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 46 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 46 of 57)
Font size
QR-code for this ebook

which survives its fellows and stands
out alone.

( )ur American Writers.

As the white-pine is the glory of
the species we may well expect that
American writers will pay the best
tributes, and we are not disappoint-
ed. Longfellow liked the "Pine
Groves with soft and soul-like
sounds." He speaks of the "sea-
suggesting pines," and reaches the
apex of his treatment in the poem
"My Cathedral."

Lowell treats of the pine but
thinks it melancholy. Whittier of
course loved the pine, but felt some-
thing like Lowell. That many-sided
intellectual giant Theodore Parker, in



his love-sonnet, pays a fine tribute
to the pine, where he says, "My love
is pure, like a pine-tree in a waste of
snow." Higginson's "Snowing of
the Pines" is a sweet poem. Bur-
roughs has a fine little essay on "The
Spray of Pine," and Watson Gilder
tells us what a fine place for a camp
is the pine-grove. But the greatest
lovers of the pine, are the great Con-
cord pair, Emerson and Thoreau.
Thoreau tells us the pine points
straight to heaven. And he had a
lasting quarrel with the timid Lowell,
who cut out his statement that the
pine-tree is immortal and will go to
as high a heaven as man, there to
tower above him.

Emerson tells us the 'pine trees
talked to him and were the inspira-
tion of his philosophy. His stately
Concord hom]e was beneath a group
of pines which murmured their music

into the room where he spent his
mornings with his books. And it
was the half grown pines at Canter-
bury where he loved to lay and
brood and from whence he hurls his
defy at the world to disturb him,
when he says —

"O, when I am stretched beneath the

Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and pride of man."

With this age-old joy in the pine
before me: with this history-old cele-
bration of its delights by the writers
of the world: it is no wonder I feel
that heaven can have no greater joys
than come to me as I camp in the
pines in southern New Hampshire.
1 have a good right to feel —

I am the happiest feller that God ever

Here at the door of my shack in the

pine-tree's shade.


By Fanny I unnclls Poole.

Sailing in the twilight dream-enchanted,

While the flame is dying in the blue.
Conscious of my paddle music-haunted.

And the tender eyes of you.
Perfect is our spirit's twin communion ;

Let no strange word desecrate the hour ;
Never comes in stress of day such union:

Body's ease and spirit's power.

Now the holy calm of heaven is suited

To the trance-like dream, of lake and shore.
Rapture of the hermit thrush is fluted.

Would we might for evermore —
At the paddle I, and you, dream-lover —

Glide and glide, with never grief for you.
I re-name this lake, where angels hover,

Lake of Angels then. .... .adieu !


One of the most interesting and
important gatherings of the year in
New Hampshire was the annual ses-
sion of the National Tax Confer-
ence held for the first time in New
England, at Bretton Woods in
September. The several hundred
delegates and guests in attendance in-
cluded representatives from most of
the states in the Union and from sev-
eral Canadian provinces and the
papers presented on the carefully
prepared program gave the views of
experts and authorities of internation-
al fame upon some of the most press-
ing problems of the day.

It was due to the initiative of Gov-
ernor Albert O. Brown, for many
years chairman of the New Hamp-
shire tax commission, that the con-
ference came to the Granite State
for its meeting and he was constant
in his aid to the present members of
the commission, ex-Governor Charles
M. Floyd, John T. Amey and Flet-
cher Hale, in the work of arranging
for the meeting. The Governor
contributed in person to the program
an address of welcome and a discus-
sion of attempted tax reform through
constitutional amendment in New
Hampshire which was one of the
notable papers of the program. In it
he made evident that his faith is un-
shaken in the proposition that this
state must have and should have a
state income tax.

The visitors from without the
state were given a ride to the sum-
mit of Mount Washington on the
cog-wheel railroad and had other op-
portunities for viewing the scenic
beauties and enjoying the manifold
pleasures of the play ground of the
East and they were enthusiastic in
their appreciation of New Hamp-
shire's natural and acquired attrac-
tions and of the hearty hospitality ex-
tended to them. The holding of such
gatherings in the Granite State is one

of the best advertisements which carl
be given the commonwealth and it is
to be hoped that future years will see
more of them brought to New

The Roosevelt Memorial Associa-
tion, Inc., of 1 Madison Ave., New
York City, asks the Granite Month-
ly, in company with the other his-
torical magazines of the country, to
aid in gathering material on the life
of Colonel Roosevelt. The Associa-
tion suggests that any one who knew
Colonel Roosevelt personally should
write out the story of that acquaint-
ance for the Association, omitting no
detail of dates, places, anecdotes, etc.,
and that any unusual books, pamph-
lets, cartoons, magazine articles, clip-
pings or photographs, dealing with
Roosevelt's life or interests, will be

Airs. Bruce Carr Sterrett, whose
poem, "Phases," was printed in the
August number of the Granite
Monthly, with the address, Pelican,
Louisiana, writes us that while that
is her present, temporary home, she
is a native and during most of her
life a resident of North Carolina,
which state, she thinks should be rep-
resented by her verse in the Brookes
More contest.

The phrase, "machine-made

poetry," is used frequently, but as
a matter of fact that wonderful mod-
ern invention, the linotype machine,
is no friend of the poet, and in spite
of the greatest care it often succeeds
in destroying the rhyme, rhythm,
meter or form of some carefully con-
structed verse. Some contestants in
the Brookes More tournament of
poets have been thus handicapped,
but where the error has been one ob-
vious to the judges, we have not at-
tempted correction. In Miss Louise



Patterson-Guyol's poem, "Godess-
Moon," in the September issue, how-
ever, an entire line was omitted, and
in justice to her and because the
beauty and charm of the verse are
worthy of repetition, it is reprinted
in this number, correctly, we hope.

The November issue of the Gran-
ite Monthly will be devoted, in large
part, to an account of the Old Home

Week celebration in the town of
Pittsfield, which held the most elabor-
ate observance of the present year.
The account will be prepared by the
officers of the Old Home Week asso-
ciation and will be well illustrated.
Those who may wish extra copies of
the number are requested to order
them in advance so that the size of
the edition may be determined sea-


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 his hymnal tune.

Discord with harmony she puts to flight,

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 gardens 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,
Hiding their radiance in the far dim height
Whence blue-eyed Day steals upon silver shoon,
Leading the Sun god 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 !


David Rowland Francis, mayor
of St. Louis, Governor of Missouri,
president of the Louisiana Purchase
Exposition, Secretary of the Interior
and ambassador to Russia, has been
for many years one of the most
prominent and popular members of
the brilliant summer colony in our
seacoast town of Rye, and not. only
his friends and neighbors there, but
all the people of New Hampshire
have watched with interest and ap-
preciation his distinguished career
and will read with deepest interest
the handsome volume (Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York, $3. .SO)
in which he describes "Russia from
the American Embassy, April, 1916-
November, 1918."

During this period he was credit-
ed to the Monarchy of Russia 13
months ; represented the United
States with the Provisional Govern-
ment of Russia for eight months ;
and remained in Russia from the in-
ception of the BoLshevic usurpation
until within five days of the Armis-
tice, when he went to a London hos-
pital for an operation ; upon his re-
covery attending by direction of the
Secretary of State the Peace Con-
ference in Paris.

A remarkable opportunity thus
was afforded to a keen observer
and thoughtful student of world
problems to see and to ponder
at close range the events which
made Russia the most perplexing
puzzle and threatening problem
in all this Twentieth Century up-
heaval. Perhaps no one man can
understand the Russia of today.
Certainly no one man can explain
clearly to others the situation and
conditions obtaining there today
and for the past five years. But
very great assistance is afforded by
Mr. Francis in this volume to the
reader who really desires to get as
much truth and as little of the op-

posite as possible concerning the
land which the Czar lost.

In making his book Mr. Francis
has adopted the method of quoting
literally and liberally from his of-
fical dispatches and from letters
written from Russia to his farmh-
and friends in this country. This
shows how people, places and events
registered themselves on his mental
film at the time of exposure. These
extracts he connects with a running
story of explanation and comment,
showing their relation to and bear-
ing upon the subsequent course of
events and present conditions. The
result is not remarkable from a lit-
erary standpoint, but it is readable
and rememberable.

Answering at once the question
which always is asked first in re-
gard to Russia the author says in
his introduction : "Bolshevism be-
gan to show itself within eighteen
months before my departure from
Russia. 1 saw its spasmodic mani-
festations through the summer of
1917, its usurpation of power in
the autumn of that year. I was in
the midst of Lenin's experiment in
government for more than a year.
I have seen this monstrosity run
its course, to become the world
wide danger which my observation
at close hand had convinced me
it would become."

On the final page of his "retro-
spect" he declares "Russia was the
chief victim of the world war. We
owe he/r a duty wHich gratitude
should prompt us to discharge. But
beyond that, if we could but realize
it, we owe it to ourselves, if we
would preserve our institutions, to
eradicate this foul monster — Bolshe-
vism — branch, trunk and root. We
owe it to society. W r e owe it
to humanity. If we would save so-
ciety from barbarism and human-
ity from slaughter. America saved



civilization and thus became the
moral leader of the world. Let us
retain this leadership by saving
Russia, because we are the only
government on the face of the
earth that can do it."

The deservedly popular Booth
Tarkington novelist and dramatist,
who made his first essays in litera-
ture as a student at Phillips Acad-
emy, Exeter, New Hampshire, rings
the bullseye bell on the target of
success so frequently that we are
hard! put to it in keeping up to date
with the sounding of his praises.
The copy of "Alice Adams"
(Doubleday, Page & Co., $1.75)
which we have in hand • is marked
"third edition," and very likely this
numeral will be out of date before
these words appear in print. This
is somewhat the more remarkable
because "Alice Adams" does not in
any way bid for popularity. It is
not written by the Tarkington of
"Penrod," "Seventeeen" and "The
Wren", but by the Tarkington of
that splendid story, "The Turmoil,"
and the Pulitzer prize winner, "The
Magnificent Ambersons." It is
"realism" — much abused word — of
the clean American brand. You
and I know every character in it.
Alice Adams just went by the
window. Her father's story was
told again today before our referee
in bankruptcy. We have pitied other
mothers as senseless in their sac-

rifices as her's. To tell an every
day story of "just folks" with such
art as to please the captions critic
and arrest the attention of the casual
reader is the .substance of this latest
Tarkington triumph.

Peter B. Kyne's latest novel,
"The Pride of Palomar," (Cosmo-
politan Book Corporation, New
York, $2) is frankly propaganda and
the fact of its frankness neutralizes
to .some extent the dislike which
most of us feel for fiction thus
dosed. Up in this corner of the
country we cannot understand or
appreciate the bitter anti-Japanese
sentiment which seems to permeate
the Pacific coast and which has been
able to enlist the services of such
notable press agents as Mr. Kyne
and Wallace Irwin. So we are in-
clined to discount the devilishness
of Mr. Okada et als as set forth
in regard to Palomar and Don
Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriago

But it adds to the lively move-
ment of a very good story and
furnishes an excellently black
background against which to display
the superlative virtues and accomp-
lishments of Don Mike and his
more than superlative race horse,
Panchito. Mr. Kyne always is a
good story teller, whether he sails
the sea or rides a ranche, and "The
Pride of Palomar" does no injury
to his record in this respect.


By Helen M. Campbell

The old canals

Of England

Wind gently,

Grown rough and soft and green

Along the edges

Where paths are gone, but seen

Sketched in

With hedges.

These old canals

Bear lilies ;

And the wild-fowl,

Lone craft to sail or float

The sluggish surface,

Feed idly.

Perhaps a worn-out boat,

All torn and battered,

Half sunk in mud and sand.

And so bespattered

Its outlines merge and blend

Into the landscape,

Affords a place to rest,

Or hidie-hole to nest :

And so.

Sleeps kindly.

A turquoise bird

Gives colour,

And a thorn tree

Casts petals pink and white

Which softly mingle

With shadows.

Tall trees against the light

Filter protection

With bars of black and gold

Of their reflection,

And screen against the cold

The coral lillies ;

While blue-bells in the grass

Nod to the winds which pass

By them

From meadows.

No other work is done

Than that of Nature,

And rest is surely come

To every feature

Of England's

Old Canals.


By Katharine Sawin Oakes.

Jubilant October, the year's mardi-gras !

Merry days a-tingle with color, life, and sun!

Revellers from fairyland have lightly run.
Ribboning the nearer woods and hills afar

With fluttering, bright streamers out of rainbows spun;
Winds off the high peaks, from amethystine jar,

Dip the swirling brilliant drops that, one by one,
Patter down a-rioting — Flame's avatar !

Frolicsome October, — with carnival gay, —

On it breaks November's sullen, sodden dawn ;
Chillingly she smooths till all earth's tints are drawn ;

Trees lift up bare limbs and fallen leaves turn gray ;
Fled are youth "and blithesomeness ; the year puts on

Sackcloth and ashes ; sad Winter has her way.


By Frances Wright Turner.

Over the valley in garments of flame,

October comes laughing and dancing ;

And down in the brook, where she pauses to look

Soft colors, like dreams go a glancing.

She has touched all the trees with her sweet finger-tips
Till they riot in scarlet and yellow ;
And the golden-rod tall, by the old meadow wall,
She touches with tints rich and mellow.

She kisses the sumac with scarlet-red lips ;
And hiding deep down in the grasses.
The blue asters lie, and reflect back the sky
As she wakens them all, when she passes.

She covers the hills with a deep, hazy blue
That at night, when the shadows come falling.
Is a soft, tender mist, of pale amethyst,
That hushes the nightingale's calling.

She fills all the world ; this great spirit of flame,
With a music like wonderful singing,
For her mystical fingers, wherever she lingers,
Touch her keys that set nature a'ringing.


By Z. G. D.

The Road winds down the Bethlehem Hills
Through wooded twilight of grey beeches
Where, like slim candles, here and there
Shine stems of white and yellow birches.
It skirts around rough-pastured knolls,
Both near and far-off summits sighting.
To visit upland farmsteads where
Good cheer and grim, content are biding.

Now on the verge of steeper grade,

'Twould fain go leaping down the mountain,

Past ancient forest, robbed and shorn.

By ruthless, unskilled hand dismantled,

Still tuneful with each Spring's return

Of whitethroats and sweet thrush-bells ringing,

The cuckoo's call, the whippoorwill's

Sad cadence and the veery's pleading.

Through twilight stretch of beech and birch,
By scant fields vexed with mossy boulders,
Past tattered hem) of ravished woods,
Watched ever by yon peering summits,
The Road winds clown the Bethlehem Hills
In steeper grade and swifter windings
Until with sudden fling it lies
Uncoiled and flat along the valley.

A narrow valley broadening out

Like opened palm outspread and gracious ;

A fairy intervale to hold

The village green, with church-spires pointing,

Elm-shadowed homes and busy mills

That range along the river's wending.

Through sunny glade or shade of bough
The Road is ever by the river ;
Like weathered gossips sauntering,
One listens while the other chatters.
Where ends the valley's even trail,
One, garrulous, keeps age-worn channel ;
The Road climbs beckoning heights alone,
For loftier trend must needs be parting.


By Lcighton Rollins.

This was his hope Ely.silan,
This was the dream he saw,
Shining hope was a vision,
A vision of gleaming awe,

That Beauty the living glory,

Is born i!n the heart of all joy,

Living the sacred old story

As Galahad, the knight from the boy.

Then might you believe in the comer,
Who sings between dawn and night's doom,
When Winter and Spring are Summer,
When song springs forth into bloom.

There by the flowers near the Wayside,
Who sing to the pilgrims on Earth,
Of the joy and beaut}- of old M ayti'de,
When all the folk did dance on Earth.

Beauty dwelt in music enthralling,
Piped from the reeds of the streams,
Found ever in echoes calling,
Calling to bygone dreams of dreams.

He saw beauty blest for tomorrow,
And beauty kissed for to-day,
He cared not secrets to borrow,
For beauty lives alway.

Now was it he knew that he would not perish.
For he held the life of all lives,
For ever and ever to cherish,
With truth which ever survives.

This was his hope Elys'ian,
This was the dream he saw,
Beauty, an incarnate vision,
A vision of holy awe.


By Joseph Henry Ayers.

The sea hath silences !
Beneath the ocean waves which sigh and roar,
Unfathomable depths in stillness rest —
Tho billows toss and surge forever more,
And storms may beat upon the ocean's crest!

The sea hath silences !

The hills have silences !
Secluded glens, where wild flowers love to grow !
The eagle as it soars on noiseless wing —
Majestic peaks crowned with eternal snow —
xA.nd forests wild, where sparkling waters sing !

The hills have silences !

The fields have silences !
Valleys fair, where ripening harvests stand —
Or fragrant with the breath of new-mown hay !
The shaded path which winds across the land —
The twilight hush — as daylight fades away —

The fields have silences !

The night hath silences !
Vast solitudes, in distant realms of space-
Where wondrous worlds, beyond our ken and

Move ever on, each in its path and place —
Omnipotence doth hold the stars of light!
The night hath silences !

The heart hath silences !
Its secret room within of mystery.
Where longings, hopes and griefs and joys abide
The soul's still place of calm and sanctity —
Held sacred from the curious world outside !

The heart hath silences !


By Mary Iva Whittier.

In the land of our dreams there's a little house—
A dream that perhaps will come true.
Half hidden somewhere among the flowers —
A sweet little nest for two.

And oh, it is full, so full of love;

And in at the open door

The bird songs float with a happy sound

And the sunbeams dance on the floor.

Just a little low house, nothing grand perhaps,
But the best in the world it seems ;
Our nest half hidden among the flowers —
Our dear little house of dreams.


By Martha S. Baker.

It is not hard to thank thee. Lord,

For gifts that please, for friends who love;

Companionships in sweet accord ;

For aspirations born above ;

For sunlit days and star gemmed nights ;
Abundant harvests, needful showers;
For all earth's varied charmis, delights,
For landscape beauty, birds and flowers.

But, Lord, when shall we reach this height,
To thank thee for our loss and pain;
For pleasures that have taken flight,
Hopes unfulfilled, ambitions slain?

For dreams that never will come true;
Defeated aims we shall not know
Save as in other lives we view,
See them develop and in beauty grow.

In hours of triumph faith is sweet,
God's love and mercy underlies;
The spirit crushed finds courage meet,
For what life brings, of joy denies.



Edgar AMrich, distinguished jurist,
publicist and historian, was born in Pitts-
burg, N. H., Feb. 5, 1848, the son of
Ephraim C. and Adeline Bedel (Haynes)
Aldrich. He was educated in the public
schools, at Colebrook Academy and at the
law department of the) University of
Michigan, where he graduated with the
degree of Bachelor of Laws in 1868. He
was admitted to the New Hampshire bar

bench of the U. S. Circuit Court of Ap-
peals for the First Judicial Circuit. He
was a member of the constitutional con-
vention of 1902 and to the very last mani-
fested a deep and helpful interest in the
affairs of the state. During the present
year he had carried to successful com-
pletion the project of naming the first
built of our principal state roads the
Daniel Webster Highway. Judge Aldrich
was a student of history, to whose litera-
ture he had made many valuable contri-

The Late Judge Edgar Aldrich

in the same year and practiced in Cole-
brook from 1868 to 1881, serving as so-
licitor of Coos county, 1872-4 and 1876-9.
In 1881 he removed to Littleton, which
has since been his residence and where
he died Sept. 15. In 1885 he was chosen
to the House of Representatives from Lit-
tleton and was elected its speaker. In 1891
he was appointed judge of the United States
district court and held that position until
his death, serving also extensively on the

butions in the form of articles and ad-
dresses. Several of the former the Gran-
ite Monthly has been privileged to print.
Judge Aldrich received the honorary degree
of A. M. from Dartmouth College and that
of LL. D. from the Universities of
Michigan and Colorado. He marred, Oct.
7, 1872, Louise M. Remick, by whom he
is survived, with their daughter, Florence
M. (Mrs. Howard S. Kniffin.)




Ira Francis Harris, banker, author, trav-
eller, lecturer, was born in Nashua, Nov.
9, 1855, and died there Sept. 18. He was
the son of Robert and Mary (Glirtes)
Harris and was educated in the schools of
Nashua. In 1877 he entered the employ of
the Ihdian Head National Bank and so
remained until his death, having been
cashier since 1895. In addition to exten-
sive travels on this continent, he went
around the world in 1913 and described
his journey in a book, "Breezes from

etc. He was a 32d degree Mason; leader
in the First Congregational church ; and
member of the Nashua Country Club.
June 7, 1881, he married Mary C. Proc-

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 46 of 57)