Songs Ysame

Its straight, uncushioned seats, how hard they seemed!
What penance-doing form they always wore
To little heads that could not reach the text,
And little feet that could not reach the floor.

What wonder that we hailed with strong delight
The buzzing wasp, slow sailing down the aisle,
Or, sunk in sin, beguiled the constant fly
From weary heads, to make our neighbors smile.

How softly from the churchyard came the breeze
That stirred the cedar boughs with scented wings,
And gently fanned the sleeper's heated brow
Or fluttered Grandma Barlow's bonnet strings.

With half-shut eyes, across the pulpit bent,
The preacher droned in soothing tones about
Some theme, that like the narrow windows high,
Took in the sky, but left terrestrials out.

Good, worthy man, his work on earth is done;
His place is lost, the old church passed away;
And with them, when they went, there must have gone
That sweet, bright calm, my childhood's Sabbath day.

An Old-Time Pedagogue

SLOWLY adown the village street
With groping cane and faltering feet,
He goes each day through cold or heat —
Old Daddy Hight.
His hair is scant upon his head,
His eyes are dim, his nose is red,
And yet, his mien is stern and dread —
Old Daddy Hight.

The village lads his form descry
While yet afar, and boldly cry —
(For bears are scarce and rods are high)
"Old Daddy Hight!"
But when their fathers meet his glance,
They nod and smile and look askance.
He taught them once the Modoc dance —
Old Daddy Hight.

How long we cling to servitude,
How long we keep the schoolboy's mood!
Still seems with awful power endued —
Old Daddy Hight.
They feel a cringing of the knee,
Those fathers, yet, whene'er they see
Adown the walk pace solemnly —
Old Daddy Hight.

Wide is his fame, of how he taught,
And how he flogged, and reckoned naught
The toils and pains that knowledge bought —
Old Daddy Hight.
He had no lack of "ways and means"
To track the loiterers on the greens;
He scorned all counterfeits and screens —
Old Daddy Hight.

Oh, dire the day that brewed mishap!
That brought to luckless back his strap,
To hanging head his Dunce's cap —
Old Daddy Hight.
No blotted page dared meet his eye;
The owner quaked and wished to die,
When rod in hand, with wrath strode by —
Old Daddy Hight.

He helped them up the thorny steep
Of wisdom's path with pain to creep,
With vigilance that might not sleep —
Old Daddy Hight.
Now, down his life's long, slow decline,
He walks alone at eighty-nine —
The last of his illustrious line —
Old Daddy Hight.

Her Title-Deeds

INSIDE the cottage door she sits,
Just where the sunlight, softest there,
Slants down on snowy kerchief's bands,
On folded hands and silvered hair.

The garden pale her world shuts in,
A simple world made sweet with thyme,
Where life, soft lulled by droning bees,
Flows to the mill-stream's lapsing rhyme.

Poor are her cottage walls, and bare;
Too mean and small to harbor pride,
Yet with a musing gaze she sees
Her broad domains extending wide.

Green slopes of hills, and waving fields,