Songs Ysame. Johnston Annie Fellows

valance on the high, white bed

      Whose folds the lavender still keep.

      Oh! nowhere else such dreamless sleep

      On tired eyes its deep spell lays,

      As that which came in those old days

      At early candle-lighting.

      A kitchen lit by one dim light,

      And 'round the table in affright,

      A group of children telling tales.

      Outside, the wind – a banshee – wails.

      Even the shadows, that they throw

      Upon the walls, to giants grow.

      The hailstones 'gainst the window panes

      Fall with the noise of clanking chains,

      Till, glancing back, they almost feel

      Black shapes from out the corners steal,

      And, climbing to the loft o'erhead,

      The witches follow them to bed.

      The low flame flickers. Snuff the wick!

      For ghosts and goblins crowd so thick

      At early candle-lighting.

      An orchard path that tramping feet

      For half a century have beat;

      Here to the fields at sun-up went

      The reapers. Here, on errands sent,

      Small bare-feet loitered, loath to go.

      Here apple-boughs dropped blooming snow,

      Through garden borders gaily set

      With touch-me-nots and bouncing Bet;

      Here passed at dusk the harvester

      With quickened step and pulse astir

      At sight of some one's fluttering gown,

      Who stood with sunbonnet pulled down

      And called the cows. Ah, in a glance

      One reads that simple, old romance

      At early candle-lighting.

      One picture more. A winter day

      Just done, and supper cleared away.

      The romping children quiet grow,

      And in the reverent silence, slow

      The old man turns the sacred page,

      Guide of his life and staff of age.

      And then, the while my eyes grow dim,

      The mother's voice begins a hymn:

      "Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer

      That calls me from a world of care!"

      What wonder from those cabins rude

      Came lives of stalwart rectitude,

      When hearth-stones were the altars where

      Arose the vestal flame of prayer

      At early candle-lighting.

      No crumbling castle walls are ours,

      No ruined battlements and towers.

      Our history, on callow wings,

      Soared not in time of feudal kings;

      No strolling minstrel's roundelay

      Tells of past glory in decay,

      But rugged life of pioneer

      Has passed away among us here;

      And as the ivy tendrils grow

      About the ancient turrets, so

      The influence of its sturdy truth

      Shall live in never-ending youth,

      When simple customs of its day

      Have, long-forgotten, passed away

      With early candle-lighting.

      Bob White

      JUST now, beyond the turmoil and the din

      Of crowded streets that city walls shut in,

      I heard the whistle of a quail begin:

      "Bob White! Bob White!"

      So faintly and far away falling

      It seemed that a dream voice was calling

      "Bob White! Bob White!"

      How the old sights and sounds come thronging

      And thrill me with a sudden longing!

      Through quiet country lanes the sunset shines.

      Fence corners where the wild rose climbs and twines,

      And blooms in tangled black-berry vines,

      "Bob White! Bob White!"

      I envy yon home-going swallow,

      Oh, but swiftly to rise and follow —

      Follow its flight,

      Follow it back with happy flying,

      Where green-clad hills are calmly lying.

      Wheat fields whose golden silences are stirred

      By whirring insect wings, and naught is heard

      But plaintive callings of that one sweet word,

      "Bob White! Bob White!"

      And a smell of the clover growing

      In the meadow lands ripe for mowing,

      All red and white.

      Over the shady creek comes sailing,

      Past willows in the water trailing.

      Tired heart, 'tis but in dreams I turn my feet,

      Again to wander in the ripening wheat

      And hear the whistle of the quail repeat

      "Bob White! Bob White!"

      But oh! there is joy in the knowing

      That somewhere green pastures are growing,

      Though out of sight.

      And the light on those church spires dying,

      On the old home meadow is lying.

      Grandfather

      HOW broad and deep was the fireplace old,

      And the great hearth-stone how wide!

      There was always room for the old man's chair

      By the cosy chimney side,

      And all the children that cared to crowd

      At his knee in the evening-tide.

      Room for all of the homeless ones

      Who had nowhere else to go;

      They might bask at ease in the grateful warmth

      And sun in the cheerful glow,

      For Grandfather's heart was as wide and warm

      As the old fireplace, I know.

      And he always found at his well-spread board

      Just room for another chair;

      There was always rest for another head

      On the pillow of his care;

      There was always place for another name

      In his trustful morning prayer.

      Oh, crowded world with your jostling throngs!

      How narrow you grow, and small;

      How cold, like a shadow across the heart,

      Your selfishness seems to fall,

      When