THE IRRIGATION AGE. 



251 



And how mother rudely shattered that 



castle in the air, 

 As she sobbed, "Whatever happens, I'll 



keep your empty chair." 



A score of years have flitted to the limbos 



of the past: 

 I stand with courage vanished, where all 



wand'rers stand at last, 

 At the threshold of the homestead, there, 



with a long-drawn sigh, 

 Praying for a word of counsel on the way 



that sinners die; 

 Pleading just for food and shelter, and a 



mother's loving kiss, 

 And a father's grip of friendship, for a 



hope that's gone amiss 

 Pleading from a heart that's welling in a 



breast o'ern'lled with strife, 

 For love to shed its lustre on the shadow 



of a life. 



Shall I enter? Can I enter? with failure 



in my pack, 

 And vainly try to turn the hands of life's 



old timepiece back, 



To the happy days of childhood, to boy- 

 hood's magic spell 

 With the linnets in the orchard, watching 



windfalls as they fell; 

 With little brother Willie, riding every 



day to school 

 Down the daisy-dotted meadow, astride 



our lop-eared mule; 

 With all the other children romping in our 



wildtime play, 

 With the little bed to go to when daylight 



stole away? 



I know they'd gladly greet me, if I'd only 



just walk in, 

 And surprise them with my presence. 



Alas, I can't begin 

 To muster up the grit I had, for all my 



courage went 

 With the vision of the future when I'd be 



president, 

 But 0, mother! mother!! mother!!! do come 



and ope the door, 



Hold out your arms to take me 10 the 



happy days of yore, 

 Help lay aside the burden of my trouble 



and my pain 

 That my bent and sunken shoulders can 



never bear again! 



When the sun marks noon of lifetime, 



when once the morning's done, 

 And from dawn we turn relustant to face 



the setting sun, 

 We grow more worldly, somehow, for our 



hearts turn callous-like, 

 And don't seem much to notice, then, the 



stumps along the pike; 

 And, once the journey's started, might as 



well trudge on ahead 

 So I'll keep ever moving and not bring to 



life the dead, 

 Nor the hopes that peaceful slumber, nor 



break the mystic air 

 Of the memories bright that linger around 



the empty chair. 



Robert Mackay in Success. 



THE MAN BEHIND THE BAR. 



The man behind the gun may have a nerve 



that's No. 1, 

 He may rush, without a tremor, on the 



foe, 

 But the danger he must face is only as the 



merest fun 



Compared with other terrors here below. 

 When the women get their hatchets and 



set out 



To scatter costly glassware all about 

 When the wrought-up Mrs. Nations madly 



go to jam and jar 

 When they hammer down the windows 



and the doors, 

 When they spill the firewater on the 



floors, 

 It is worse than common warfare for the 



man behind the bar, 

 ind he's lucky to escape without a scar 



It may be a thrilling moment for the man 

 behind the gun 



