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 56 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 56 of 57)
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were elected from 295 constituen-
cies. Of these two elected no dele-
gates, sixty-eight were uncontested,
and sixty-six more were virtually
uncontested. These sixty-six con-
stituencies either polled a vote of
less than fifteen, or the second
candidate received less than one-
fifth of the vote secured by the suc-
cessful candidate. The following
table classifies the constituencies ac-
cording to the total vote cast in


Total Vote Cast

Number of Constituencies

1 - 25

26 - 50

51 - 100

101 - 200

201 and greater



The President of the Convention
was elected by a vote of 205. The
largest vote cast for any successful
candidate was 619 ; the smallest was
3. Three members were returned
by a vote of three; in one case
there was no contest, in the other
two cases the opponent polled two
votes. Another member was re-

turned with four votes, another
with five. The average constituen-
cy from the eleven cities of the
State was 1,186; from the twenty-
five smallest towns, 183.

When no dramatic issues arise in
quick succession, the periodic con-
vention meeting every seven years
will sometimes be borne into a dead



ca!m ; the breeze stirred up by a
single issue will not disturb the
quiet surface of public opinion.
Such isolated issues should be
handled by the device adopted by
every other American State ; initia-
tion of an amendment when neces-
sary by the legislature, approval or
rejection by the electors. With
this method of action at its disposal.
New Hampshire could dispense
with a convention meeting every
seven years, and rely upon the
legislature to call a convention
when necessary, as the citizens of
the neighboring State of Massa-

chusetts are accustomed to depend
on the General Court of that State.
When the Convention passes out of
the realm of the automatic, it may
be supposed that greater interest
will be attracted to it on the oc-
casion when a convention really be-
comes necessary ; but in order to
avoid the astounding condition re-
vealed in the foregoing table, in
which it appeared that fifty-eight
members were commissioned by
less than twenty-five voters each,
the basis of representation in the
Convention should be changed from
the town to some larger unit.


By George Henry Hubbard

What shall be my Christmas wish for thee?

A merry life, that sparkles brook-like as it goeth?

Ah, no! I wish thee peace, that like a river floweth.

Divinely deep. Abundance? Riches? Gifts un-

Say rather, little with content, thus equal sharing

God's bounty with thy brothers. Light and easy
burden ?

Nay; strength to carry more, that so thy daily

May greater be. Unfailing health ? Surcease of
sorrow ?

Not these, dear friend, but grace with each new-
coming morrow

To bear thy pains and change to pearls thy tear-
drops streaming.

So be this hallowed Christmastide a true fore-

Of fadeless New Year joy and bliss for thee !



By Catherine A. Dole

Let's go back East, to Tansyville —

You and me and him —

Before that youngster gets too big

To crawl out on a limb.

These swings and rings and ladder things

Are tame, it seems to me,

To what a fellow feels who climbs

High, high up, in a tree!

I'll stump the boy to climb my tree

Out by the pasture bars.

He'll do it too! He's got the pluck.

His eyes will shine like stars!

Let's hustle up and get back there

Before the sugarin's done !

There's sap in those old maples yet;

I want to hear it run.

Then let's hunt up our Mayflower patch

Down by the Boston Lot.

'Member what happened there, one day?

I'll bet you've not forgot!

I led you right off through the woods,

So warm and sweet and wet,

And when you saw that bank of flowers !

I hear your^ "Oh John !" yet.

Your hands went fluttering out toward them-

I stood and watched your face —

"O John !" you said, "O John ! O John !"

Like that Come kiss me, Grace !

Yes let's go back to Tansyville.
I want to go to church.
It's eight years, now, since we went off
And left 'em in the lurch.
I don't see how they've got along
Without us, all this while.
Say, won't they stare when you and I
And Son sail down the aisle?
Out here, no matter where you look,
There's man's work, everywhere ;
But there are rocks and mountain tops
That man can't touch, back there.
Here, we have ships on every lake,
Mills on each waterfall —
I want a little lonely pond —
Just beautiful, that's all.
When we look up at Percy Peaks —
Don't you remember, Grace?
And how it makes you feel to see
That grand, calm Old Stone Face?
" want to breathe the air again

Fresh from the face of God !

Grace girl, pack up !

And don't forget my rubber boots and rod !



By Agnes Ryan

Yes, I knew we c light to .. .' ;

And scrimp and save.

We'll never get anywhere

If we don't.

That's what my father

Used to tell my mother.

He taught her not to want a ribbon

Every time he went to town,

And not to want to go herself.

He tanght her, as I reckon

You'll teach me.

He said you had to save the pennies

And work all the time — like Hell —

If you expected to get anywhere.

He wanted a living and a home,

And then he wanted money

In the bank for burial.

He saved and worried until the end.

And when he died there was still

A little mortgage —

Enough to vex and worry and make his work

Seem like a failure.

Then mother got to thinking

That all she wanted out of life

Was a hundred dollars —

To buy a casket

And provide her decent burial.

Wasn't it like that

With your father and your mother?

It's so with every one I know.

Well, I don't think I want

To live like that.

I often think I'd like the Poor-House ;

And I have known of Death so long

I think that I'd not fear him

But might instead, forgetting

How awful people think him, —

I might clap my hands and smile

As at a friend, if I should .see him coming.

Anyway, I don't want to bother

About my burial, about saving, saving —

I wantto live,

To live and love

And have a good time in the sun. —

If we've got to be poor,

Let's go far into the country,

Away from the shadow of cold buildings —


We can walk if it costs too much —

For there the sun and air are free,

And if it's cold, well, it will be clean cold.

And anyway, the summer there is just as long

As in the city. —

To live — let us live and love

And when I die I'll want

No trappings of a burial.

Don't ever bury me.

When my time comes

Just let the clean waves wash over me,

Carry me where they may,

Dissolve me, resolve me

Back to the common clay ;

Or let me seek a lone high hill,

Afar, afar,

And lay me down beneath the sky,

With or without a star,

Where all of Heaven's winds may blow

And with me have their will,

And sun and rain beat down

To cleanse and dry and whiten all my bones.

If we've been happy, you and I,

What will it matter where we lie?


By Marjorie Packard

The Rhine is cool and green and wide ;

The Aar milk-white with foam ;
But gently run by willowed banks

The little streams of home.

Domes and turrets, storied spires,

Tower o'er mighty Rome:
Old elm trees arch the drowsy streets

In trie Inue town ui nom^.

Sunset on the Alpine heights
Crimsons each silvered dome ;

How soft and near at eventide
The little hills of home.

Oh brave and gay are the sights you see
As abroad in the world you roam ;

But it's sweet to see the green hills
And the quiet streets ot home.



By Jean M. Batchelor

The sun of summer, falling

Upon the city square.

Is caught as in a cauldron

Of blazing walls; the air

With pulsing heat is shaken

And all the street with flame

Seems paved as was the furnace

From which unhurt there came

Through the court of Babylon

Walking slow

Shadrach, Aleshach and Abednego.

Yet Babylon the golden

Is dust and driven sand,

And we where newer walls are built

Walk in another land

From that where Daniel's comrades

Refused to bow them down

Before the alien altars

Of an unholy town.

Or kneel to dark divinities

Of silver and of stone.

For we, in adoration

Daily before a throne

Unseen, with ceremonial

Of purchase and of price,

Offer ourselves to ancient gods

As living sacrifice.


By Eleanor Baldwin

God modeled him with mallets of the rain ;
God welded him with shining of the sun;
And, with the first heroic lines begun.
He held a heavier hammer, and amain
He wrought there with the driving hurricane,
Wielding strong blows until the task was done.
God saw that he was good and softly spun
Rich robes of greenness where the rocks had

Grey-hewn and lone he dwells upon the height,
Peaceful with silence, and as one who waits,
His still gaze ever southward to the site
Where that great goddess of our Eastern gates
Raises one lustrous arm to shed the light
Of benediction on a nation's fates.



By Louise K. Pugh

Dawn and a freshening breeze

And a bird's first drowsy note —

Dawn and the breeze and the bird are here,

You are not. There's an ache in my throat.

Day and a glowing sun

And the noise of a passing cart —

Day and the sun and the cart are here,

You are not. There's an ache in my heart.

Dusk and a flickering fire
And the kettle singing for tea —
Dusk and the kettle and fire are here,
You are not. But there's memory.


By Louise Pattcrson-Guyol

Small wonder that roses love wind !

Clean-winged, beautiful, free,
He passes them white as romance,

Swift as the .sea.

But wonder at this : that the wind
Can pause in his infinite flight

To ruffle the locks of a rose,
To kiss her good-night!


By Louise P alter son-Guyol

I used to love pale colors, gentle tints,

Delicate shades of blue and lavender,

Faint-blushing flowers that held but whispers, hints

Of pink as timid as the blossoms were,

I used to love the tender look of pearls ;

The opal charmed me with its smoky light.

I loved the spring-tide months, like fair-haired girls ;

The pastel dusk ; things that were not too bright.

Now — I love you ! and lit by sudden flame,
A vivid world starts up against the sky.
With you a surge of mighty color came :
Of you the scarlet lips of autumn cry,
Bold golden tulips, rubies keen of hue,
All glowing radiant beauty shouts of you !


With the publication of the
poems printed in this issue of the
Granite Monthly the contest for
the prize generously offered by Mr.
Brookes More closes, and the judges.
Professor Katharine Lee Bates, Mr.
William Stanley Braithwaite and
former Governor John H. Bartlett.
will act in the making of the $50
award. The nation-wide display of
interest in the contest, as shown by
the printing of poems from almost
every state in the Unon, as well as
from foreign countries, must be
highly gratifying to Mr. More, as
it certainly has been to the editor
and publisher of this magazine.

One of its results has been the
inclusion of the Granite Monthly
for the first time in the list of
magazines recognized by Mr.
Braithwaite in the choice of the
best American verse for his annual
anthology. As recently reported
in the Boston Transcript he has
named six poems printed in the
Granite Monthly during 1921 as
worthy of mention in a survey of
the whole field of American periodi-
cal literature for that period. This
is a surprisingly good showing for
a little state monthly of limited
size and field and could not have
been achieved without the stimulus
of the More prize.

An interesting feature of the con-
test has been the number of letters
the editor has received from read-
ers of the magazine, expressing
their preference for this or that
poem included in the contents and
the hope that it may win the prize.
We would like to hear from others
on this line and to bring this about
we offer a copy of a bound volume
of a past year of the magazine to
every reader who nominates in a
letter to the editor, the poem which
finally wins the award from the
board of judges. No red tape; just

drop a line to the Granite Monthly.
Concord, N. H., saying which of
the poems it printed in 1921 you
liked the best. If your preference
coincides with that of the judges
the book will be sent you at once.

A friend whose name we hope to
print later gives us a prize of $25
for another modest contest which
ought to prove interesting and
which will have but three rules to
govern it. It will be awarded for
the best piece of original prose
composition contributed to the
Granite Monthly during the year
1922 by a student in a New Hamp-
shire preparatory school which
means any institution of learning in
the state except Dartmouth and
New Hampshire colleges and the
Plymouth and Keene normal
schools. The article may be fact
or fiction; a .story or an essay; a
descriptive article, a discussion of
some timely topic or a piece of his-
torical research. It will stand a
better chance of publication if it
deals with New Hampshire, but
this is not an absolute requirement.
Contributions to the contest will
not be paid for except in the award
of the prize.

We have in mind a new semi-
editorial department. New Hamp-
shire Day by Day, for the Granite
Monthly of 1922, which we hope to
make of interest and value ; and
have in hand several manuscripts
from old and new contributors
which we like and think our readers
will. The publisher finds probable
a minute balance on the right side
of the ledger December 31. So we
will strive to keep afloat for one
more year at least the little New
Hampshire craft which began its
venturesome voyage through the
stormy seas of magazine publica-
tion in 1878.


"One reason why I like everything
Mrs. Keyes writes is because it is
all so human," said recently one who
has been reading the printed word in
all its forms from law books to love
stories for 70 years. And certainly
the adjective used is a good one to ap-
ply to the characters in her latest book,
"The Career of David Noble" (Fred-
erick A. Stokes Company, New York).
The man from whom the story takes
its title — he can hardly be called its
hero — is very human in the uncon-
scious selfishness with which he sub-
ordinates everything and everybody to
his career. The heroine — unani-
mously so voted — is just as human
in her straightforward desire for love
and life and happiness. And Pa
and Ma and Susie Noble are our
friends and neighbors — real gold in
rough granite settings — in every New
Hampshire town.

The story is of absorbing interest
and though it is a pretty constant
tug on one's heartstrings the happy
ending comes in 300 pages and is
sufficiently emotional to stir the most
blase. Readers of Mrs. Keyes's pre-
vious book, "The Old Grey Home-
stead," and of her Granite Monthly se-
rial, "The Sequel," will welcome the
re-appearance of some of the char-
acters of those stories in "The Ca-
reer of David Noble." Bobby Hutch-
inson we are especially glad to meet
once more and to be given a promise
of the happiness for him that "The
Sequel" denied.

Readers of this magazine will be
foremost, also, in appreciation of the
dedication of the new book "to
Henry Wilder Keyes, whose career,
from selectman of Haverhill, New
Hampshire, to United States Senator
from New Hampshire, has been a
source of deep pride and great joy
to those who know him, but most
of all to his wife-"

Nine one act plays by Miss Alice
Brown, a daughter of New Hamp-
shire whose achievements in almost
all branches of literature are a source
of pride to her native state, have
been collected in a volume published
by the Macmillan Company, New
York. "Joint Owners in Spain," pro-
duced at the Chicago Little Theatre
in 1913, is most frequently seen upon
the stage because the blend of its hu-
mor and pathos is more obvious,
easier to "put over," than in the case
of most of its companions in this
collection. It is, in fact, one of the
author's unsurpassed New England
sketches, truthful and appealing,
placed in stage form and suffering
little or no loss of charm by the

Striking an entirely different note,
"The Hero," produced by the Stuart
Walker Company in Indianapolis in
May, 1918, was as real a bit of drama
as the war produced. "The Sugar
House," produced by the Washington
Square Players in New York in 1916,
takes us back in the New England
hills again and shows that the gamut
of character can be run as easily in
a rural neighborhood as in the great-
est city.

The city furnishes the locale for
some of the other plays, "The Crim-
son Lake," for instance, being the title
of a Bohemian restaurant in New
York as well as of the piece whose
action takes place within its walls.
The settings, however, are immaterial
save that rural dialogue as Miss
Brown writes it rings more true than
we are accustomed to hear it or read
it. The substance of the plays is deep
in the hearts of all men and women

The American stage has taken too
little note of the one act play. It
is good to have these of Miss Brown's
collected and preserved as a proof of



good work already done and an en-
couragement for others to follow this
path of worthy artistic endeavor.

There is no man writing today who
can tell a hetter football story than can
Ralph D. Paine of Durham, New
Hampshire, one reason being that no
one could have a better preparation
than his for such authorship. Winner
of the "Y" at New Haven some 30
years ago, he "did sport" afterwards
for metropolitan newspapers, and
while he quit that game a long time
ago for book and magazine writing,
the chalk-marked gridiron has retained
a warm place in his heart and some
of his best short stories and novels
have had heroes wearing moleskins
and head-guards- No one of them
makes a stronger appeal to the general
reader or to the football expert than
does "Bowman McMurray," the lead-
ing character in "First Down, Ken-
tucky," (Houghton Mifflin Company.)
In 1920 a band of football warriors
journeyed from little old Center
College in the blue grass country to
Cambridge and gave Harvard a spen-
did battle in the stadium. There was
a picturesque and plucky streak in
these "praying colonels" which ap-
pealed to Air. Paine so much that he
went down to Danville and obtained
material for the novel here mentioned.
How much of it is fact and how
much fiction is of no consequence in
appraising its merits as a story. But
the fact that "Bo" and "Red" and
the rest came north again this fall and
beat Harvard made "First Down,
Kentucky" as timely a book as could
be published this autumn. Unlike
some other books which have this
quality, however, Mr. Paine's story
will not disappoint as a stirring tale of
out-door sport any one who buys it
because of its catchy title. The three

musketeers of foot ball, "Bo" and
"Red" and Len Garretson, are the
kind of boys one likes to read about
and would like to know, and the young
Americans who pattern after them in
working hard, obeying the coach and
playing the game for all that is in
them will have worthy models for
their ambitions on and off the foot-
ball field.

Alfred A. Knopf, New York, has
begun the publication of a uniform
collected edition of the works of the
late Bert Leston Taylor, "B. L. T.,"
of the Chicago Tribune, whose "Line-
o'-Type or Two" was one of the first
and for 20 years one of the best
"columns" in the American press.
The first volume is of verse, under
the title, "A Penny Whistle," and in-
cludes, also. "The Babette Ballads-"
Next spring will bring "The So-Called
Human Race." Mr. Taylor did some
of his first journalistic work on news-
papers in Manchester, N. H., a fact
which is recalled in one of the poems,
"To Bishop Summer," included in
the present collection, and his bright
and witty memory remains fresh in the
minds of many of us who knew him
then. Mr. Knopf's book has an ex-
cellent frontispiece portrait of Mr.
Tayor and an introduction by Frank-
lin F. Adams which is a fine and sure
appreciation of B. L. T.'s especial
merits as a rhymer of the time.

Lieutenant Commander Burt Frank-
lin Tenness, U. S. N., retired, native
of Pittsfield, N. H., whose "Man-o-
War Rhymes" were reviewed in this
magazine a year ago, now issues
through the Cornhill Publishing Com-
pany, Boston, another little volume of
verses of waves and wind which he
calls "Sea Lanes" and which will be


welcomed by those who realize that A trusty mate to mind the wheel —

here a real sailor is singing from the And winds ma y blow tin the lee rail di P s!

hottom of his heart. ^ ^od made world is the world for me;

Just give me a ship with a happy crew, Untrammelled, and peopled hy men of
And deep blue water beneath her keel; the shl P s_

Her bilges tight, and her compass true; So Fm going back to . the °P en sea -


By Wallace Everard Steams

The evening came down .softly, rose and gray
Glimmered the ruffled waters, and the peace,
Wind-whispered among pines, seemed infinite;
The west glowed faintly and the night's release
Brought cool hushed twilight in the wake of day ;
Peace filled the fading hollows of the sky
With starry darkness, and the memory
Of dear dead friendships sobbed among the pines,
Pines murmurous with music of the wind.
Thus, when the waters ruffle, rose and gray,
And night stoops down to bind the brows of day,
With beauty that is half a mystery,
Thus, in the hours of twilight, oft I find
Phantoms that whisper in the passing wind —
Ghosts from the twilight land of Memory.


By Z. J. McCormick

These unbound broken plates of history
Spared yet from infidelities and rust
Are whispering old names. But when a gust

Of hot white wind, whipped sharply from the sea,

Bears down a drift of living Rome on me

And on some valiant shaft and headless bust,
I know that neither blind nor blinding dust

Can leave one word for immortality.

I cannot laugh at death this afternoon.
Its daily winnowing upon my head
And these worn stubborn stones are but the sum

Of greatness here too long or gone too soon.
The Caesars and Theodoric are dead
And Nero's golden blocks are stricken dumb !


ij66c£*C> 0\ U6wyijtf4

Milo Sanborn Morrill was born Jan-
uary 20, 1846, in Canterbury, youngest
of ten children of Captain David and
Sally (Peverly) Morrill, and died Sep-
tember 6, in the same house where his
father and grandfather had passed away.
He spent his entire life upon his ances-
tral acres at the same time engaging
extensively in the lumber business. He
was a member of the Free Will Baptist
church and a staunch Republican in

politics, though receiving every vote
cast when elected in 1900 to the state
legislature of 1901. Mr. Morrill never
married and is survived by his brother,
George P. Morrill, well-known Civil War
veteran of Canterbury and West Con-
cord, whose four sons were the bearers
at their uncle's funeral. One of them,
Charles Emery Morrill, and his wife,
had made their home since 1893 with
the subject of this sketch. Milo S.



Morrill was a good citizen, liberal and
public spirited. In his will he be-
queathed $1,200 to the town of Canter-
bury for a receiving tomb, any balance
to be applied toward the erection of a
library building or for the purchase of
library books; $1,000 to the trustees of
the Congregational church at Canterbury
Center; and $500 to the State Y. M. C.
A.; the two last items in trust, the in-
come only to be used for the purposes
of the two organizations.


Woodbury Langdon, New Hampshire's
wealthiest resident, died at his home, the
historic John Langdon mansion, in
Portsmonth, October 24. He was born
in that city, October 22, 1836, the son
of Woodbury and Frances (Cutler)
Langdon, and in the sixth generation
from Judge Woodbury Langdon, brother
of Governor John Langdon. Early in
life he engaged in the dry goods com-
mission business in New^ York and was
very successful. He was a director in
various banks, insurance companies and
railroads and had been vice-president of
the New York Chamber of Commerce.

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 56 of 57)