1884 numbers of the Bay state monthlyBe the first and subjects of first 10 volumes and List of por.

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

. (page 37 of 57)
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 37 of 57)
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I am lifted as on waves of gold that move

Soundlessly, as on a sea at its flood.

And borne out upon a shorelessness of peace.

Haunted by melody down the still ways of dream

That lulls me to hushed silence

And oblivion.

I sleep.



By Almeda Wight Driscoll.
(Manatee, Florida)

Dear Manatee, so beautiful, so bright!

Beneath the twinkling starlight's tender glow
Thy silvery-tinted waters gently flow ;

And murmur softly to the silent night.
From thy mysterious depths, as poised for flight,

A finny vagrant deftly springs, to go
With sudden echoed splash far, far below,

Till in thy shining waters lost to sight.
Dear Manatee, this peaceful scene, may he

A prelude calm, ere morning dawns, perchance
Thy mighty wrath may rise, as thou doth see

The Northern Storm-King hurl his cruel lance
And set the legions of Destruction free;

While in weird, fiendish glee thy billows dance.


By Cora S. Day.
(Berlin, New Jersey)

I strayed me from the high road, the long road, the rough
The road that runs so dusty and sun-baked to the town.
I hid me in the wildwood deep, where care and sorrow lie
"Love cannot find me here," I said, and gaily sat me

So crowded was the high road, the long road, the rough
The road that runs so sternly forever to the town.
That Love, a-fainting, turned away, before the mid-heat of
the day,
And stole into my wildwood cool, with sob and moan and

What could I do? I soothed him, and kissed him, and
told him :
"We two will dwell forever far from the cruel town.
You found me when I hid from you. — I'll follow at a bid
from you,
Yes — even to the stern high road, so long, and rough,
and brown."



By Lillian Hall Crowley.
(Des Moines, Iowa)

The little, white, fleecy clouds on high,
Go sailing away across the sky,
With never a rudder to steer them by,
Still they go sailing on !

When I start off on life's unknown sea,
I wonder if it would hetter be.
To steer with the wheel or go it free,
A-sailing, sailing on !


By Marie Loscalzo.
(New York, N. Y.)

High o'er the streets of gaining,
Sweet mists of cleansing fling,
Above the city's sadness,
The birds of Heaven wing.


Fast to the peering steeples,
The day's pale fingers cling,
A-peal mid din of Broadway,
The bells of Heaven ring.

Harlot and saint and sinner,

A golden loot they bring,

And yet through strife of sinning,

High hopes of Heaven sing.


By Caroline Fisher.
(New Haven, Connecticut)

Oh listen to the roaring billows roll !
I hear them coming — surging up the beach.
The sea is sobbing out her tired soul
And moaning all her sorrows into each.

Oh ! Would that I could ease my burdens so !

My heart is broken, but I cannot weep.

I long to end my weary life and go

To rest, at last, and sleep— and sleep — and sleep.

Oh ! Listen to the roaring billows roll !
I hear them coming — foaming on the sand.
The sea is sobbing out my tired soul !
Great God above ! You understand.



By // '. /'. France.
(Seattle, Washington)

When night has drawn the curtain on the drama of the

And thoughts may wander where they will in fancy's fields

1 span the years and once again 1 live, with heart aglow,
The gleamy, dreamy story of the land of Long Ago.

Skies that are round and wide,

Fringed with the distant trees ;

Attic and countryside

Brimming with memories ;

Fields where the daisies came.

Paths that 1 loved to roam.

Trees where I carved my name, —

Home !

The wealth of men and nations, nor their silver nor their

Could buy the joy of living that my childhood used to hold;
Nor ever princely palace with its glint of gilded dome
Could measure half the treasure of my olden, golden home.

Friends that I used to know.

Orchard and honey hee,

Jimmy and Uncle Joe,

Cherry and chestnut tree ;

Warmth of the camping fire.

Meadow and fallow loam.

Gold of the heart's desire, —

Home !

Though fickle fortune frown or smile, though life be sad

or gay,
Through years may speed and lead my steps to distant

scenes away ;
Still lives the latent longing for the Land of Long Ago,
And still my heart will hunger for the home I used to know.
Home of the Long Ago,
Life that was full and free,
Scenes that I used to know.
Hallowed in reverie ;
Bright is your memory,
Shining amid the gloam,
Bringing you near to me, —
Home !

( >h! Home of happy childhood, where the streams of good-
ness start,
Where the sun is ever shining in the heavens of the heart;


Though days be filled with striving, though I reach or fail

my goal,
May your living, loving presence ever linger in my soul!
Home of my dawning day.
Friends that were real and true,
How may I hope to pay
Half that I owe to vou?
Deep in my memory.
Far though I chance to roam.
Still shall you beckon me
Home !


By Bruce Carr Sterrett.
(Pelican, Louisiana)


All learned by rote from what the councils deemed

Long years ago as safe, selected truth.

Infusing with the doctrine of love,

Enough of fear, that just percent of awe

That frightens into goodness. Still there's joy

To say again the words so often said

Their meaning's nearly gone, out-faded, too,

By centuries in which a mental flame

Flares brighter. Yet I love, where the soft red

And purple lights stream in beneath an arch,

Gothic and dusky, and beside some soul

Who never thought of doubt, to hear my voice

Repeating words Fve always uttered there

In the old church. Oh, I do still believe

The hopeless, vague, soul-warping, thousand things

The goodly ancient creeds prescribe for me !


The way is mysterious, —
And my soul cries out.
And not the less cries out that the old.
Surrounding and sufficient belief has vanished !
I totter, — even though I sometimes feel a surer tread
Because of the disappearance of the intermediary : the
middle-man, Orthodoxy.


The earth ; the sea ; the far-up blue of the sky ;
The patient, suffering, soft look hi the eyes of cattle ;
The flower that a child's hand pulls, or leaves unpulled ;
The child, himself, are of a mighty plan
I can not know ; I do not even guess !



By Donna E. Collister.
(Pasadena, California)

The pick throws up the long imprisoned earth;
The cool air hathes its sterile clods.
Ten thousand years ago it may have given birth
To pines that sheltered goddesses and gods.

A child inns singing down the smoke grimed

And flings aside a crimson rose;
The mother earth yearns to repeat
The flower hefore again the pavement close.


By Bess Norris.
(Guthrie, Oklahoma)

Last night 1 saw the stars of gold

in a field of velvet blue:
Each sparkling star was a precious thought,

That recalled my hours, with you.

Last night I heard the evening wind

Whisper gently to the trees:
Each wdiisper was a message sweet,

You wafted on the breeze.

Last night 1 saw the fragrant rose-
its petals gleamed with Heav'n-sown dew:

Each petal was a soft caress,
1 fain would give to you.

Last night 1 saw the sparkling stars

In a held of velvet blue:
Each sparking star was a tender call—

O love, I fly to you !


By Edwin Carl He Litsey.
(Lebanon, Kentucky)

( >h, how I pity the blind of earth !—

Not those of the sealed eyes;
For theirs is a kingdom we cannot sense.

With its leaden, rayless skies.
But the blind of heart, and the blind of brain,

And the blind of soul, alas!
Who travel with wide eyes, and yet

See nothing as they pass.


I pity the blind who cannot feel

The ache in a crooked spine ;
Or the hurting heart of the underpaid.

By suffering made divine.
Who cannot vision the basic fact,

Xo one should bless or blame;
For a hair divides a wife's high place

From her sister's couch of shame.

I pity the blind who can look at stars

And only see their shine ;
Who can stand by the ocean's mystic marge

And only know its brine.
Who can walk through a forest's holy heart

And think it lonely there ;
Who can lift a lily's flawless cup,

And cannot feel a prayer.

Oh, how I pity the blind of earth!

And Legion is their name ;
Who stumble, grasping, groping, mad,

In the whirl of the money game.
Wide-eyed they fight for a gilded goal.

Wide-eyed they fall and die ;
While the dogwood blooms and the brook sings

For folk like vou and I.


By Hazel Hall.
(Portland, Oregon)

I have known hours built like cities.
House on gray house, with streets between
That lead to straggling roads and trail off-
Forgotten in a field of green ;

Hours made like mountains lifting
White crests out of the fog and rain.
And woven of forbidden music
Hours eternal in their pain.

Life is a tapestry of hours

Forever mellowing in tone.

Where all things blend, even the longing

For hours I have never known.



By Freda Kellum.
(Syracuse, Kansas)

J lark to the beating rain !

Mark to the rain on the window pane!
I lark to the hail on the roof!

Beating like horses hoofs.
The wind is blowing rain and hail

( )'er every hill and vale.

J lark to the thunder as it clashes!

Watch the lightning as it flashes
Through the dark and clouded sky.

Sometimes low; sometimes high.
J n the morning, when the storm is past,

The sun's 1 night rays o'er the earth are cast.


(St. Catherine's, Ontario)
By Gertrude Jenckes.

Tell me, ( ) Wise Man,

How does one remember

To forget forbidden things?

How learn to chase away
The purple-tinted thoughts

That come dancing thru the brain
When quietness enfolds the night
And dark creeps up the hill

and you remember.

Time does not bring relief.
You all lie, who told me so.
The weary months creep slowly by
And wrap me in their greyness

Until I cry

"Dear God

Let me forget."

Jn every place, in every street
i seem to feel you there.
To hear your buoyant steps again
And see your sudden smile.

Tell me, ( ) Wise Man.

How does one remember

To forget forbidden things?



By Kathleen Nutter,
(Delta, Colorado)

'Gainst velvet sky the moon hung low —
Breezes wandered to and fro
Bearing hreath of mignonette —
Heart of mine, can you forgot?

Youth and Spring and comrad Love
Danced with us, and stars above
Seemed to sing when our lips met —
Heart of mine, can you forget?

Silent stars are dimmed with tears
And oh the dark and dreary years
That lie beyond ! Ah even yet
Heart of mine, you do forget!


By Walter B. Wolfe.
(St. Louis, Missouri)

Strong grey pinions
Beat ceaselessly
Thru the twilight :
The grey brant wings
Past the wide purple ridges
To the ^southland

O the longing,

The wide vast loneliness

Of autumn north woods!

Mourn fully the brown dry leaves

Are falling, whispering

Threnodies for earth.

Earth that grows cold

And lonely

Strong grey pinions

Beat ceaselessly

In dark wedges

The grey-flecked brant

Wings to the south

My heart has followed

The grey flying arrows

My heart is torn

With his wild cry

And only anguish
Anguish and loneliness
Are left to me



By Robert E. Barclay
(Grand Rapids, Michigan)

White washed orchards

So neat
Cherry Blossoms

So sweet.

White houses

On stone-walled hills ;
Bubbling springs,

And seeping rills :

Violets blue

On mountain side
Under the leaves

Try to hide :

Pasture lands,

Winding roads,
Fresh plowed fields

Newly sowed.


By Airs. Cecil Ritchey.
(Center Point, Arkansas)

Tie-hack, slap-jack,
Be glad when we put the last tie

On the track.
Mother stays home with the little ones

While father splits up the tough, splintery tree.

Tie-hack, slap-jack,
Either kills the man, or breaks his back.
It's rough on the man and tough on his team
And not as much in it as it might seem.

Slap-jacks, slap-jacks,
This is the food for all tie-hacks,
If slap-jacks won't kill, then nothing else can.
But a mess of tough slap-jacks is tough on a man.

Tie-hack, tie-hack,

Mow 1 wish we could travel the old home track

With our tools on our shoulders, and slap-jacks

in our pails,
Let's strike through the woods,
Down the old home trails.



By Ralph T. Nordlund.
(Wagner. South Dakota)


Oh, it was Helgar Tortenson,

An aged man, and gray ;
With faltering step beside the sea

He wandered day by day.

True son of Harold's Viking race,

No land-born joys loved he,
But seaward turned and fondly yearned

For life again at sea.

His childhood days, and manhood ways,

His Viking fathers hoar,
A thousand voices called to him

And lured him from the shore.

A boat of two-and-twenty feet

Was anchored in a cave ;
Pacific winds, enticing, cried :

"Come take, and with us rove."

With water, fresh, and victual stored.

He spread the snowy sail;
"Oh, sail not so," his good wife cried,

He tacked to catch the gale.

"Oh father, hear," his children pled,

"The seas are rough to-day ;
Your arms are weak, your back is bent" —

He quietly sailed away.

The winds in allegretto played

Glad music in the sails
And swiftly bore him from the shore,

Away from woeful wails.

He gaily flew o'er waters blue-
Past inlet, cove, and bay ;

And Puget Sound, in sunset crowned,
He left at close of day.

In every crested wave, that came

From open sea to cast
A salty spray around his bark,

Spake Vikings of the past.


Into the shades of moonless night

The luring billows call
He followed like an eager child.
Nor thought what might befall.

In mid-night gloom a pilot cried:

"Ahoy! A boat adrift!"
Ten sailors hurried to the scene

And llelgar up did lift.

They took him back to Aberdeen;

The storm-winds raged and howled;
And llelgar Tortenson, the while,

Sat silent by and scowled.


A week dragged out its weary length ;

The Viking sat and fumed ;
Till wearied thus to sit and mourn

His* walking he resumed.

He strolled again beside the sea,
And tempting waves enthralled ;

The breezes gently whispered, "Come;"
His Viking fathers called.

He raised the anchor, spread the sail.

And rode again to sea ;
The evening breezes bore him on.

The wavelets danced in glee.

A darkling, placid sea above
With beacon lights aglare ;

A mid-night calm, he looked below —
The stars were shining there.

A morning wind awoke at last
And swept the boat along;

The dawn flushed red, the bright stars fled,
And Helgar sang a song :

"O billows roll, and storm-winds blow,
My fathers love your anger ;

On fierce Atlantic, to and fro.
They sped in cpiest of danger.

"Lift high, lift high my fragile bark;

Lief Eric, Viking hoary,
In harder seas, unknown and dark.

Sailed on to fame and glory."


The north wind blew, and on he flew,

The sun rose on high ;
And still he sang, his wild voice rang

Re-echoed in the sky.

The sun in measured trend went down ;

Up rose a ghastly cloud ;
The storm-winds blew, and darkness grew

And settled like a shroud.

A louder song the whole night long

Resounded o'er the deep ;
The storm- wind's mournful dirge it was,

A funeral to keep.

Oh, t'was for Helsfar Tortenson

The weeping wind did roar ;
In peace he sleeps in silent deeps

With sailor men of vore.


By Marion Safley.
(Gothenburg, Nebraska)

If at times I do feel lonely
And my steps would homeward fly,
To be kind, and good, and gentle,
'Tis for this I always try.

Then the sadness seems to leave me.
In a brighter, better mood.
Then is silence not so dreadful ;
Then the hardness not so rude.

Do we always find it pleasant.
When our hearts are sad and sore,
To be kind, and good, and gentle.
Tell me. dear one, tell once more?

We should always find it pleasant.
To do what we know is right ;
And with all our fervent spirit.
Think and do with all our might.

Is there use to be of service.
In this world of saddest strife?
Yes there is a use in striving.
To be honored in this life.

We should strive to make life's moments,
All that we would have life be;
Let us strive then to be kinder ;
Joy comes then to you and me.


But if in this life we've striven,
To do what we know is right,
We shall find it very easy,
To reach heaven's holy light.

In that place of endless sunshine,
Where there is no earth decay ;
We will rest from honored lahors,
In that new eternal day.


By Kathleen Heath Graves
(Granite City, Illinois)

In my heart

There's a hook of smiles

You've given me ;

Alone, -in the velvet darkness

Of the summer night

I turn each page,

Made luminous by the light

Of stars — and love.

Page one

The smile that made me yours ;
Its light dimmed
By other smiles,
That kept me yours.

One smile

I see more oft than others ;

'Tis just a little half smile.

Through a window,

Surprised, glad,

With a gleam of mischief

In your eyes ;

I love that smile.

And then there are

A score of pages,

Each rife with memories.

The last page

I cherish more than all ;

For on it is the smile

That told me I was dear to you ;

And on that page

Is our "Good-bye,"

Made luminous by the light

Of stars and love.



By Clifford Rose.
(New Glascow, Nova Scotia)

The summer's sun melts clown the hars of winter,

The biting eastern wind has ceased to hlow.

The homely hardwood-pile has downward dwindled.

And so den-fire you too shall have to go.

And with your going, downward comes the curtain

As fate writes "Finis" to another scene

Of imagination's whirling riot of fancy,

Of rambles to the land of might-have-been.

Outside the winter's wind has roared and rustled.
As o'er the ice soughed sheets of blinding snow.
Perchance a glancing moonbeam through our window glin-

Made lifelike by your wood-fire's ruddy glow.
'Tis then we dream of sparkling dancing waters.
Lagoons set down in isles of gorgeous green,
Of beechcombers, pirates, and hula-hula maidens,
All smiling from their land of Might-have-been.
Then wafted onward by your capricious magic.
Your flickering firelight swiftly bears us far
With Arctic Argonauts in their primal passions.
Fighting and toiling 'neath the Northern Star.
As floated backward o'er the span of time
Like Pisa's tower our judgment seems to lean.
Gazing at fallen kings and prelates with their scarlet

At knights and witches and fiery revolution's guillotine.

Thus, Den-fire, have you borne us graveward ;

And life's pageant is taught if one but learns,

You've driven home the meteoric sweep of Byron

You've made us love the manly song of Burns.

You've pointed us toward a watch-tower.

Instead of always "mucking" in the sod,

You've taught that man has got a road to glory.

That straightly leads us to the Great White Throne of God.


By a joint resolution of the Legis-
lature of 1921, the Governor was
"authorized to appoint, with the ad-
vice and consent of the council, a
hoard of three members who shall
serve as a board of publicity. Said
board shall have authority to confer
with the officials of the Boston and
Maine, Maine Central and Grand
Trunk railroads and other persons in-
terested for the purpose of devising
means to advertise the attractions
and resources of the state, in co-oper-
ation with the advertising bureaus of
the railroads and others. Members
of the board shall serve without pay."
For this board, Governor Brown
and his council have made the ex-
cellent selections of Frank Knox of
Manchester, Wardon Allan Curtis of
Ashland and Karl P. Abbott of

It is a good deal less than half a
century since advertising was recog-
nized as an art, a science and a pro-
fession ; but during that time not a
few more or less ambitious schemes
for attracting public attention to the
"attractions and resources" of New
Hampshire have budded, bloomed
and quickly faded.

Publicity worth having is not the
kind it is easiest to get.

And yet there have been successful
official attempts to advertise New
Hampshire and there is no insuper-
able obstacle in the way of adding
others to the short list.

The two accomplishments on this
line which stand out above all others
are the institution of Old Home
Week by Governor Frank W. Rollins
and the summer homes campaign of
Governor Nahum J. Bachelder. The
latter added millions of dollars to the
taxable valuation of the state and
caused the annual expenditure of
other millions within New Hamp-
shire by visitors from beyond our
limits. We have not made the most
of the magnificent marketing and

trade possibilities thus created, but
they are with us still and in increas-
ing measure. The prosperity and
progress of New Hampshire as a
manufacturing state and as an agri-
cultural state are vital to her exist-
ence and must always be our main
endeavors. But as a side-line, in
which Nature becomes our partner
and for once favors, rather than
handicaps us. New Hampshire as a
vacation state should be a wonderful



New Hampshire is called the
Granite State" say all the books of
reference, and the Congressional
Library at Washington and other
buildings and monuments the coun-
try over, bear testimony to the value
of this advertising. But "New
Hampshire, the Old Home State," is
a better known slogan to-day; one
that catches the eye, quickens the
brain, inspires the imagination. We
liave in it an asset upon which we
scarcely have begun to realize and
which in the hands of a really skill-
ful publicity board would immediate-
ly show its value and indicate its

A well-stocked store is one half of
the combination which spells mer-
cantile success. The other half is
getting people into the store to look
at the stock. New Hampshire has
some fertile acres, some good water
power, some unsurpassed scenery,
some splendid traditions of heroic
history and happy homes. They all
can be sold to the kind of people
with whom we wish to do business
and the right sort of publicity will
help along the trade.

If the new commissioners can
carry out the resolution of the
legislature of 1921 in such a way as to
assure the state's getting that kind
of publicity they will deserve and
receive the appreciative thanks of
all the people.



Through her distinguished son,
Secretary of War, John W. Weeks,
New Hampshire has had the honor
and the pleasure of entertaining, this
month, the President of the United
States. His few days upon the sum-
mit of an outpost mountain of the
Presidential Range were for him a time
of peace and rest and quiet, during
which the hills gave to him of their
strength and Nature of her henison.
In the hearts of all the people was a
sincere welcome which must have
conveyed itself to the President's per-

A curious error in the July Gran-
ite Monthly hrings us this letter from
a long-time valued reader and friend :
"In your editorial on Mr. Seward
and Mr. McCollester you say:
'Though their religious beliefs were
widely different,' etc. Is this state-
ment correct? No doubt you have
heard the facetious remark, 'The
Universalists believe that God is

too good to damn them ; the Uni-
tarians believe that they are too
good to be damned.' But are their
creeds widely different?"

Accompanying checks for subscrip-
tions are these heartening little notes :
"With lively appreciation of the in-
terest and excellence of the Monthlv.
May it prosper much! C. A. Brack-
ett," Newport, R. I." "I not only
enjoy the Granite Monthly, but as a
citizen of New Hampshire feel it
should be supported. John McCril-
lis, Newport, N. II." Now, we are
waiting for some one in Newport,
Vermont, to make it unanimous.

Erratum : The seventh line of the
poem, "The Angel of the Hidden
Face," published in the July number
of the Granite Monthly should read
as follows :

"To the far land. Men call him
the sad- faced."


"I begin at Nashua," writes W. L.
George, the English essayist, novelist
and critic, in his hook about Ameri-
ca which he calls the "random im-
pressions of a conservative English
Radical" and which Harper and

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 37 of 57)