People's Poems

October

Sun, 31 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Oh, hazy month of glowing trees,——
And colors rich to charm our eyes!
Yet—not less fair than all of these
Are Mother's fragrant pumpkin pies!

— Louise Bennet Weaver and Helen Cowles LeCron

July

Sun, 31 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The market is full of delights in July:
Fresh vegetables, berries, red cherries for pie!
Good housewives and telephones seldom agree,
So market yourself! You can buy as you see!

— Louise Bennet Weaver and Helen Cowles LeCron

September

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Apple-tree, apple-tree, crowned with delight,
Give me your fruit for a pie if you will;——
Crusty I'll make it, and juicy and light!——
Give me your treasure to mate with my skill!

— Louise Bennet Weaver and Helen Cowles LeCron

August

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Twenty little jelly-glasses, twenty pots of jam,
Twenty jars of pickles and preserves,
Making other wealth than this appear a stupid sham,—
Ah, you dears! What color, gleam and curves!

— Louise Bennet Weaver and Helen Cowles LeCron

June

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

No, you cannot live on kisses,
Though the honeymoon is sweet,
Harken, brides, a true word this is,—
Even lovers have to eat.

— Louise Bennet Weaver and Helen Cowles LeCron

A Dedication

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

To every other little bride
Who has a "Bob" to please,
And says she's tried and tried and tried
To cook with skill and ease,
And can't!—we offer here as guide
Bettina's Recipes!

To her whose "Bob" is prone to wear
A sad and hungry look,
Because the maid he thought so fair
Is—well—she just can't cook!
To her we say: do not despair;
Just try Bettina's Book!

— Louise Bennet Weaver and Helen Cowles LeCron

Too Late

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

She lies so still the livelong day,
She doth not move or speak;
The roses long have died away
Upon her dainty cheek.

I spoke her harshly yestermorn—
Her agonized surprise,
It haunts me now—and for my scorn
The lovelight in her eyes!

And now each bitter word I said
Accentuates my pain—
Each taunt I leveled at the dead
Has burnt into my brain.

Who is the wiser? I, whose feet
Must tread an earthly hell?
Or she who hears that welcome sweet,
"Fair spirit, all is well?"

Though God forgive me in His grace,
When I have "crossed the bar,"
When I shall meet her face to face
Beyond the morning star.

I dare not think that even there,
Within the gates of gold,
My soul will show to her as fair
As in the days of old.

The dear dead days of long ago,
Whose tale was told above,
When in our hearts we felt the glow,
The rosy dawn of love!

— Public Opinion

After the Prize-Fight

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

He was the parson's little son
Who rose betimes at four,
All hastily his clothes to don,
And lightly ope the door.

He slipped him from the darkened room,
And peeped him all around,
Amid the misty morning gloom,
For something on the ground.

He searched the front yard o'er and o'er;
The high grass by the stile;
The graveled walk beside the door—
Alas, the weary while!

And as he gazed the ground upon
The tear swelled in his eye;
And then the parson's little son
Most piteously did cry.

"The mornin' pape I want ter see,
And find who was knocked out,
But some mean chump has collared it—
I'd like to punch his snout!"

Alas, the parson's little lad,
Who rose before the light,
Knew not that in the study "dad"
Was reading of the fight!

My Guest

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Sweet be thy sleep,
my guest,
Peace come to thee
and rest
Throughout all the
quiet night;
And with the morning
light awake thee
And rise refreshed.

The Kiss

Fri, 29 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Because I kissed thee, Minguillo,
　My mother keeps scolding at me;
Then give back, O give back, carillo,
　The kiss that I gave unto thee.

Give me one long and sweet like the other,
　And scolding in future I'll shun;
For then I can say to my mother
　That we have the mischief undone.
Thou'lt a gainer be by it, Minguillo,
　And by it a gainer I'll be;
Then give back, O give back, carillo,
　The kiss that I gave unto thee.

Give it quickly, because, unforgiving,
　My mother makes such an ado.
One away thou wilt seem to be giving,
　Yet thou in its place wilt have two.
So we over her triumph, Minguillo,
　And keep her from scolding at me;
Then give back, O give back, carillo,
　The kiss that I gave unto thee.

The Boyless Town

Fri, 29 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A cross old woman of long ago
Declared that she hated noise:
"The town would be so pleasant, you know,
If only there were no boys."
She scolded and fretted about it till
Her eyes grew heavy as lead,
And then, of a sudden, the town grew still,
For all the boys had fled.

And all through the long and dusty street
There wasn't a boy in view;
The base-ball lot where they used to meet
Was a sight to make one blue,
The grass was growing on every base,
And the paths that the runners made;
For there wasn't a soul in all the place
Who knew how the game was played.

The dogs were sleeping the livelong day—
Why should they bark or leap?
There wasn't a whistle or call to play,
And so they could only sleep.
The pony neighed from his lonely stall,
And longed for a saddle and rein;
And even the birds on the garden wall
Chirped only a dull refrain.

The cherries rotted and went to waste—
There was no one to climb the trees;
And nobody had a single taste,
Save only the birds and bees.
There wasn't a messenger boy—not one
To speed as such messengers can;
If people wanted their errands done,
They sent for a messenger man.

There was little, I ween, of frolic and noise;
There was less of cheer and mirth;
The sad old town, since it lacked its boys,
Was the dreariest place on earth.
The poor old woman began to weep,
Then woke with a sudden scream;
"Dear me!" she cried; "I have been asleep;
And oh, what a horrid dream!"

— St. Nicholas

An Old Fogy's View of Modern Educational Methods

Mon, 25 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

In years long gone 'twas taught at school
Our mother-tongue to speak by rule;
But now instead they "English" teach,
The child "absorbs" the choicest speech.
Why know the "Wherefore" and the "Why"
Old fogies taught in years gone by?
And some there are (not very old)
Who well recall what teachers told
Of decimals and "rule of three"
And how to learn the height of tree;
But now all these are out of date;
No need for pencil or for slate,
Geography and grammar, too,
Were always fresh and ever new;
But still they've learned a better way
To make the teachers earn their pay.
To teach and study bugs and flow'rs,
In gayest woods they spend long hours.
Tho' sums make boys as keen as fox,
More useful 'tis a paper box
At school to make, and then take home,
And later send o'er earth to roam,
In manhood's state how great their woe,
If arts like this they do not know!
For then its use will be made plain,
As children from it pleasure gain.
For if thus trained they'll have no gold,
But children will their arms infold.

— Eugene Lee Crutchfield, M.D.

Springtime Yarns

Mon, 25 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

It's a little bit late,
But we'll venture to state,
On the way.
Someone may, with a rake,
Kill a two-headed snake
Any day.

We may look any hour
For the news of a shower
In which trout
By the dozen will drop;
In the streets wildly flop
All about.

Oh, the crop never fails
Of these telegraph tales
Odd and queer,
And they're ready, I wis,
Somewhere 'round about this
Time of year.

A Street Car Ultimatum

Mon, 25 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I would not be an end-seat hog
For all that fortune could bestow,
But I won't wear my trousers out
By sliding to and fro.

What is Life to You?

Tue, 12 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

To the preacher life's a sermon,
To the joker it's a jest;
To the miser life is money,
To the loafer life is rest.

To the lawyer life's a trial,
To the poet life's a song;
To the doctor life's a patient
That needs treatment right along.

To the soldier life's a battle,
To the teacher life's a school;
Life's a good thing to the grafter,
It's a failure to the fool.

To the man upon the engine
Life's a long and heavy grade;
It's a gamble to the gambler,
To the merchant life's a trade.

Life's a picture to the artist,
To the rascal life's a fraud;
Life perhaps is but a burden
To the man beneath the hod.

Life is lovely to the lover,
To the player life's a play;
Life may be a load of trouble
To the man upon the dray.

Life is but a long vacation
To the man who loves his work;
Life's an everlasting effort
To shun duty to the shirk.

To the heaven's blest romancer
Life's a story ever new;
Life is what we try to make it—
Brother, what is life to you?

As You Know

Tue, 12 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The little nonsense now and then
That's relished by the wisest men
Is, you will nearly always find,
Not of the other fellow's kind.

Sole

Tue, 12 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The barefoot dancer I prefer,
This secret I'll impart:
For I have found that she puts her
Whole sole into her art.

Not Deliberately Chosen

Tue, 12 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

"We are a swift, commercial race"—
A cynic sadly said it.
"While poverty is no disgrace,
It's no especial credit."

The Teachers and the Editor

Mon, 11 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Once the Editor of the Record
Came to the teachers of our school,
To find some one to write his paper,
While he allowed his pen to cool.
We know it wasn't his busy pen,
But himself who wanted a rest.
The teachers were asked to take the task,
And they promised to do their best.

Now among teachers and pupils
There will be a fuss and fume
To write for his subscribers,
A glorious editorial boom,
While the printer with great cunning
Has succeeded in getting a rest,
The teachers, I'm sure, didn't think of this,
When they promised to do their best.

Among the writers, while they're working,
There will be a whirl and bustle.
Among the readers while they're reading
There will be a stir and rustle.
Thus the teachers will be working,
While the printer takes a rest.
They didn't think of this, I'm sure,
When they promised to do their best.

They think it is fun at present,
But, I'm sure they won't at last,
When the papers are all printed,
And the fame and glory's past
They will see they've had the worry,
While the printer's had the rest,
And, I know, they'll wish they hadn't
Promised they would do their best.

— Edna Whitmore

Parody

Mon, 11 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Should you ask me whence these verses,
Whence these stories and traditions,
With so little sense about them,
With so little rhythm in them,
With so many imperfections,
And their frequent repetitions,
As of one unskilled in writing;
I should answer, I should tell you,
From the grand old seat of knowledge,
From the place prepared for pupils,
From the graded school of Stewartsville,
From the Stewartsville High School Building;
Where the pupils go at morning,
Go with books and basket also,
Where they live and toil and suffer,
That they there may learn their lessons,
That they may advance in knowledge,
Far and wide among the nations,
Spread the name and fame of Stewartsville.
'Twas a morning bright in Autumn,
In the golden days of Autumn,
Very cool and still the air was,
Insects glistened in the sunshine,
Down the sidewalk came the children,
Straight into the open doorway,
Passed into the rooms so pleasant,
And each one a seat selected.
And among them three bright pupils,
With a word of salutation,
With a sign of recognition,
Passed into the upper hallway,
And into the farthest class room.
"Whitmore" was the name they called one,
And her given name was "Edna."
Bright she was, and full of mischief;
But her voice was low and tender,
Like the falling of the waters,
Like the babbling of the brooklet.
"Mattie Hawman" was another,
She with locks that black as jet are,
She with eyes serene and tender,
Always merry, always happy,
Ever mindful of her duty.
All her lessons well preparing.
As is oft the case in Autumn,
"Snow" came gently, gently tripping.
She a tall and slender maiden,
She possessing many virtues,
Of her loveliness we tell,
She the gentle, loving "Nell."
Many days they talked together,
Questioned, listened, waited, answered,
Learned the History and Latin,
And the Mathematics also.
Thus they worked and toiled together
Through the chilly wintry weather.
In the first warm days of Springtime,
When the robins were returning,
When the brooks were overflowing,
When the grass was growing greener.
Came a young man from the far West,
Came to join the worthy scholars,
"Small" he was, but well beloved,
And by name they called him "William"
For his very strength made noted,
For his strength allied to goodness.
Then they worked for many days more,
Reaching thus that place of honor,
Where the School Board soon presented
Each of these with a Diploma.
These, the graduates of Stewartsville,
These, the Class of 1908 were.
And for centuries stood this High School,
Stood this same old painted building,
Stood against the storms of winter,
Stood against the heat of summer,
Stood a monument to knowledge,
Stood a monument to courage,
As unto the day the sun is,
As unto the night the moon is,
So this High School is to Stewartsville.

— X. Y. Z.

The Psalm of the Schoolroom

Mon, 11 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Tell me not in mournful numbers
Lessons are but empty dreams,
Hist'ry troubles all my slumbers,
Latin is not what it seems.

Study's real, study's earnest,
Learning Latin isn't fun,
When you think you know your lesson
You will find you've just begun.

No more idling, no more guessin'
As you have done in the past,
But to act that each new lesson
Is known better than the last.

Days are long and time is dragging,
And our feet, so active once,
Still like iron weights are lagging
In the class we call the Dunce.

Trust no lesson howe'er pleasant,
Learn it e'er you go to school,
Act, act, in the living present
Brain in whirls and Prof to rule.

Tongues of teachers all remind us
We, in knowledge often lack;
But at least we leave behind us
Foot-prints on our upward track.

Foot-prints that perhaps another
Brooding o'er his work, as vain,
A forlorn and block-head brother
Seeing shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing
With a heart for any fate,
No more idling, no gum-chewing,
Learn your lessons e'er too late.

— Edna Whitmore

Reminiscent

Sun, 10 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

In the strife for education
There are changes, so they claim;
But the essay and oration
All seem very much the same.

The Drowsy Fisherman

Sun, 10 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The weather's so invitin',
The bait is in the cup;
If the fish should go to bitin',
Don't let 'em wake me up!

The catfish pulls amazin',
But when he nibbles free,
Don't wake me up, I tell you—
Just land the fish for me!

The river's song is drowsy
Where dreamy shadows creep;
Wakin' time is worktime,
An' they ain't no harm in sleep!

The Sweet Girl Graduate

Sun, 10 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
See the sweet girl graduate
Brace herself to tackle Fate.
See her in her dimity,
Plain white lawn or organdie,
Waiting trembling, sweet and fair,
With a rosebud in her hair
And an essay in her hand.
Shaking as she takes the stand,
See the blushes come and go,
Soft pink bloom in fields of snow;
Listen as she reads the lines
Leading to the far confines
Of the future which she sees
Dimly through her auguries.
To her schooldays, ending here,
Pays the tribute of a tear,
And with a smile she turns to meet
The long, hard path before her feet.
She has learned—from books—that life
At its best is only strife
Till the end, when she lays down
The heavy cross to take the crown.
Oh, say,
Ain't she the higher way?
Ain't she
The solver of the mystery—
Life's problem, whose solution is
Man's never-yet-quite-answered quiz?
Still the same reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
That same evening, rather late,
Sitting in a hammock with
Some young cub named Brown or Smith,
Swapping moonshine mush and bliss,
Rosebud, rapture and a kiss—
Does she fear to tackle Fate?
Ask the sweet girl graduate.

— W. J. Lampton

The Lanes of Light

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The lanes of light, the lanes of light—and who shall lead us there,
From out the busy ways of strife, the avenues of care?
When shadows fall and gathering clouds obscure the pleasant sun,
Ah, lead to lanes of light and love; lead on, dear Little One!

The lanes of light, the lanes of light—by child-heart way they go;
The world is full of music there, and bright the roses blow;
With care forgot and strife foregone, ah! lead us, little feet,
To lanes of love and lanes of song, where all the world is sweet!

Where all the world is sweet and fair, where all the skies are blue,
And hopes are born, and fancy fares, and dreams at last come true;
Where grasses wave and trees are green, and from the rose's lips
The bee upon his buzzing wing the golden honey sips!

Where hand in hand 'tis sweet to stray and happiness to be,
Far from the madding crowd away, in valleys fair and free;
Where rivers run and sunbeams steep the hills they glorify,
As we go by, my Little One, as we go wandering by!

The lanes of light, the lanes of light—and she shall lead us there,
The little lady blue of eyes, with locks of golden hair;
The little lanes, the happy lanes, beneath the pleasant sun,
Ah, lead to lanes of light and love; lead on, dear Little One!

— The Bentztown Bard

Clip Them

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

  "Riches have wings."
  They have, by jings!
I'll warrant that's no jest.
  But Riches' wings
  Are capital things
With which to feather one's nest.

When Katie Waits

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

When Katie waits for me at night,
  The world is full of sweetness,
And crooning breezes in the trees
  Sing low of love's completeness,
The air is heavy with the scent
  Of grape and balsam nodding,
While homeward go the lowing cows
  By winding pathways, plodding.

When Katie waits for me at night,
  My heart is gay with gladness;
The air is filled with dulcet sound,
  With not a note of sadness!
The dew upon the glinting grass
  Is shedding diamond luster,
And I, with fervent soughs of bliss,
  My failing courage muster!

When Katie waits for me at night,
  I go with spirits flushing
To meet the woman of my heart
  Beside the gateway, blushing.
But when I see her wond'rous eyes
  I dare not tell my story
Nor trust my feet to tread the paths
  That lead away to glory!

But sometime there shall come a way
  To banish all my doubting
And win from her a whispered yes
  From off those red lips, pouting.
Ah, sometime she will wait for me
  With shy, surrendered sweetness
As waits a woman for the man
  Who brings her life's completeness!

Then I shall tread the jeweled way
  Where myrtle banks are growing
And all the world is filled with love
  And fond affection glowing.
And every path shall lead to her,
  To love and home and glory,
With only peace and sweet content—
  When I have told my story!

The Home Life

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Jes' ther home life suits me bes',
Snug as birds into a nes',
Fishin', hoein', choppin' wood,
Like a man mos' allus should;
Plowin', weedin', huntin' coon,
Dinner bell can't ring too soon;
Gimme my share 'ith the res',
Jes' ther home life suits me bes'.

Jes' ther home life suits me bes',
An' one asks me why, I sez:
Home is home, and blood, I say,
Is thicker'n water any day;
When yer sick yer folks is 'round,
Like as when yer safe and sound;
Gimme home and nothing less,
Jes' ther home life suits me bes'.

Jes' ther home life suits me bes',
Bes' on earth for grub, I guess,
Liver 'n bacon, pork and greens,
Fry pertaters, corn an' beans;
Things is plain and things is good,
No place kin beat home for food;
Feel no call to change address,
Jes' ther home life suits me bes'.

Jes' ther home life suits me bes',
Allus has an' w'll, sah, yes,
One harsh word to millium sweet,
This yere home life cain't be beat;
Little comforts mount up still,
Like as how an hour-glass will;
Laughin' kids in dirty dress,
Jes' ther home life suits me bes'.

— H. Cochrane

There are

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

There are
many white soaps,
each
represented to be
"just as good as the Ivory."
They are not,
but like
all counterfeits,
they lack
the peculiar
and remarkable
qualities of
the genuine.
Ask for
Ivory Soap
and
insist upon having it.
'Tis sold everywhere.

The Sunday Sun's Political Primer For Young Americans

Wed, 22 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I is for Indiana, where
The Indians run wild,
Where even all the Hoosiers
Are full of tricks and guile.
They take all Chief Tom Taggart's cash
And yell for him a few,
Then follow where the dollars
Lead to Big Chief Harry New.
You wonder why the State's in doubt
Each year, until you find
It takes a lot of cash to make
Up Indiana's mind.
But if you want to win for sure
Remember Marcus Hanna,
And don't forget this maxim: "When
In doubt, buy Indiana!"

John Johnson, you're a good one;
We kinder like your looks—
A tall, straight man in politics,
Which is so full of crooks.
Just hold your horses, Johnnie;
There'll be another race,
In which the folks may see again
Your long Abe Lincoln face.
But this is not your year, John;
You're still too new and fresh
To jump into the band wagon
And lead the whole "procesh."
Hop in behind Bill Bryan—
There's nowhere else to go—
He drives a little Donkey
Like he owned the whole blamed show.

— John Wilber Jenkins

Ode to a Bar-room Kitty

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Kitty, kitty, oh so near
Falling in my glass of beer,
Do you think it wise to rear
Cats in such an atmosphere?

— Basil Brown

The Seniors' Farewell

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

We were Freshies, awful green;
Greener ones were never seen—
"Everything's Gonna Be All Right."
Davis, Solomon, Wright too—
Oh, but we did make them blue,
"Everything's Gonna Be All Right."
We were Sophies gay,
Making right-angled triangles,
Building Cæsar's bridges every day.
Juniors, then, wicked fate,
On school nights mustn't date—
"Everything's Gonna Be All Right."

Seniors now, knowing all,
How you'll miss us here next fall—
"Everything's Gonna Be All Right."
Juniors dear, don't you sigh,
You may know more bye and bye—
"Everything's Gonna Be All Right."
If our grades were punk,
We were sure to flunk—that's the bunk!
At the "games" all our troubles we could "Can."
Now we're through, sheepskin too,
Nothing can the teachers do—
Everything surely _IS_ all right.

Class Poem

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Inside a sheltered and shady place
Protected and enshrouded by surrounding trees,
Bubbles forth a stream, full of joyous grace,
Gently blown about by the light summer breeze.

It pauses, as if, before its wild chase
Some ungovernable power had laid hold thereon;
Nothing but gladness reflecting from its bright face,
It finally goes out where many others have gone.

The little stream goes on, not content,
Eager to behold the great wide world;
Through the green countryside its course is rent,
A great panorama is before its eyes unfurled.

On! Ever onward! The goal is nigh!
Stopping for no barriers no matter how great,
Its waters along the confining banks run high,
Eager its desire of conquest to sate.

So, as we Life's great river broad,
Going ever onward where others have trod,
May we live by His greatness, o'er awed,
And seek to please the will of our God.

— Basil Brown

Ode to Mr. Davis and Miss Solomon

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Hail to our chiefs who with wisdom have led us,
Safe through the years that we've spent here in K. H. S.;
Who taught us how, in their great, kindly manner,
To enjoy the school days from September to June.

They were our friends from the very beginning,
When we entered as Sophs, bashful and shy,
Helping the lost who from classrooms had wandered,
Clearing so often our cloud-laden sky.

Stern were their orders, to wrong-doing classmates—
Stern, but so kindly that each tried his best
To keep the escutcheon of K. H. S. white and stainless,
By obeying all orders, and so helping the rest.

Great chief and most heroic sire,

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Great chief and most heroic sire,
The wisdom of your counsel fire,
Through generations of success
Makes possible our K. H. S.
Your life has earned you true and lasting fame.
Great chief, all honor to your name.

Weavers of Life

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Each of us is a weaver
Making a varied cloth;
Each of us is a craftsman
Who works at the loom of years.

We spin the golden flax of hours
Into our shining thread;
The dye of our deeds gives us color,
Drab or rich in its tone;
And we weave our thoughts into patterns
With swift shuttles of days.

Each of us is a weaver;
Life is the cloth we weave;
God is the Master Craftsman
Who judges our finished wares.

— Ruth Garrison Francis

Seniors

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Old father sun arose with a sigh,
But jumped up startled at what was nigh.
Out of the west came trooping,
Green freshmen bold and strong,
In their hearts there was a quaking,
But on their lips a song.
Their eyes were wide with wonder,
Their footsteps quick with joy.
Their souls were filled with gladness
As a child with a favorite toy.
But old father sun quickly stilled
As the recruits of knowledge swayed,
Because of these sights he had his fill,
For he had watched them day by day.
Old father sun was sinking into the glowing west
Like a giant, feathery condor awing on his way to his nest.
But he raised his radiant headpiece
To look at them below,
And there he spied in all their peace
Seniors, dignified, row on row.
Their faces were lit with wondering light
And all the world they know
At last they have gloriously conquered;
They are free to go their way;
Now they must succeed or wither
Theirs must be work, no play.
Old father sun then bowed with a sigh,
A glistening tear drop in his eye.
Four years he had guarded early and late
This Senior class of twenty-eight.

— John Hodge

Class Poem

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Four golden years have glided by,
(The time does seem so short),
Since we began our life in High;
We surely did have sport.

Our high school days have been most gay,
And what we've learned through them
Will aid us in some future day
In building strength and vim.

But now that joyous time is past,
The lessons and the fun;
And it has come to this at last—
The life that's just begun.

Some will on to college go,
Many will stay at home,
A few some great ability show,
And others doomed to roam.

But where'er we go, whate'er we do,
Our Class of Twenty-Nine
We'll ever hold the thought so true
Of this happy, happy time.

— Catherine Rotter

Epitaph

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Poor Madeline Wells
Lies under this slab:
She tasted her experiments
In Chemistry Lab.

When the Moon Shines on the "Moonshine"

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

When the moon shines on the MOONSHINE
Lying in the steel gon car,
There are fifty tons of brightness
That are going near and far.
We folks down in the mountains
Bring this coal out every day,
And with it goes our best regards
When it starts along the way.
For we know that every ton and block
Is just the best of coal,
That will bring health and heat and warmth
To some poor weary soul.
It isn't high in ash or dirt,
It's the hottest thing we know
To drive away the cold outside
And laugh at winter's snow.
Let our joys be unconfined,
The pleasures yours and mine,
When Lady Moon comes out to shed
Her light on Old MOONSHINE.

We always laugh at the teacher's jokes

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

We always laugh at the teacher's jokes
Though ancient and bad they be,
Not because they are funny at all,
But because it's the best policy.

Catering Made Easy

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
    And never, as people do now
Did he note the amount of the caloric count—
    He ate it because it was chow.

He wasn't disturbed, as at dinner he sat,
    Destroying a roast or a pie
To think it was lacking in granular fat,
    Or a couple of vitamines shy.

He cheerfully chewed every species of food,
    Untroubled by worries or fears
Lest his health might be hurt by some fancy dessert—
    AND HE LIVED OVER NINE HUNDRED YEARS!

There's H₂O in the ocean,

Mon, 20 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

There's H₂O in the ocean,
There's H₂O in the sea,
And for quite awhile I've had nothing,
But H₂O in me.

Rock bye Senior on the tree top

Sun, 19 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Rock bye Senior on the tree top
As long as you study the cradle will rock
As if you stop digging
The cradle will fall,
Down will come Senior Di ploma and all.

From Hindustan to You

Sun, 19 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

'Tis eve in an old Hindu town,
  The sun is setting low,
The birds, sweet things, are in their nests
  And all the West's aglow.

The Mystic gazes in her glass,
  The future seeks to see,
A mist appears with lurid light,
  'Tis made of future years.

The mist grows bright and takes on form;
  The Mystic strains her eyes,
She sees the thing no man doth know
  But then the vision dies.

Her face grows tense, a face so grave,
  I wonder what she sees—
The vision passed. "I know," she cries.
  She holds the future's keys.

"Oh friend from Occident afar,
  List' to my crystal's tale,
A tale of Gorham Normal School,
  'Twould tell that some may fail.

"The class that leaves the school this year
  Will ne'er again be gathered,
The wills of men o'er all the earth
  Will cause it to be scattered.

"The vision that first puzzled me
  Is clear to me right now,
A paradox, quite clear to me,
  'Twill all who heed endow.

"Some best are worst, some worst are best."
  I pondered on this thought.
It seemed to me a tangled mess
  That fiendish hands had wrought.

"You're puzzled, friend of the Occident,
  A truth in this you'll find."
Surely I was and asked her aid
  To ease my troubled mind.

"Take heed, ye ones who are best at school,
  Don't let it go to your head,
For some will know and, rid of you,
  Get others in your stead.

"And those who are so weak at work,
  Get up and do the right.
Your work calls for your very best,
  Go on with all your might.

"My crystal glass would say to all,
  'Take heed and do thy best,
'Tis up to you by your own choice,
  Go forth with Christian zest.'"

To Alma Mater

Sun, 19 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

When we came, Alma Mater, to thee, in our youth
When we lifted our eyes, full of trust, to thy face.
When we felt there thy spirit, and saw there thy grace.
We desired then thy wisdom, we longed for thy truth.

As the years have flown by with their toil and their joy.
Thou hast quickened our ears, thou hast opened our eyes,
Till the hill and the plain, till the seas and the skies,
Are all throbbing with beauty no hand can destroy.

Thou hast shown us the world with its splendour and might;
Its desire and its need thou hast given us to see;
Mother, grant us thy passion for service, that we
May lead youth with its ardor to seek for the light.

— Katharine H. Shute

That's Where Maine Comes In

Sun, 19 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Far to the east where the winds blow keenest,
Here is where the grass grows greenest;
Our beautiful land with its rock-bound coast,
Guarded by islands, a sentinel host,
That's where Maine comes in.

Far to the east where the north winds roar,
And the surf resounds on her rocky shores,
Where the tall cliffs rise in majesty,
Keeping watch o'er the looming sea,
That's where Maine comes in.

Far to the east where the pine grows strongest,
Where the reign of winter is sometimes longest,
Where men are noble and strong and true,
Where women are brave and loving, too,
That's where Maine comes in.

Where the handclasp is a little warmer,
Where the heart beats are a little stronger,
Where heaven seems a little clearer,
And God's promise shineth clearer,
That's where Maine comes in.

Where the wild bird's wing is fleetest,
Where the robin's song is sweetest,
Where the lakes and rivers are pure and clear,
And nature sings to the listening ear,
That's where Maine comes in.

Tho' far thru the world our feet go roaming,
Our hearts will turn homeward when comes the gloaming,
And we'll long to rest where the pines are sighing,
Under the star-lit heavens lying.
In life, in death, our hearts within.
That's where Maine comes in.

— Lydia Lord Shedd

The wind is whispering through the trees.

Sat, 18 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The wind is whispering through the trees.
It is speaking of an era long past...
Of happy people in a new, free land
With a chance for tomorrow
and a place to worship their Lord.
They prayed, my Lord, they prayed.

A song is drifting through the air,
Sung by a stout and hardy bunch
As they cleared the land and erected a fort,
And the Moravians ate their first Lovefeast
In a small, crude church, new made.
They sang, my Lord, they sang.

Plows were pulled over God's green earth
And a harvest was reaped from the soil.
It was hard bought and hard won
With much hard work, patience, perseverence,
And many prayers to the God they loved.
They toiled, my Lord, they toiled.

Winter came and took its toll on the weak,
Cutting down all who were not strong
And ready to fight for lung and life.
Many fell under the cold's cursed blow,
The graveyard on the hill saw and could not forget.
They wept, my Lord, they wept.

And now I am left to carry on the story
Of a people strong in the stuff of which life is made.
They cleared the land and made a home for me
That I might be a Moravian, too.
I can still see their faces mirrored in the sky.
They sighed, my Lord, they sighed.

— Cynthia Clodfelter

The daintiest food, without a perhaps,

Sat, 18 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The daintiest food, without a perhaps,
Is certainly found in Gingerbread Snaps;
Delectable dainties, prepared for all classes,
Is made by the Gingerbread brand of Molasses.

— J. B.

If you're thinking of cheese

Sat, 18 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

If you're thinking of cheese
There's this to recall,
If it wasn't for microbes
There'd be none at all.

— Dr. W. F. Thomson

A Rural Reflection

Sat, 18 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Once more the heart with pleasure sings.
Earth might be worse 'tis plain to see,
If sparrows were equipped with stings,
What fierce mosquitoes they would be!

The Suburbanite

Sat, 18 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Four sets of fly screens—
Yonder he goes,
A handbox, a suitcase,
A furlong of hose;
A rake and a shovel,
A lawnmower blade—
The happy suburbanite,
Hiking for shade!

Sweet is his whistle,
Oh, hear his soft lay,
As there with the mower
He canters away;
Fighting the pusley,
Oh, watch how he speeds,
Keeping his garden plot
Free of the weeds!

Horse mint and henbane
And plantain galore;
Pigweed and dandelion
Clear to the door:
Happy suburbanite—
Heav'n give you rest,
When weary of digging
You lie on earth's breast!

The Rubbernecks

Sat, 18 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

They rubbered and laughed
And laughed and rubbered,
And then they rubbered
And laughed some more.

They laughed and rubbered
And rubbered and laughed,
And rubbered until
Their necks were sore.

They rested a while
And then came back
To laugh and rubber
And crane and roar.

They rubbered and laughed
Because they saw
Something that they
Hadn't saw before.

The Meadow Lark

Wed, 15 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Where skip the saucy breezes o'er the tiny blades of grass,
To ruffle up the tidy green, and muss things as they pass,
A stem of weed, a thistle stalk, a blade of vagrant rye
Are there to bow and laugh with them as they go romping by;
And out upon a bunch of grass, a-swinging in the sun,
The meadow lark is laughing, too, and thinks it heaps of fun.

He with the breeze and vagrant rye and grass and stalk and weed,
Will frolic all the summer day upon the open mead.
There is no hour he is not here, through all the cheerful day—
And when the breezes quiet down, he calls them back to play.
He swings from place to place and darts above the waving grass,
And when the winds are blowing fierce, he fights them as they pass!

He takes a strenuous love in life—the open fields are his;
He feels that life is being free, and lives because it is;
He must not pass like other game from off the Western plains—
(God help the prairie dog!)—and so he carols free and reigns
Supreme in field and Western vale, and vies with breeze and grass,
And laughs with them thro' all the years, the while the seasons pass.

— Clyde C. Adams

The tissues of life to be

Wed, 15 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The tissues of life to be
We weave with colors all our own,
And in the field of destiny
We reap as we have sown.

I am a little schoolgirl,

Wed, 15 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I am a little schoolgirl,
My age is only eight;
I never have been absent,
I never have been late.

So here's to the poet's birthday,
Who the children love so true;
And I am proud to tell you,
My name is Riley, too.

— Frances Elizabeth Riley

Obituary Poetry

Wed, 15 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On December the 8th day
From earth he passed away;
No more his wife's waiting eyes look out
No more his footsteps she will count.
He's not gone from memory,
Not gone from love
But gone to his Father's Home Above.

But when he did descend the pit
His daily bread to earn,
But on he went or little thought
He never should return.

We cannot tell who next may fall
Beneath Thy chastening rod.
One must be first above us all;
Let us prepare to meet our God.

Now his friends have ceased to weep;
The Brother has only fallen asleep.
When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound
The dead will arise from the ground.

-

In Loving Memory of Lloyd G. McKelvey.
South Ligonier Coal Co. First Aid Team:
WM. DONALDSON, Captain,
FRED WITHROW,
WATSON CAIRNS,
F. A. COOPER,
WM. REED,
WALTER SHIRLEY,
GLEN EDMUNDSON.

Ode to November in London

Sat, 11 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

No sun—no moon :
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—

No roads—no streets—no t'other wide the way—
No end to any row—
No indication where crescents go—
No tops to any steeple—

No recognition of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing 'em—
No knowing 'em—

No travellers at all—no locomotion—
No inkling of the way—no motion—
"No go" by land or ocean—
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—

No warmth—no cheerfulness—no healthful ease—
No comfortable feel in any member—

No shade—no shine—no butterflies—no bees—
No fruits—no flowers—no leaves—no birds—
No—vember!

— Thomas Hood

Remember when heartsick and weary;

Sat, 11 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Remember when heartsick and weary;
The sunshine comes after the rain,
Tomorrow is time to be cheery—
Tomorrow we take hope again.

Tomorrow the sun will be brighter
Tomorrow the skies will be fair;
Tomorrow our hearts will be lighter,
We'll cast aside sorrow and care.