BOSTON
(After Bret Harte)

On the south fork of Yuba, in May, fifty-two,
An old cabin stood on the hill,
Where the road to Grass Valley lay clear to the view,
And a ditch that ran down to Buck’s Mill.

It was owned by a party that lately had come
To discover what fate held in store;
He was working for Brigham, and prospecting some,
While the clothes were well cut that he wore.

He had spruced up the cabin, and by it would stay,
For he never could bear a hotel.
He refused to drink whiskey or poker to play,
But was jolly and used the boys well.

In the long winter evenings he started a club,
To discuss the affairs of the day.
He was up in the classics a scholarly cub
And the best of the talkers could lay.

He could sing like a robin, and play on the flute,
And he opened a school, which was free,
Where he taught all the musical fellows to toot,
Or to join in an anthem or glee.

So he soon “held the age” over any young man
Who had ever been known on the bar;
And the boys put him through, when for sheriff he ran,
And his stock now was much above par.

In the spring he was lucky, and struck a rich lead,
And he let all his friends have a share;
It was called the New Boston, for that was his breed,
And the rock that he showed them was rare.

When he called on his partners to put up a mill,
They were anxious to furnish the means;
And the needful, of course, turned into his till
Just as freely as though it was beans.

Then he went to the Bay with his snug little pile
There was seventeen thousand and more
To arrange for a mill of the most approved style,
And to purchase a Sturtevant blower.

But they waited for Boston a year and a day,
And he never was heard of again.
For the lead he had opened was salted with pay,
And he’d played ’em with culture and brain.

THE GREATER FREEDOM

O God of battles, who sustained
Our fathers in the glorious days
When they our priceless freedom gained,
Help us, as loyal sons, to raise
Anew the standard they upbore,
And bear it on to farther heights,
Where freedom seeks for self no more,
But love a life of service lights.

OUR FATHER

Is God our Father? So sublime the thought
We cannot hope its meaning full to grasp,
E’en as the Child the gifts the wise men brought
Could not within his infant fingers clasp.

We speak the words from early childhood taught.
We sometimes fancy that their truth we feel;
But only on life’s upper heights is caught
The vital message that they may reveal.

So on the heights may we be led to dwell,
That nearer God we may more truly know
How great the heritage His love will tell
If we be lifted up from things below.

RESURGAM

The stricken city lifts her head,
With eyes yet dim from flowing tears;
Her heart still throbs with pain unspent,
But hope, triumphant, conquers fears.

With vision calm, she sees her course,
Nor shrinks, though thorny be the way.
Shall human will succumb to fate,
Crushed by the happenings of a day?

The city that we love shall live,
And grow in beauty and in power;
Her loyal sons shall stand erect,
Their chastened courage Heaven’s dower.

And when the story shall be told
Of direful ruin, loss, and dearth,
There shall be said with pride and joy:
“But man survived, and proved his worth.”

SAN FRANCISCO

O “city loved around the world,”
Triumphant over direful fate,
Thy flag of honor never furled,
Proud guardian of the Golden Gate;

Hold thou that standard from the dust
Of lower ends or doubtful gain;
On thy good sword no taint of rust;
On stars and stripes no blot or stain.

Thy loyal sons by thee shall stand,
Thy highest purpose to uphold;
Proclaim the word, o’er all the land,
That truth more precious is than gold.

Let justice never be denied,
Resist the wrong, defend the right;
Where West meets East stand thou in pride
Of noble life, a beacon-light.

THE NEW YEAR

The past is gone beyond recall,
The future kindly veils its face;
Today we live, today is all
We have or need, our day of grace.

The world is God’s, and hence ’tis plain
That only wrong we need to fear;
’Tis ours to live, come joy or pain,
To make more blessed each New Year.

PRODIGALS

We tarry in a foreign land,
With pleasure’s husks elate,
When robe and ring and Father’s hand
At home our coming wait.

DEEP-ROOTED

Fierce Boreas in his wildest glee
Assails in vain the yielding tree
That, rooted deep, gains strength to bear,
And proudly lifts its head in air.

When loss or grief, with sharp distress,
To man brings brunt of storm and stress,
He stands serene who calmly bends
In strength that trust, deep-rooted, lends.

TO HORATIO STEBBINS

The sun still shines, and happy, blithesome birds
Are singing on the swaying boughs in bloom.
My eyes look forth and see no sign of gloom,
No loss casts shadow on the grazing herds;
And yet I bear within a grief that words
Can ne’er express, for in the silent tomb
Is laid the body of my friend, the doom
Of silence on that matchless voice. Now girds
My spirit for the struggle he would praise.
A leader viewless to the mortal eye
Still guides my steps, still calls with clarion cry
To deeds of honor, and my thoughts would raise
To seek the truth and share the love on high.
With loyal heart I’ll follow all my days.

NEW YEAR, 1919

The sifting sand that marks the passing year
In many-colored tints its course has run
Through days with shadows dark, or bright with sun,
But hope has triumphed over doubt and fear,
New radiance flows from stars that grace our flag.
Our fate we ventured, though full dark the night,
And faced the fatuous host who trusted might.
God called, the country’s lovers could not lag,
Serenely trustful, danger grave despite,
Untrained, in love with peace, they dared to fight,
And freed a threatened world from peril dire,
Establishing the majesty of right.
Our loyal hearts still burn with sacred fire,
Our spirits’ wings are plumed for upward flight.

NEW YEAR, 1920

The curtain rises on the all-world stage,
The play is unannounced; no prologue’s word
Gives hint of scene, or voices to be heard;
We may be called with tragedy to rage,
In comedy or farce we may disport,
With feverish melodrama we may thrill,
Or in a pantomimic rôle be still.
We may find fame in field, or grace a court,
Whate’er the play, forthwith its lines will start,
And every soul, in cloister or in mart,
Must act, and do his best from day to day
So says the prompter to the human heart.
“The play’s the thing,” might Shakespear’s Hamlet say.
“The thing,” to us, is playing well our part.