Memories and Anecdotes Part 17

She studied child nature direct from the child, And she spared not the rod, though her manner was mild.

All honour be paid her, this heroine true, She laid the foundation for things we call new!

Her hand was so strong, and her brain was so steady, That for the New Woman she made the world ready.

MARY W. BABc.o.c.k.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE ISLAND WHICH WE MADE]

Here is one of the several parodies written by my brother while interned in a log camp in the woods of New Brunswick, during a severe day's deluge of rain. It was at the time when Peary had recently reached the North Pole, and Dr. Cook had reported his remarkable observations of purple snows:

DON'T YOU HEAR THE NORTH A-CALLIN'?

s.h.i.+p me somewhere north o' nowhere, where the worst is like the best; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compa.s.s, an' a man can get a rest; Where a breeze is like a blizzard, an' the weather at its best; Dogs and Huskies does the workin' and the Devil does the rest.

On the way to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play, And the day is slow a-comin', slower Still to go away.

There I seen a walrus baskin'--bloomin' blubber to the good; Could I 'it 'im for the askin'? Well--I missed 'im where he stood.

s.h.i.+p me up there, north o' nowhere, where the best is like the worst; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compa.s.s, and the last one gets there first.

Take me back to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play; And the night is long a-comin', when it Comes, it comes to stay.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TAKA'S TEA HOUSE AT LILY POND]

THE WOMAN WITH THE BROOM

_A Mate for "The Man With The Hoe."_

(Written after seeing a farmer's wife cleaning house.)

Bowed by the cares of cleaning house she leans Upon her broom and gazes through the dust.

A wilderness of wrinkles on her face, And on her head a k.n.o.b of wispy hair.

Who made her slave to sweeping and to soap, A thing that smiles not and that never rests, Stanchioned in stall, a sister to the cow?

Who loosened and made shrill this angled jaw?

Who dowered this narrowed chest for blowing up Of sluggish men-folks and their morning fire?

Is this the thing you made a bride and brought To have dominion over hearth and home, To scour the stairs and search the bin for flour, To bear the burden of maternity?

Is this the wife they wove who framed our law And pillared a bright land on smiling homes?

Down all the stretch of street to the last house There is no shape more angular than hers, More tongued with gabble of her neighbours' deeds, More filled with nerve-ache and rheumatic twinge, More fraught with menace of the frying-pan.

O Lords and Masters in our happy land, How with this woman will you make account, How answer her shrill question in that hour When whirlwinds of such women shake the polls, Heedless of every precedent and creed, Straight in hysteric haste to right all wrongs?

How will it be with cant of politics, With king of trade and legislative boss, With cobwebs of hypocrisy and greed, When she shall take the ballot for her broom And sweep away the dust of centuries?

EDWARD W. SANBORN.

NEW HAMPs.h.i.+RE DAUGHTERS

New Hamps.h.i.+re Daughters meet tonight With joy each cup is brimmin'; We've heard for years about her men, But why leave out her wimmin?

In early days they did their share To git the state to goin', And when their husbands went to war, Could fight or take to hoein'.

They bore privations with a smile, Raised families surprisin', Six boys, nine gals, with twins thrown in, O, they were enterprisin'.

Yet naught is found their deeds to praise In any book of hist'ry, The brothers wrote about themselves, And--well, that solves the myst'ry.

But now our women take their place In pulpit, court, and college, As doctors, teachers, orators, They equal men in knowledge.

And when another history's writ Of what New Hamps.h.i.+re's done, The women all will get their due, But not a single son.

But no, on sober second thought, We lead, not pose as martyrs, We'll give fair credit to her sons, But not forget her Darters.

KATE SANBORN.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LOOKOUT]

A little of my (not doggerel) but pupperell to complete the family trio.

Answer to an artist friend who begged for a "Turkey dinner."

Delighted to welcome you dear; But you can't have a Turkey dinner!

Those fowls are my friends--live here: To eat, not be eat, you sinner!

I like their limping, primping mien, I like their raucous gobble; I like the lordly tail outspread, I like their awkward hobble.

Yes, Turkey is my favourite meat, Hot, cold, or rechauffee; *But my own must stay, and eat and eat; You may paint 'em, and so take away.

KATE SANBORN.

[*Metre adapted to the peculiar feet of this bird.]

SPRING IN WINTER

_A Memory of "Breezy Meadows"_

'Twas winter--and bleakly and bitterly came The winds o'er the meads you so breezily name; And what tho' the sun in the heavens was bright, 'Twas lacking in heat altho' lavish in light.

And cold were the guests who drew up to your door, But lo, when they entered 'twas winter no more!

Without, it might freeze, and without, it might storm, Within, there was welcome all glowing and warm.

And oh, but the warmth in the hostess's eyes Made up for the lack of that same in the skies!

And fain is the poet such magic to sing: Without, it was winter--within, it was spring!

Yea, spring--for the charm of the house and its cheer Awoke in us dreams of the youth of the year; And safe in your graciousness folded and furled, How far seemed the cold and the care of the world!

So strong was the spell that your magic could fling, We _knew_ it was winter--we _felt_ it was spring!

Yea, spring--in the glow of your hearth and your board The springtime for us was revived and restored, And everyone blossomed, from hostess to guest, In story and sentiment, wisdom and jest; And even the bard like a robin must sing-- And, sure, after that, who could doubt it was spring!

DENIS A. McCARTHY.