It behoves Elliotts to be careful of the spelling of their names, which are Elliot for the Border, Eliott for Forfarshire, and Eliot for England.  They are entirely different, having no connection one with the other.


Lucky Hills

He was very affable and free with his opinions, but that was about all he was free with.  To the man who had carries his bag to the countryside station he had given one penny.  Notwithstanding the forlorn look on the man's face he still continued to chat in an easy manner.
     "I shall never forget," he continued, "the splendour of the scenery when I was in Switzerland.  It was an education to see the sun rise, tipping the little blue hills with gold -"
"Ah." interrupted the man who had toiled with his bag, "the 'ills were luckier than me, weren't they?"