California Agriculturist and Live Stock Journal. 



Only a Farmer's Daughter." 



X^VHE'S only a farmer's daughter," 

 '^x A etylieh lady B:iiJ, 



ff With a Bcorufal glance of her handsome eyo 

 > And a toes of her haughty head. 



She was frilled and flounced and fiirbelowed 



In the very latest style ; 

 Hur head was a wonder of crimps and curie. 



And her train something lues than a mile, 



Her hands, that sparkled with many a ring, 



Were shapely and fair to view ; 

 As they wi'll mij^iht be, for no useful work 



Were they ever allowed to do. 



To hear her talk of the " lower class," 



Of their sins against propriety, 

 Of " ht-T family," and of " country girls," 



And her horror of *' mixed society," 



One would think that among her ancestry 



She numbt^red at least an Earl. 

 (Her father was once a carpuntc-r. 



And her mother a factory girl. > 



They say she is brilliant and beautiful ; 



I will not their words dt-ny ; 

 But ah! the farmer's daughter 



Is fairer, by far, to my eye. 



She is not in the height of fashion. 



But is vi;ry becomingly dresHed, 

 With flounces enough tor comfort, 



And they look as if made of the best. 



Mirth and innocent happiness 



Out of her blue eyes shiut: ; 

 Her hair is untortured by crimps and curls. 



And she wears it by right divine. 



No mother toils in the kitchen for her. 



While she on the sofa loils, 

 Novel in hand, dressed in her best, 



Keceiving her morning calls. 



A share in the heat and burden of life 



She willingly, cheerfully takes. 

 And duty and love, in that hapi>y home, 



A pleasure of labor makes. 



And though you may smile at this curious fact, 



I have seen her with hoe in her hand, 

 While she planted the corn, or waged war on the 

 weeds, 



When man's help was scarce in the laud. 



And her flowers— well, next summer you'll see them 

 yourself, 



As you ride past the farm on the prairie, 

 And mark the home, covered witli roses and vines, 



The work of this Martha or Mary. 



And I'm sure you will say, spite the verdict of those 



Who live out in fashion's gay whirl, 

 That " only a farmer's daughter " means 



Only a sensible girl 1 



Under the Daisies. 



It is strange what a great deal of trouble wo take, 

 What eacrilice most of us willingly make. 

 How the lips will smile though the heart may ache. 

 And we bend to the ways of the world, for the sake 



Of its poor and scanty praises. 

 And time run. on with such pitiless flow, 

 That our lives are wasted before we know 

 What work to finish before we go 



To our long rest under the daisies. 



And too often we fall in a useless fight. 

 For wrong is so much in the place of right. 

 And the end is so far beyond our sight, 

 'Tie as when one starts on a chase by night, 



An unknown shade pursuing. 

 Even BO do we see, when our race is run, 

 That of all we have striven for, little is won. 

 And of all the work our strength has done, 



How little was worth the doing. 



So most of us travel with very poor speed, 

 Failing in thought wh^re we conquer in deed. 

 Least brave in the hour of greatest need, 

 And making a middle that few may read 



Of our life's iutricate maze .. 

 Such a labyrinth of right and wrong, 

 Ik it strange that a heart once brave and strong 

 Should falter at last and most earnestly long 



For a calm sleep under the daisies. 



But if one poor troubled heart can say, 



*' His kindness softened my life's rough way," 



And the tears fall over our lifeless clay, 



We shall stand up in memory in brighter array 



Thiin if all earth ring with ()nr praises. 

 For tile giiod we have done shall never fade, 

 'J hough the work be wrought and the wages paid. 

 And the wearied frame of the laborer laid 



All peacefully under the daisies. 



What Is His Creed? 



Ho loft a load of anthracite 



In front of n pnur woman's door. 

 When the deep auow, frozen and white, 

 Wrapped street, and square, mountain and moor. 

 That WHS hiH deed- 

 He did it well. 

 *• Wliat was his creed ?" 

 I cannot tell, 



Blessed " in his basket and In his store," 



In sitting down and rising up ; 

 When more he got he gave the more, 

 Withholding not the crust and cupi 

 He took the lead 



In each good task, 

 "What Was his creed?" 

 I did not ask. 



His charity was like the snow. 



Soft, white, and silent in its fall ; 

 Kot like the noisy winds that blow 

 From ahiv-iring trees the leaves— a pall 

 For flower and weed 



Drooping below. 

 •' What was his creed?" 

 The poor may know. 



He had great faith in loaves of bread 

 For hungi-y [leople, young and tdd. 

 And bopc-iuKpired, kind words he said 

 To those he sheltered from the cold. 

 For we must feed. 

 As well as pray. 

 " What was his creed?" 

 I cannot say. 



In words he did not put his trust. 



His faith in words he never writ ; 

 He loved to share his cup and crust 

 With all mankind who needed it. 

 In time of need 



A friend was he. 

 •* What was his creed?" 

 He.told not me. 



He pnt his trust in heaven, and he 



Worked well with hand and head; 

 And what he gave in charity 

 Sweetened his daily bread. 

 Let us take heed. 

 For life is brief. 

 What was his creed? 

 What his belief? 



Tve Been Thinking. 



I've been thinking, I've been thinking. 

 What a glorious world were this. 



Did folks mind their business mora 

 And mind their neighbors' less I 



For instance you and I, my friend, 



,,Are sadly prone to talk 



Of matters that concern us not. 

 And others' follies mock. 



I've been thinking, if we'd begin 



To mind our own affairs. 

 That possibly our neighbors might 



Contrive to manage theirs. 

 We have faults enough at home to mend. 



It may be so with others ; 

 It would be strange if it were not. 



Since all mankind are brothers. 



Oh, would that we had charity 



For every man and woman I 

 Forgiveness is the mark of those 



Who think, " to err in human." 

 Then let us banish jealousy, 



Let's lift our fallen brother. 

 And as we journey down life's road. 



Do good to one another. 



Souls, not Stations. 



Who shall judge a man from manners? 



Who shall know him by his dress? 

 Paupers m.ay be fit for princes, 



I'rinces tit for something less. 

 CrumpUd shirt and dirty jacket 



M)iy bi-chitlie. tht^ golden ore 

 Of thedfcprst thdughtsand feelings; 



Satin \e.-it could do no more. 



There are springs of crystal necrar 



Ever swelling out of stone ; 

 There are purple buds and golden. 



Hidden, crushed and overgrown. 

 God, who counts by souls, not dresses, 



L'»ves and prospers y^iu and me. 

 While he values thrones— the highest — 



But as pebbles in tne sea. 



Man. upraised above his fellows, 



Oft forgets his fellow then : 

 Musters, rulers. lords, remember. 



That your meanest hands are men I 

 Men by labor, men by feeling, 



Men by thought and men by fame. 

 Claiming equal rights to sunshine, 



In a man's ennobled name. 



There are foam-embroidered oceans ; 



There are little weed-clad rills ; 

 There are little inch-high saplings ; 



There are cedars of the hills; 

 But God, who counts by souls, not stations. 



Loves and prospers you and mo, 

 For to him all vain distinctions, 

 Are as pebbles in the sea. 



Toiling hands alone are builders 



Of a nation's Wealth and fame ; 

 Titled latinees is pensioned. 



Fed and fattened on the- same. 

 By the sweat of other's foreheads, 



Living only to rejoice, 

 While the pnor man's outraged freedom 



Vainly lijftcth up its voice. 



But truth and justice are eternal, 



Burn with loveliness and light. 

 And fiunsst's wrongs will never prosper 



While there is a sunny right. 

 And G(^, whose world- heard voice is singlag 



Boundless love to you and me. 

 Will sink oppression with its titles. 



As the pebbles in the st-a. 



Wishing and Having. 



BY B. H. STODDABT. 



If to wish and to have were one, my dear, 



Vou wuukl be sitting now. 

 With not a care in your trnrler lieart, 



Nut a wrinkle upon your brow : 

 The clock of time would go back with you. 



All the years you have been my wife, 

 Till its golden hands ha*l pointed out 



The happies^hour of your life. 

 I would stop tnem at that immortal boor; 



The clock should no long.-r run. 

 You could not t>e sad, and sick, and old. 



If to wish and to have were one. 



You are not here in the winter, ray love. 



The snow is not whirling down ; 

 You are in the heart of the summer woods. 



In your dear old seaside town. 

 A patter of little feet in the leaves, 



A beautiful boy at your side- 

 He is gathering flowers in the shady nooks — . 



It was but a dream that he died I 

 Keep hold of his liands and sing to him. 



No mother under the sun 

 Has such a seraphi« child as yours. 



If to Wish and to have are one. 



Methinks I am with you there, dear wife, 



In that old house by the saa ; 

 I have flown to you as the bluebird flies 



To his mate in the poplar tree. 

 A sailor's hammock banes at the door. 



You swing in it, hook in hand ; 

 A boat is standing in for the beach. 



Its keel now grates the sand; 

 Your brothei-s are coming— two manly men. 



Whose livi-s have only begun— 

 Their days will be long in the land, dear heart. 



If to wish and to have are one. 



If to wish and to have were one, Ah, me f 



I would not be old and poor. 

 But a young and jirosperous gentleman, 



With never a dun at the door ; 

 There would be no past to bewail, my love, 



Thexe would be no future to dread ; 

 Your brothers would be live men again. 



And my boy would not be dead. 

 Perhaps it will all come right at last. 



It may be when all is done, 

 We shall be together in some good world, 



Where to wish and to have are one. 



Why? 



BY HART L. ariTEB. 



Why came the rose ? Because the sun, in shining, 

 Found in the mold si'iue atoms rare and fine. 



And stooping, drew and warmed them into growing 

 Dust, with the spirit's mystic countersign. 



What made the perfume ? All his wondrous kisses 



Fell on the sweet, red mouth, till, lost to sight, 

 The love l>ecBme too exquisite, and vanished 

 Into a v-iewless rapture of the night. 



VThy did the rose die? Ah, why ask the question? 



-There is a time to love: a time to give; 

 She perished gladly, folding close the secret 



Wherein is garnered what it is to live. 



— [Scribner for February. 



Do Something. 



If the world seems cold to you. 



Kindle fires to warm it. 

 Let their comfort hide from you 



Winters that deform it. 

 Hearts as frozen as your own 



To that radiance gather ; 

 You will soon forget to moan— 



" Ah, the cheerless weather ! 



If the world's a " vale of tears," 



Smile till rainbows span it ; 

 Breathe the love that life endears, 



Clear from clouds to fan it. 

 Of your gladness lend a gleam 



I"*nto souls thtjt shiver ; 

 Show them how dark sorrow's stream 



Blends with hope's bright river. 



