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 41 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 41 of 57)
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Quenched by dew and dusk. — * * * * Earth
drowses toward the deeper sleep of night.



By Grace Stuart Orcutt.

Often I've watched thee with a wond'ring eye,
Scanning thy heights upraised to the sky,
Watching thy moods, now playful, now sublime,
Pond'ring thy story from the birth of time.

< )'er the deep valley and the eastern slope,
Ever I see thee like a ray of hope
Rising majestic, silent and severe,
Dwarfing all else by thy great image clear.

Shrouded in snow and storm bedecked thy head,
Still in thy shadow littleness has fled ;
Still on thy heights when close the winter days,
Lingers the purple in the violet haze.
Sometimes art lost, thou, in the blinding storm ;
Sometimes in vain we look to catch thy form ;
Still it is there ; unchanging, deathless stone,
Like God's great majesty, it stands alone.

In happier moods when sunshine floods the sky
At day's dawn, and the clouds come drifting by,
Some errant ones may linger near thy head
And catch the deep tinge of the morning's red
Grown ever deeper. From thy massive height
Stream all the colors of a rainbow bright.
The sky a palette and a brush thou art,
Painting the Heavens with an infinite art.

< )nce in the moonlight and the starlight too,
Game in the Heavens something strange and new ;
( lame without cause or so it seemed to be,
Straight through the clouds from Moosilauke to me.
Clouds were its substance; it was fashioned there,
Poised o'er the mountain, floating in mid air,

A large white bird with pinions far outspread.
And toward the mountain dipped its graceful head.

What was its message in this age and day
•When all the nations on each other prey?
Could it be mockery that placed it there,
A bird of peace above the surcharged air?
Was it a vision conjured up to show
The heights and depth? Sublimity and woe?
No. T'was a starlit messenger of hope
Unto my eyes above that eastern slope.



By Martha E. Brewster

In hand we hold a wonder lamp :

Its magic gleams may show
Thy wealth and beauty, fairest state.

Thy gems we wish to know.

Upon thy ledges scarred and worn,

We find in letters bold,
The history of ages past

Still waiting to he told.

No idle fancy of a maid

Imagines gems more fair
Than , sparkling on thy golden sands

The tiny wavelets wear.

Across the farmer's rolling lands.

Rich grains and fruits we see,
In woodland, hides the sunshine gold ;

Bird songs ring clear and free.

Like crystal lockets, lovely lakes

Upon thy bosom lie, .

Reflecting as they sparkle there

The colors of the sky.

Lofty, with beauty mpst sublime,

Thy granite hills ascend,
Encircled with life-giving woods,

From which clear streams descend.

Above the forests green and vast,

Behold, the great stone face,
Loved as a friend by those now gone.

The brave old Indian race.

See ! ye who hold the magic lamp

And view the wondrous wealth,
Most precious are the girls and boys

Aglow with perfect health.

Protect the bit of precious shore.

Keep pure the lakes so bright,
Guard well the camp, for happy play,

That youth may have its right.

Look to the mountains, old and grand,

And there the lesson find,
That God has blessed His children all,

That they may serve mankind.



By Stewart Everett Rowe

In days now gone I watched the stars sail by, —

N'es, watched them dance and glitter in the blue-
Watched them just as so many school-boys do

Who from their books spell out the dare to try.
But years have flown, as years are bound to fly,

And now the dare seems just too big for me, —
Though still I watch the stars and dream to be

All ready when it comes my time to die.

I dreamed about the famous and the great,

While all the time the paths through which I trod

Were choked with thorns that gave me cuts and scars ;
Yes, thus I fought because it was my fate

( )rdained for me by no one else than God, —

So, — I am glad I learned to watch the stars !


By Florence Hutehins McLain.

Alas, the "heroine of yore defuncta est, she is no more ;

We mourn her loss, we m§ss her very sadly.
She filled ten chapters or a score, or fifty, or perhaps still

And what she did she didn't do so badly.
And yet the novel-maid to-day makes Her-of-Yore appear
passe —
In versatility seem sadly lacking;
For, when she spoke, she'd simply say, ask or reply, vous
comprenez ?
And so the Six Best Sellers sent her packing.
Now, when she talks, she does such stunts as would have
taxed fair maidens once ;
Instead of speaking words, perchance she "flushes"
'em — -
She doesn't say 'em, a dunce, but after newer methods
hunts —
She twinkles, quivers, rallies, pouts or blushes 'em !



By Claribel Weeks Avery

I said to Beauty, "Stand outside my door;
Let nothing that is common enter in.
Shut out the dreariness that makes men poor ;
Shut out the ugliness than makes men sin."

I could not live forever in a house,

Fair though it was and sweet.

I went ahroad heneath the midnight stars

To see what I would meet.


I saw until 1 wished to see no more.

1 hurried home as stars grew pale and thin.
But Beauty stood on guard before my door

And would not let me in.


By Eleanor IV. Vinton

There's a weird, uncanny whisper from the nodding pines
and hemlocks.
While the oaks are sobbing softly in the spell the
night winds weave,
For the trees are telling stories of unfathomable mvsterv
And the rain will fall tomorrow, without ceasing,
I believe.

Do they tell of warring Red Men they have sheltered neath
their branches.
Or of comrades crashing earthward in mad storms of

by-gone days ?

Round their feet the pygmy campers gather kindlings for
the fire-place
And prepare for rainy weather in a hundred little ways.

Tis a sign among the campers by the beautiful Contoocook
When the trees are reminiscent as they hold their
heads aloof.
That before the morn's gray dawning they will hear the
sound of raindrops
With a dull, incessant rhythm, like a drum-beat on
the roof.



"The breeze that runs before the dawn." — Kipling

By George 1. Putnam

O little breeze, O little breeze that runs before the dawn,
That ruffles up the sleepy trees and brushes down the lawn,
Thy step is light, thy face is bright thy wingless flight

brings healing
From, spaces far where morning's star its ageless arc is


O little breeze, O little breeze that ushers in the sun.
While half the world is yet asleep thy heralding is done.
Ere half the earth awakes to mirth thy feet its girth have

And speed along thy path of song still other worlds to



By Jennie E. Hussey

Grandmother sits on the attic floor

By an olden trunk with a treasured hoard ;
Each trinket her fond gaze wanders o'er

Has its own sweet tale in her memory stored.

A packet of letters, a bit of lace,

A faded flow'r, and a wedding ring ;

.And each alike from its hiding-place

Comes forth its dream of the past to bring.

A plighted troth, and a kiss at the gate,

The song at dusk of the whip-poor-will;

The perfume of roses blooming late

That clambered up to her window-sill.

There are pictured faces that look once more
Out of the case in her reverent hands:

Dear faces of those who have gone before
To wait for our coming in fairer lands.

The trunk itself is of little worth.

But its contents cannot be bought with gold ;
For among the sweetest of things of earth

Are dreams of the past and memories old.



By Lucy H. Heath

Unbidden they come, before me they pass,

Memory pictures of that long ago.

They linger a moment, then fade away slowly,

Return again more vivid and boldly

Parade themselves to and fro.

Faces I see still glowing with lovelight,

Words of endearment I hear spoken low.

Faces and voices with love are commingled

In memory pictures of that long ago.


By Alger S. Beane

Bright the Northern Lights are shining,

Streaming up into the sky ;
Rising slowly toward the zenith.

There to culminate, and die.

In the West, a glow empyreal

Luminates the heavenly arch ;

Twinkling stars appear in myriads.
Rushing onward in their march.

Stars that glow with piercing brilliance,
Stars so faint they scarce are seen.

Fill the evening sky in winter.

When no moonlight dims their sheen.

Looking out across the hill-tops

Of that still New Hampshire town.

Toward the lofty peaks beyond them,
Glistening with a snowy crown,

One could ask no greater favor

Than that life should onward glide

Always with the calm and stillness
Of that peaceful countryside,

Where forgotten are the discords
Of the world that surges by,

Just beyond the zone of stillness
Underneath the star-lit sky.



By Albert Annett

Monadnock's altar, lifted up,
Burns with a flame divine ;

And in Contooeook's crystal cup
Is water turned to wine.

A land aglow, like a golden page

Ere the evil days befall ;
And, oh like a voice from an olden age,

The hermit thrush's call !


By Edward H. Richards

I planted me a tater-patch

With labor I'll be bound,
Some blew out fine and some were duds

in witch-grass all around.
And soon there was a battle on

Twixt taters and the grass,
But, like the French at old Verdun,

T cried, "They shall not pass !"
At once I wielded well the hoe,

While nabob friends drew nigh
And cracked a silly lot of jokes

( )n poor benighted 1.
I nst when I thought the fight was won.

Ten thousand million bugs
Descended on my verdant plants,

Like cruel city thugs.
Away I flew to find a guy

That didn't profiteer
But it cost me, for "pizen stuff",

My savings for a year.
But, after all, I saved my patch

And gloried in the fight
Until at last, I met my match

In what is known as "blight".
Then hastily I dug the spuds

And found some big and fair
But lots of 'urn were rough and mean

And spotted here and there.
But as I turned 'em from the sod

I turned a thought or two :
Most human lives are like my patch,

A fight, twixt me and you.



By Lucy W. Perkins


What is it sends my heart
A-soaring and a-singing?
Perhaps when skies are gray.
And little cares are stinging.
There's something calls. "Away !
Leave all the fret and sadness,
Like lark at break of day
Mount up on wings of gladness.
What if the way is dark.
And chilly winds are blowing?
The heart that sings can rise
Where sunlit heights are glowing."

O singing heart of mine,
What flights we have together
Out of earth's mist and pain
Into joy's magic weather.
The years may buffet me,
Defeat and sorrow bringing,
But praise God for the gift
That keeps my heart still singing.


By Sara K. Abbott and Alice M. Shcpard


Spiraea tomentosa, rose-flushed as the early dawn

Growing not in formal garden

But o'er Nature's spacious lawn,

Pointing upward from the meadow,

Accenting the common clod,

As the church spires of New England

From each hamlet, point to God.

Steeple-bush ! thy name enkindles

Burning thoughts of other days

Of Pilgrim sires whose piercing vision

On the wilderness could gaze

And could see it cleared and builded

Into meeting house and school,

Where man's conscience was the teacher

And the word, sufficient rule.

Steeple-bush, whose slender spike
Blushes as it still aspires.
Real and ideal truth alike
Light thy modest altar fires !



By Emily //'. Matthews.

Your arms about me in the dance,

I gave my body to your mood

To sway, to turn, whate'er you would

And once, when I had met your glance,

So near, so full of quiet fire,

I knew that, wonderingly, we loved :

And afterward, where'er you moved,

To follow was a sweet desire ;

A happiness that brought strange tears—

A quick contraction of the throat—

A knowledge, sudden and remote,

Of woman's hands through all the years

Reaching to mine in fellowship.

Then, when your cheek just brushed my lip,

In your soft touch there came a sense,

Of pain, that yet was recompense.


By Louise Patterson Guyol

The gold-haired Evening waits upon the Moon !
She fills the air with peace and calm delight,
Fit for the coming of the holy Night;
She dims the dazzling sky of afternoon.
And calls the thrush to sing bis hymnal tune.
And sorrow slumbers in its own despite.
The fair-haired Evening waits upon the Moon !

The black-browed Night is priestess to the Moon !
The silent world is altar for her rite.
The million stars as tapers doth she light.
For choir the little winds that tend her croon.
The perfume of the garden sweet with June
Rises like incense from the censers white
Swung by the flowers that glimmer softly bright.
The dark-browed Night is priestess to the Moon !

The grey-robed Dawn is vestal of the Moon !
She veils the flickering stars from human sight,
I tiding their radiance in the far dim height
Whence blue-eyed Day steals upon silver shoon,
Leading the Sungod through the gates rose-hewn
Of massive cloud — the god before whose might
The startled goddess hurries as in fright—
The pale-robed Dawn is vestal of the Moon !


There was in evidence, last month,
a revival of iterest in the ( >ld Home
Week festival which augurs well for
the success of the celebration of the
300th anniversary, in 1923, of the
first settlement of New Hampshire.
The Legislature of 1 ( >21 decreed that
this observance should take place dur-
ing Old Home Week of 1923. and
Governor Brown has named a compe-
tent commission to arrange the details
of the celebration. This commission
has organized and arranged to begin
the work of arousing public interest
in the event, with such success that
already there is considerable discus-
sion of the form the celebration
should take, some proposing a pageant
at Portsmouth, written by Percy Mac-
kave. of Cornish or Prof. Geo. P. Bak-
er of Madison, with exercises on the
following day at Dover to include an
oration, -poem, etc.. in the usual man-
ner. However, there need be no haste
in deriding as to these details. The
important thing at present is to get
the state in a celebrating mood, and for
this result the ( 'Id Home Week record
of 1921 was, as has been said, very
promising. The wonderful weather,
unprecedented in its unbroken series
of lovely early autumn days in Au-
gust, helped a great deal in the enjoy-
ment of this year's festival, and more
different towns celebrated, in one way
or another, than for a decade past.
In Pittsfield and some other places
there were elaborate observances with
parades, etc., but the general tendency
is towards a simple reunion picnic with
good speakers and music and base-
ball and sports for the young folks.

The state Old Home Week associa-
tion, a smoothly working organization,
with adequate machinery for its pur-
poses, will see to it that the interest
manifested this year increases further
in 1922 and reaches a pitch in 1923
worthy of the occasion then to be

E. V. Wilson writes us from Athol,
Mass., m reference to the article in
the June number of the Granite
Monthly about the New Hampshire
( )rphans' Home at Franklin, that his
uncle, the founder of the home, was
Daniel Alvah Mack, not Daniel Au-
gustus Mack, as given in our pages
and in other prints ; he receiving this
middle name for his mother's brother,
Alvah Avers.

A paragraph from a letter in to-
day's mail: "I thought I could not
afford the Granite Monthly again, but
the August number was so good I
must. This is likely to be my last,
as I am very old (S>3>) and my sight




Friends of the Granite Monthly can
confer a favor upon the editor and pub-
lisher by sending him names of their
friends within or without the state
who might be interested in our pub-
lication, to whom we will be glad
to send sample copies with the hope
of lengthening our subscription list.
The quality of this list is of the finest,
but its quantity is not all that might
be desired.



When Miss Lowell first appeared
in print she was thought of primarily
as a disciple of free verse, and as
such she was accepted. Dilletanti in
verse made what they considered witty
remarks concerning "Miss Lowell's
shredded prose". The reading public
hid their amazement in a wonder of
silence. It was with the publication
in quick succession of "Sword Blades
and Poppy Seeds," "Men, Women
and Ghosts", "Con Grandes Castle",
and "Pictures of the Floating World".
that Miss Lowell was acknowledged
a powerful and unique personality,
a poet in verity. Her last hook has
confirmed her position as one of the
few great poets of the age.

Miss Lowell has in her amazing
love of peoples stretched out and gath-
ered together between the same cov-
ers the quaint and poignant folk
stories of many countries. She inter-
prets with the same keen perception,
tales of China and New England.
So deep is her insight, so true her vis-
ion, that these tales heat with the
h :art of their time. The first poem,
"Memorandum Confided by a Yucca
to a Passionvine", abounds in variety
and richness of detail with here and
there flashes of an inimitable humour.
The next poem takes us to China
and there by the "great wall" "the
crawling river", and the "ceaseless
seas" we are told the "Legend of
Porcelain", the weird story of Chou-
Kiou who forgets to hang the spears
of sweet-flag on the door. This poem
especially reveals the grace and deli-
cacy of Miss Lowell's poetic brush.
We are ravished by the exotic beauty
of the Chinese life which she reveals
to us in breathlesss and taut gusts of
wind, now cold as ice, now hot as fire.
We find ourselves reflecting the love

Miss Lowell feels for the exquisite
] urcelains :

"The leopard spotted yellows,

The blues, powdered and infinite as a
mei plum!
Glubular bodies with bulbous mouths;

Slim, long porcelains, pale as the morn-
ing sky

Fluttered with purple wings of finches!"

Small wonder the color has caught

and held us.

In "Many Swans" Miss Lowell re-
verts to the use of polyphonic prose
as in "Con Grandes Castle", but one
here finds the repetition of rhyme less
frequent. "Many Swans" is woven
around a North American sun legend
and we are seared by the splendor
and horror of fire. The poem pro-
gresses with a surprising up-rush of
color and movement like a wave—
until it breaks gray and spent—
*;i-.***"T tr j ec ] to i ove you; I tried to

be kind to your people; why do
you cr y?"*****

"The Witch Woman" throbs with
a dark inbent passion. "**** she was
sweeter than red figs." Sharp sil-
houettes glance off from the page, the
moon shudders and pulses with color
- "rose" — "lily" — "purple orchid."
The Witch Woman dances naked —
the sea foam alive and cruel — she
dances—" ***** A skeleton mounts
like a great grey ape" — the sea
moans ! Seven pages are hardly
done. It is the end — the end of a
brilliant, extraordinary poem, one of
the best in the book, one of the finest
written by any modern.

We have slipped by the "The Fu-
neral Song For An Indian Chief."
It undoubtedly is a true picture of an
ancient custom, but this poem does
not measure up to the beauty and to



the reality of the other poems. But
on to "The Ring and the Castle."
Here is a ballad liltingly haunting,
human to the finger tips.

"Gavotte In D Minor" whispers
eerily into ones' consciousness, chimes
dimly — its perfume now warm, now
cold, holding one breathless an en-

"The Statue in the Garden" in-
terprets Julius, its hero, in a psycho-
analytical fashion. It progresses now
directly to a sharp etched emotion,
now stealthily to the foot of the statue
but always the choking voice of In-
sanity calls and calls until at the last
Julius breaks his bonds and forever
escapes the mad Voice.

"Dried Marjoram" tells the same
story as Rizpah. It is sad and human.
When it appeared in the Atlantic
Monthly it was praised and re-prais-
ed, loved for its intense human qual-
ity. We sometimes wish Miss Low-
ell would write" more often with her
heart rather than with her eyes.

The last two poems are about New
England. The first- "Before the
Storm," Miss Lowell says "*** was,
an abiding fear of my childhood."
And well it might he. We find our-
selves all of a tremble as we read,
our ears strained to hear the fury of
the storm and the pathetic ghost-like
voice of the old man. The second
poem, "Four Sides to a Mouse," shows
great technical dexterity ; it carries us
forward with a rush and a sickening
plunge of horror to the last line.

Looking hack on the hook as a
whole we are consumed with admira-
tion. Miss Lowell has flung a girdle
of words about the earth, China ****

Europe **** AmerLa. And die

wonder of it is that she has inter-
preted each legend with the particular
fineness that each country offers to
the legends of the World".

— Lcighton Rollins

sued by the State Street Trust Com-
pany of Boston, to commemorate the
tercentenary of the landing of the
Pilgrims, under the title of Towns of
New England and ( )ld England,
Ireland and Scotland, Parts I and II,
are to be published on a commercial
basis by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New
York, and thus become generally
available to many who are interested
in their attractively presented subject

Mr. Allan Forbes, the president of
the Trust Company, is responsible
for the good taste and good sense dis-
played in the substance and form of
these publications, the latest and most
ambitious issues in a series which
forms an important addition to the
bibliography of New England history,
and in these two brochures links us
with the old country in bonds of in-
creased mutual knowledge and appre-
ciation. Exeter, Portsmouth, New-
castle, Rye, Dublin, Londonderry and
Manchester are New Hampshire places
to receive the most attention in the
handsome pictures and text of the two
volumes and the selection must be con-
sidered excellent, though of the towns
chosen from other New England
states to be linked with old English
companions Andover, Bath, Bedford,
Bridgewater, Bristol, Chatham, Dor-
chester, Dover. Groton, Haverhill,
Lancaster, Newbury, New London,
North Hampton, Plymouth, Salisbury,
Sandwich, Springfield, Stratford,
Winchester, Windsor, Woodstock,
are also New Hampshire names.

It is good news that the handsome,
interesting and valuable brochures is-

Jt is not surprising that The Flaming
Forest (Cosmopolitan Book Corpora-
tion ) took its place, immediately upon
publication, at the head of the list of
"best sellers." Its author, Mr. James
( Miver Curwood, has established in
the last few years a clientele of read-
ers who need only to be assured by the
publishers that a book is "Curwood at
his superb best" to flock to the dealers



for copies. And they will nol be dis-
appointed; for those hundreds of
thousands who liked "The River's
End" and "The Valley of Silent Men"
will find "The Flaming Forest" even
"more so" and therefore entirely to
their taste. There is nothing sub-
dued, reserved or repressed ahout *Mr.
Curwood's literary manner. He does
not hint, he hits — and scores a knock-
out, with an ease almost as marvelous
as that of his hero. It is an omni-
vorous American reading public
which makes "Main Street" the hest
seller of one month and "The Flaming
Forest" of the next; but we do not
know that we feel like expressing with
any regret our helief that more of

those who read "The Flaming Forest"
will really enjoy it than of those who
read the other hook, greater literary
achievement though it doubtless is.

The Tuttle Company of Rutland,
Vermont, in its recently issued cata-
logue, advertised in the Granite
Monthly, of hooks, pamphlets, manu-
scripts, etc., "old, rare, curious, un-
usual and important, useful and use-
less," has made a valuable addition to
the available authorities upon Ver-
montiana, and it is to be hoped that

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 41 of 57)