Poems by Hattie Howard Part 11

Like wandering refugees from A city of renown, Impelled to reconnoiter This Ma.s.sachusetts town, Each by a common object urged, Upon the park our paths converged.

Good nature, bubbling over In healthy, hearty laughs, And little lavish speeches Like pleasant paragraphs, The kind regard, unstudied joke, His true felicity bespoke.

A bit of doleful knowledge Confided unto me, About the way the doctors-- Who never could agree-- His knees had tortured, softly drew My sympathy and humor, too.

I hoped he wouldn't lose them, And languish in the dumps By having to quadrille on A pair of polished stumps-- But a corky limb, though one might dread, Isn't half as bad as a wooden head.

He censured those empirics Who never heal an ill, Though bound by their diplomas To either cure or kill, Who should, with ignominy crowned, Their patients follow--under ground.

I left him at the foot of "The Soldiers' Monument,"

With incoherent mutterings-- As though 'twere his intent To turn the sod, a rod or two, And sleep beside the "boys in blue."

In Hartford's charming circles His bonhommie I miss, And having never seen him From that day unto this, I think of him with much regret As lying--with the soldiers--yet.

Woman's Help.

Sometimes I long to write an ode And magnify his name, The man of honor, on the road To opulence and fame, On whom was never aid bestowed By any helpful dame.

To all the world I fain would show That talent widely known, Rare eloquence, of burning glow To melt a heart of stone, That all his gifts, a dazzling row, Are his, and his alone.

But him, of character and mind Superb, alert, and strong, I never study but to find The subject of my song, Some paragon of womankind, Has helped him all along.

He may not know, he may not guess, How much to her he owes, How every scion of success That in his nature grows, Developed by her watchfulness, Becomes a blooming rose.

From buffetings in humble place, And labors ill begun, To proud achievement in the race And laurels grandly won, His trials all she dares to face As friend and champion.

The bars that hinder his advance And half obscure the goal, The stubborn bond of circ.u.mstance That irritates his soul, The countershafts of arrogance, All yield to her control.

He builds a tower--she below Is handing up the bricks; His light is brilliant just as though Her hand had trimmed the wicks; He prays for daily bread--the dough A woman deigns to mix.

Tobogganing.

Oh, the rare exhilaration, Oh, the novel delectation Of a ride down the slide!

Packed like ice in zero weather, Pleasure-seekers close together, On a board as thin as wafer, Barely wider, scarcely safer, At the height of recreation Find a glorious inspiration, Ere the speedy termination In the snowy meadow wide, Sloping to the river's side.

Oh, such quakers we begin it, Timorous of the icy route!

But to learn in half a minute What felicity is in it, As we shoot down the chute, Smothered in toboggan suit, Redingote or roquelaure, b.u.t.toned up (and down) before, Mittens, cap, and moccasin, Just the garb to revel in; So, the signal given, lo!

Over solid ice and snow, Down the narrow gauge we go Swifter than a bird o'erhead, Swifter than an arrow sped From the staunchest, strongest bow.

Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen,"

Silly lovers' paradise!

Like the frozen Androscoggin, Slippery, and smooth, and nice, Is the track of the toboggan; And there's nothing cheap about it, Everything is steep about it, The insolvent weep about it, For the biggest thing on ice Is its tip-top price; But were this three times the money, Then the game were thrice as funny.

Ye who dwell in lat.i.tudes Where "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes, And the water seldom freezes; Ye of balmy Southern regions, Alabama's languid legions, From the "hot blast" of your breezes, Where the verdure of the trees is Limp, and loose, and pitiful, Come up here where branches bare Stand like spikes in frosty air; Come up here where arctic rigor Shall restore your bloom and vigor, Making life enjoyable; Come and take a jog on The unparalleled toboggan!

Such the zest that he who misses Never knows what perfect bliss is.

So the sport, the day's sensation, Thrills and recreates creation.

The Woods.

I love the woods when the magic hand Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth; When beauty and song in the gladness of birth Awaken the heart of the desolate land, And carol its rapture to every breeze.

In summer's still solstice my steps are drawn To the shade of the forest trees; To revel with Pan in his secret haunts, To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance, Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faun And fascinate strange wild birds and bees.

I love the woods when autumnal fires Are kindled on every hill; When dead leaves rustle in grove and field, And trees are known by the fruits they yield, And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspire A mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill.

There's a joy for which I would fling to the air My petty portion of wealth and fame, In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow, The ways of the 'c.o.o.n and opossum to know, To capture squirrels when branches are bare As the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame.

Oh, I long to explore the woods again In my own aboriginal way, As before I knew how culture could frown On a hoydenish gait and a homespun gown Or dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten"

Would smile at rusticity's _navete_.

I sigh for the pleasures of long ago In youth's sweet halcyon time; When better beloved than the thoroughfare By mult.i.tudes trod were the woodlands, where Was never a path that I did not know, Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb.

Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me!

For oh, Society's lip would curl, Propriety's self with scornful eye And gilt-edged Fas.h.i.+on would pa.s.s me by To know that sometimes I'm dying to be The romp, the rover, the same old girl.

Like Summer.

November? 'tis a summer's day!

For tropic airs are blowing As soft as whispered roundelay From unseen lips that seem to say To feathered songsters going To sunnier, southern climes afar, "Stay where you are--stay where you are!"

And other tokens glad as these Declare that Summer lingers: Round latent buds still hum the bees, Slow fades the green from forest trees Ere Autumn's artist fingers Have touched the landscape, and instead Brought out the amber, brown, and red.

The invalid may yet enjoy His favorite recreation, Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy In outdoor sports the time employ, And happy consummation Of prudent plans the farmer know Ere wintry breezes round him blow.

And they by poverty controlled-- Good fortune shall betide them As scenes of beauty they behold, And seem to revel in the gold Which Plutus has denied them; For, ah! the poor from want's despair Oft covet wealth they never share.

Sheridan's Last Ride.

While Phoebus lent his hottest rays To signalize midsummer days, I stood in that far-famed enclosure By thousands visited, Where, in the stillness of reposure, Are grouped battalions dead.