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The Granite monthly, a New Hampshire magazine, devoted to literature, history, and state progress (Volume 53) online

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ly something underneath the table
touched my leg, a furtive touch. I
responded. Then the exploring
member, sure of its ground, pressed
repeatedly against me. Uncle and
I exchanged no glances as his warm
knee caressed my lank little shin,
but we both found exquisite satis-
faction in the touch and our spirits
rose. It was balm to my soul to
thus know Uncle for an ally ; it was
the acme of cleverness thus to es-
tablish communication under the
very nose of the enemy. I could
have laughed aloud, but for the be-
trayal. Truly, I was learning self-
control ; I could bear pain without a
cry, joy without a smile. Perhaps
I was learning other things, such as
deceit and trickery. That phase of
the matter would have given Aunt
pause ; Uncle and I passed it over
with careless grace.

After supper Uncle sat a few
minutes on the back porch before
returning to the store. He sat
there, apparently resting, but I
knew he was waiting — waiting for
me. My heart urged me toward
him, but first there were duties for



my hands. How desperately I liv-
ed up to the letter of the law in per-
forming them ! I cleared the table ;
I broke nothing; I picked no food.
And presently my reward was due
and could not be denied.

Then I stood by Uncle's side, his
arm drawing me close, and closer
yet, while mine reached around his
neck in a strangling grip to which
he submitted as to a soothing in-
fluence. He lent himself more and
more to my slender size and puny
strength, until he was throttled as
with bands of straw. With his
disengaged hand he patted my
head and smoothed my cheek
from brow to chin, holding my
small, thin face in the cup of his

palm and squeezing until he hurt.
But of this I would make no sign.
The pain that followed his touch of
love was a real joy; I wanted him
to hurt me more, to prove how
much I could bear from him with-
out crying out.

But he was far from sensing the
ordeal I fondly imagined myself un-
dergoing. His repressed spirit
was dissolving in tenderness toward
me. This was his one moment of
spiritual satisfaction; I afforded the
sole outlet for his love. Thus we
held each other close, and he sighed
deeply, now and then whispering in
the tenderest way : "My pore little
boy ! My pore little hatchet-faced
boy !"


By Walter B. Wolfe.

The great sun has torn the misty veils

Where many dawning empires grew —

With silver fingers

It has penciled many mornings;

Babylon and Judaea

Greece and mighty Rome :

Gilded for a day

And plunged into tenebrous silence.

The grey lichens cling

Where pillars .stood and temples

And the earthworms

Have crumbled them forever

The great sun has watched

The mighty march of empires —

Yet only the grasses

The tall green grasses

Growing in their crannies

Thrusting their heads

From cracked mosaics

And crumbling tilings,

Only the grasses sing now

When the great sun

Tears the misty veils of dawn

With silver fingers


Contemporary Verse Anthology
With An Introduction By
Charles Wharton Stork. Pp.
266. Cloth. New York. E. P.
Dutton & Co.

(Reviewed by Gordon Hillman)

Mr. Charles Wharton Stork has
a pleasant way of doing unusual
things and doing them well, and his
Anthology of poems selected from
the magazine. Contemporary Verse,
is more than notable in comparison
with the poetry of the day. Here
are gathered together ,Edward J.
O'Brien. Lizette Woodworth Reese,
David Morton, Witter Bynner, Ed-
win Ford Piper, John French Wil-
son, Margaret Widdemer, Gamaliel
Bradford, Scudder Middleton, Sara
Teasdale, Mary Carolyn Davies,
Joyce Kilmer and almost a hundred
others, a truly formidable array of
American poets.

Undeniably, there is no one giant
standing head and shoulders above
the others, but as undeniably their
work is. on an average, exceedingly
good. Here among them is grati-
fication for all tastes, here are new
writers and old, all singing to the
best of their varied abilities and
with few exceptions, all singing very
well indeed. It could not have
been an easy task to compile such
an Anthology, which stands with
Mr. Braithwaite's yearly collection,
and Miss Rittenhouse's occasional
one in bringing to the fore the real
poetic genius of America. As the
magazine, Contemporary Verse, is
head and shoulders above its kind,
one would expect an anthology of
poems from it to be good ; one could
not expect it to be as good as it
really is.

Variety is rampart for seemingly
Mr. Stork has no prejudices, and
both lovers of free verse and of the
lyric will find their prophets here.

Gratefully however, there are in this
volume, no explosive verse, explos-
ive only to draw attention to its
author, no "red shirt" and dynamite
effects such as are initiated by Mr.
Sandburg to prove that he is a
Chicagoan, ;no attempts tjo outdo
Mr. Masters and his "Spoon River
Anthology" in sensationalism.

One may read Mr. Stork's An-
thology with the keen pleasure of
discovering really good verse, and
not with the more dubious joy of
happening upon some new cult or

'ism." It shows American poetry
as it is, not as certain radicals in
rhythm would have us see it. In-
evitably there are poems in this col-
lection that some of us will not
like, there are no poems that none
of us will like.

As to which is the best, you must
judge for yourself. The group of
"Week End Sonnets" by John
French Wilson are unusually good,
and the best of the younger sonnet-
eers, David Morton, sings the glory
of the Seven Seas in "Shipping
News" and "Beauty Like Yours."
Yet possibly Edward J. O'Brien's
"Pulvis et Umbra" overtops them
all. Few modern poets and fewer
modern American poets can write
like this.

"I am but a dusty name

Blowing down a ruined stair,

I whose passion was a flame
Kindling all the windy air.

Veil my dreaming with a sigh

Light is drowned in shadow's foam,
I, whose dream may never die,

Knew not when I wandered home."
He who would find better con-
temporary verse than this must
fare far.

Hardly less good is a poem by
Lizette Woodworth Reese, best re-
membered of all American women
poets, and Miss Sara Teasdale is
represented by three delightful



"Songs for E." Well known by
this time through many reprintings
is Amanda Benjamin Hall's "I Am
A Dancer," and Marguerite Wilkin-
son's "Weather" is fully qualified
to stand beside it in merit.

For contrast, there is a very jolly
poem by Joyce Kilmer, "The Ash-
man," almost a phantasy with a
rollicking humor through it all, and
Gamaliel Bradford has contributed
some of his best known excellences
of verse, deserving of much appre-
ciation in these days when form and
meter are neglected.

And now to the youngsters, the
poets of the future? Mr. Morton
has arrived as his sonnet, "Shipping
News," testifies.

"Here is the record of their splendid days,
The curving prow, the tall and stately
And all the width and wonder of their
Reduced to little printed words, at last.
The Helen Dover docks, the Mary Ann

Departs for Ceylon and the Eastern trade ;
Arrived: The Jacque with cargoes from
And Richard Kidd, a tramp, and Silver

The narrow print is wide enough for

But here: "Reported Missing"

the type fails,
The column hreaks for white, disastrous
The jagged spars thrust through, and

flapping sails
Flagging farewells to sky and wind and
Arrive at silent ports, and leave no more."

So has Mr. Wilson just arrived,
and yet there are a stride above
Helen Coale Crew, whose "These
Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus" is a
rare bit of poesy. Louis Ginsbery,
publisher of a first volume this
winter is amply represented by "In
the Hallway." Beatrice Ravenel's
"Broomgrass" recalls the flaring
color of Alfred Noyes, while Ley-
land Huckfield's "The Old Gods
March" has a truly Chestertonian
lilt and swing. And one must not
forget "The Taking of Bagdad" by
Kadra Maysi. Other there are and
many of them who have done good
things. Witter Bynner among them,
but neither Leonora Speyer nor yet
Amory Hare are additions to the


By G. Fauncc Whitcomb.

Dawn, Dawn,
The still glory of your early morn glow

Steals over my being like wine ;
The blended shades of your blues and- grays
Nameless yearnings into my mind.
Dawn, Dawn,
The subtlety of your advent and flight

Increases my longing to know
The mystery of your brilliance and might.
Bare your secret before you go !
Dawn — Dawn !


Through the kindness of Mr. John H. Bartlett. A gratifying

Brokes More a prize of of $50 is of- number of entries for the contest

fered for the best poem published in already have been received, some of

the Granite Monthly during the which are printed herewith, while

year 1921. The judges are Prof, others may be found elsewhere in

Katharine Lee Bates, Mr. W. S. the magazine.
Braithwaite and former Governor


By Maude Gordon-Roby.

Nay, tell me not that I am growing old !
Look upward to the glowing Sun : Behold
His morning face of warm and ruddy gold.
The white arms of the Sea caressingly enfold
His rays until her bosom, heaving, cold.
Transmutes the glory .... Evening bells are

tolled ;
A million Stars leap out, nor are they doled
Forth scantily like lambs into the fold.

They crowd the blue and ever joyous hold
Communion with the spheres. Man cannot

His age, he WAS before the planets rolled
Across the firmament Man is not old !


B\ Clair T. Leonard.

At night, dull fancies take their shapes again,
And feed the mind with recollections dim
Of jollity and mirth and merry men
And prattling children — darling cherubim ;

Of silly errors, sweet in innocence.

And spiteful actions of demeanor foul.

And days and weeks of irksome penitence,

Till God might waive the sufFrings of my soul.

And then within the blackness of the night,

Illumined like those knightly dreams of old,

My soul is quicken'd by a vision bright

Of thee. And when 't is gone my soul grows cold ;

The night reveals how far remote thou art,

How many months have passed since we did part.



By Shirley Harvey.

Sing me a song that is wholly new,

A sony that no lips hare ever sung,

A song that shall speak from the soul of you
To the wheeling stars of the universe,
From Heaven's praise to deep Hell-curse

Or the hill where a Christ was hung.

A song that shall echo within my heart,

And stir to life the dullard there,

A song divine, like a flaming dart,

To sear and cleanse to the riven bone
Yet soothe like a child ish prayer.

Hark ! can you hear it,

Out across the meadows,
Pulsing. through the wind-drift

Muscial and low,
The echo of a love song,

A lark's song that quivers,
And sets the heart to singing, —

And bleeding even so?

Hark ! can you hear it.

Surging o'er the city,
Breaking through the rattle

Of the traffic's come and go,
The echo of a love song

That sneers and blasts and shivers,
And sets the heart to bleeding

And singing even so?

Hark! can you hear it,

Sweeping o'er the mountain,
Speaking in the stillness

Of the ocean's ebb and flow,
The echo of a love song

That sings of deep contentment,
And sets the heart to laughing, —

And longing even so?

Hark! can you hear it,

Booming in the cavern.
Speaking the depths

Of life's eternal woe,
The echo of a love song,

Yearning and yet hopeless,
That sets the heart to longing, —

And laughing even so?


Loud is the voice of the wind,

When the mountains about are cold.
Wise are the words of men,

When they speak from of old.
New is the dawn on the hill,

Ancient the day that dies.
Heart of me, soul of me, life of me,

What would you give to be wise?

Many the voices that strive

To riddle the meaning of God.
Many the steps that wipe out

The pathways that others have trod.
Loud is the voice of Life,

And greater than Death's in men's eyes.
Heart of me, soul of me, life of me,

Would ye give what to be wise?

When the crimson day is fading

Into gold across the lea,
And the moon is pouring silver

O'er the dark, dim, purple sea,
And the first gleam of the beacon

Twinkles out across the dark.
The home-light of the dory

And the swaying fisher-bark.

Low a woman's heart is singing

In the firelight's homely glare,
Singing softly to the shadows

That beat back- the hearthstone-flare.
And her heart is full of gladness, —

Though her song is all of pain, —
For she cannot hear the thunder

Or the racing hurricane,
That in far off Southern oceans

Strikes and overwhelms in wrath
The ship that seeks to breast a way

Athwart its foam-blazed path.

Pale are ghosts of the dead

That walk on the sea ;
Worn are the hearts that pray

In love and misery;
Black as the caverns of death

Are the pits of her eyes ;
Heart of me, soul of me, life of me,

Would ve be wise ?


Where the city lights are mocking, —

With a mocking that defames,
Where the city lights are tender,

Like brooding altar flames,
Where the ceaseless hum of thousands

Seems to weave as by a spell
All the glory that is Heaven's

All the hate that toils in Hell.

A woman's heart is singing

As the evening gathers down,
And the thousand steps beat homeward

From the busy, tired town,
Her heart sings with the city

That has left the toil of day,
And, dressed in light and laughter,

Waits to dance the night away.
So she gives her heart to singing,

For she cannot — cannot hear
In a far off street the clanging gong

That marks the city's fear.

Pale are the ghosts of the dead

The city has slain ;
Broken the hearts that weep

And pray in their pain ;
Bitter as sour wine

Are the tears in her eyes ;
Heart of me, .soul of me, life of me,

Would ye be wise?

Older than the wisdom

That mutters through the ages,
Younger than the dawn

That reddens on the hill,
Sweeter than the hawthorne,

More bitter than the hemlock
Is the whispered love song

That bids the world be still.

Listen, can't you hear it,

In these words that falter,
Read it in my tears

And blushes ere they go?
Nay, then I must tell you

How bitterly I love you, —
Take me, hold, love me —

And slay me even .so !


New Hampshire, natural home of
winter sports, is awaking to a
realization of her opportunities on
this line which ought to mean much
for the good of the state. Winter
carnivals, with programs extending
over .several days, were held dur-
ing the month of February, 1921, at
Newport, Gorham, Hanover and
Lacorvia. Washington's Birthday
saw more winter guests from the
cities come within the state than
ever before. Seeing the profitable
possibilities from a pecuniary point
of view inherent in this situation,
the New Hampshire Association of
Publishers of Weekly Newspapers,
at its recent midwinter meeting took
the lead in advocating action
throughout the state for realizing
upon this great and almost un-
touched asset of our commonwealth.

The Switzerland of America does
not need to go so far as its name-
sake country over seas to witness
an example of such development,
although it is reached in its highest
degree in that land of the Alps.
Here in America certain sections
of the state of New York make
every midwinter a .season of such
joyous and healthful outdoor sport
as to draw thousands thither 1 to
participate in it. There is no rea-
son why all of New Hampshire
cannot do the same. In a normal
winter the supply of snow upon our
hills and fields and of ice upon our
lakes and rivers is sufficient for all
demands of snowshoe, ski and
skate. Ideal spots for winter
sports of every kind are to be found
by the score within easy access
from the great cities and well
supplied with good hotels capable
of entertaining the winter guest as
hospitably as they have for many
years the summer visitor. For a
long time the members of the Ap-
palachian Mountain Club have been

aware that to know the White Hills
at their best one must see them at
their whitest and A. M. C. parties
anually have bearded the zero
weather dragon in his lair amid the
mountain fastnesses.

More recently the Dartmouth
Outing Club has turned the tedium
of the old time Hanover winter into
a season of joyful sport and has
flung its line of cabin outposts over
a hundred miles of hills. Not the
least factor in the wonderful growth
of the college has been the widely
disseminated knowledge of the work
and fun of the Outing Club. Bring-
ing the boys from card and pool
tables, yes, and from study desks
and book shelves, into God's great
white out of doors ; sending them
over the snow and ice, across the
fields, through the woods and up the
hills, until every nerve tingles with
the joy of being alive, has done
wonders for the physical health and
spiritual morale of the college body.

It will do much for every com-
munity which gives it a fair trial.
We can see, as the newspaper pub-
lishers see, much money coming into
New Hampshire as a result of mak-
ing available our winter .sport re-
sources and advertising them to the
world. And we can see, also, how
a greater degree of out-of-door
winter life for our own people would
make us happier, healthier and long-
er-lived. We wish every city and
village considered a toboggan slide
as much of a necessity as a moving
picture theater; we wish there were
as many ice skating rinks as dance
halls ; we wish more girls would
snowshoe and fewer would "shim-
my ;" we wish more boys would
play hockey and fewer would play
pool. And perhaps all these things
will come to pass if we give them
a chance.



Alfred W. Abbott, M. D., was born in
Concord, May 7, 1842, the son of Alfred
C. and Judith (Farnum) Abbott, and died
at Laconia, January 23. He attended the
academy at Boscawen and studied medi-
cine with Dr. A. E. Emery at Fisherville
and at the Dartmouth Medical College,
from which he graduated in 1868. Be-
ginning practice in Kansas, he soon re-
turned to New Hampshire, at first at
Suncook and then at Sanbornton, where

Miss Blanche N. Abbott, a teacher in the
Laconia High school.


Deacon Sumner Cummings Hill, son of
Col. John and Betsey (Eastman) Hill,
was born in Conway, August 10, 1833, and
died there January 20, 1921. He married,
April 24, 1873, Mrs. Helen M. (Dow)
Merrill, of North Conway, who died
February 18, 1914. As farmer, banker,
postmaster and state representative, Mr.

The late Dr. A. W. Abbott.

he was located 1870-1880. For the past
40 years he had been a leading citizen and
professional/ man iof Laconia. Hej wa's
the second president of the Winnipesaukee
Academy of Medicine ; president of the
Citizens' Telephone Company; and trus-
tee of the Laconia Savings Bank. On
December 30, 1869, he was united in mar-
riage to Julia Ann Clay of Manchester,
who survives, with a son, Dr. Clifton S.
Abbott, of Laconia, and a daughter,

Hill served his day and generation. He
was a charter member of the Second Con-
gregational Church of Conway and was
elected deacon for life. The funeral was
held on January 23, his pastor, Rev.
Charles E. Beals, officiating. Interment
was in West Side Cemetery, Conway.
Deacon Hill was a good man, a _ useful
citizen, a sterling Christian. He is sur-
vived by an only daughter, Louise D.
(Mrs. Stephen Allard), of Conway.

The late Benjamin Holt


Vor.. LIII.

APRIL, 1921.

No. 4


BENJAMIN HOLT, President of
The Holt Manufacturing Company
and inventor of world-fame, died at
Stockton, California, on December
5th, 1920, after an illness that had
| confined him to his bed only about
ten days.

Benjamin Holt, by his inventive
genius and his wonderful ability,
built up a mammoth industry, made
employment for thousands of men,
put agriculture on a higher plane of
efficiency and profit, and gave the
world a machine that has been char-
acterized as the greatest contribu-
tion to the success of the Allies in
the great world war. Unlike so
many inventors and organizers, Mr.
Holt lived to see the fruition of his
dreams and ambitions, to see the
building up of two immense fac-
tories for the manufacture of his
product, to see thousands of these
machines sent out into every part
of the civilized world, and finally to
realize the greatest triumph of all —
the success of the Allied Armies,
due more than anything else to the
tanks and tractors that were the
development of his brain.

Benjamin Holt was born in
Loudon, Merrimack County, New
Hampshire, the seventh of eleven
children of William K. Holt, on
January 1st, 1849. His primary
education was gleaned in the public
schools around his boyhood home,
and in the academy at Tilton, New
Hampshire. Later he attended the
Baptist institution of learning, now
Colby Academy, at New London.

In 1868, Benjamin Holt, with his
brothers, W. Harrison, A. Frank

and Charles H. Holt, began the
manufacture of wagon spokes and
hubs, shipping this material, and
also hardwood lumber, into all parts
of the United States. In 1873, Ben-
jamin Holt established at Concord,
New Hampshire, a plant for the
manufacture of spokes, hubs, fel-
loes, wheels, bodies and running
gears, and during the ten years that
he continued this business he built
up an extensive trade that gave him
a wide reputation in business and
manufacturing circles throughout
the East.

In 1871, Benjamin Holt, together
with W. Harrison Holt and A.
Frank Holt, entered a wholesale
hardwood and wheel business which
had been established in San Fran-
cisco some time earlier by Charles
H. Holt. The new firm was known
as Holt Brothers Company. Ben-
jamin Holt did not, however, come
to California until 1883, at which
time he and Charles H. Holt took
up the manufacture of wheels and
wagon material in Stockton, first
under the name of The Stockton
Wheel Company, but after 1892
under the present name of The
Holt Manufacturing Company.

Mr. Holt was married in 1890 to
Miss Anna Brown, daughter of
Benjamin Brown. The children
are Alfred Brown. Anne (Mrs.
Warren Atherton), William Knox,
Edison and Benjamin Dean.

Through the entire history of
the Holt Company, Benjamin Holt
had been the mechanical head of
the company, and had been its
president since the incorporation



under its present name in 1892. It
was Benjamin Holt who invented
combined harvesters, which greatly
reduced the cost and labor of har-
vesting grain by combining the
cutting, threshing and cleaning
operations. It was Benjamin Holt
who invented the self-propelled
combined harvester, a combination
of tractor and harvester. It was
Benjamin Holt who invented the
"Caterpillar" Tractor, which prov-
ed to offer the only solution of the
problem of traction on soft and
slippery .surfaces and rough ground

Up to the time of his death more
than one hundred inventions cover
Benjamin Holt's achievements in
the field of industry and practically
all are incorporated in the products
of The Holt Manufacturing Com-
pany.. Many of Benjamin Holt's
most remarkable achievements
were made in the later years of
his life, his wonderful inventive
faculties being retained in full
measure up to the time of his death.
One of his last words, in fact, was
a request for information regarding

ed, in spite of the assurances of his
doctors and nurses, that the end
was near.

Probably no man who has won so
large a measure of world wide
fame as Benjamin Holt has so
modestly sought avoidance of
popular praise and public recogni-
tion of his achievements. Instead
of accepting the honors that might
have been his, Benjamin Holt pre-
ferred to devote his entire time and
energy and all of his inventive
faculties to his life work — perfection
of his product and further invention
along new lines.

Benjamin Holt's death marks the
passing of the last of the founders
of the Holt business. The younger
generation is represented in the
Holt Company by C. Parker Holt,
treasurer, son of Charles H. Holt;
Pliny E. Holt, vice-president, and
Ben C. Holt, manager of Pacific
Northwest business, sons of W.
Harrison Holt. Alfred Holt, the
oldest son of Benjamin Holt, is
connected with the Peoria Holt
office ; William Holt, the second
son. is engasred in sales and service

the progress of work on one of his work for the Company in Texas ; ?j

Online Library1884 numbers of the Bay state monthlyBe the first and subjects of first 10 volumes and List of porThe Granite monthly, a New Hampshire magazine, devoted to literature, history, and state progress (Volume 53) → online text (page 15 of 57)