INSPII(ATION 



' A PAGE OF FUGITIVE VERSE 



[Anyone who has had a realizing sense of the inspiration and help that can come to our 

 toil-driven, matter-of-fact lives from the lines of some beautiful poem, can be a regular 

 contributor to this page. Is there any poem or verse which is especially dear to you? 

 .Copy it and send it to the editor, and he will try to find a place for it. Always make an 

 accurate copy, and do not expect what you send to appear at once. Original verses will 

 also be considered and paid for, if available for publication.] 



Lovers Messenger 



BY LOT C. BISHOP. 



What shall I send my lady fair. 

 That may, a messenger, declare 

 My love, and at the same time be 

 Fit emblem of her purity? 



A pure white rose. 



Go, then, sweet flower; ambassador 

 From me to her. There's nothing more 

 That I can say. Your fragrance rare 

 Must be to her a sign you bear — 



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Eternal love. 



The Trysting 



BY CORA A. MATSON BOLSON. 



A moment stayed her hast'ing feet. 



To pull a daisy for her hair; 

 From blossomed clover all a-sweet 



A honeyed perfume filled the air. 



As swiftly on the maiden came 

 To my green sheltered canopy. 



Above me winged a flitting flame; 

 I watched it idly as I lay. 



Then sudden — on the silence broke 



A burst of melody above; 

 It was the oriole's master stroke. 



To voice the song of mated love. 



An answer in her eyes I heard, 



I clasped her beating breast to mine; 

 , So warm the thrill my passion stirred, 

 It dashed her cheeks with crimson wine. 

 ® 



Old Doorstones 



BY FRANK WALCOTT HUTT. 



Sorrows and joys have come and gone. 

 In long processions of the past. 



The dreams of eve, the praise of dawn. 

 Like flitting ghosts have followed fast. 



Across the doorstones, faring on, 



Sorrows and joys have come and gone. 



Could these recount the years, and all. 

 What would they tell of storm and sun, 



Of wedding-day and funeral. 



Of treasures lost and treasures won? 



What might their silences recall, 



Could they recount the years and all? 



Where, as a child, an old man played. 

 The smooth-worn doorstones keep the way. 



What sacrilege shall dare invade 

 The sanctum of his yesterday? 



Peace lingers in this quiet shade, 



Where, as a child, an old man played. 



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Whenever a Little Child Is Bom 



Whenever a little child is born. 

 All night a soft wind rocks the corn; 

 One more buttercup wakes to the morn, 

 Somewhere, somewhere. 



One more rosebud shy will unfold, 

 One more grass blade push through the mold. 

 One more bird song the air will hold, 

 Somewhere, somewhere. 



— Agnes Carter Mason. 



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Tomorrow Is Another Day 



BY ACLESA B. CANFIELD. 



When my plans will go all crooked. 



And I cannot make things pay; 

 When I feel as "blue's a whetstone" 



'Cause my friends are all away, 

 Then I think of an old proverb 



I have heard my neighbor say, 

 And I whistle as I think it — 



"Tomorrow is another day." 



When I find the horse I purchase 



Worth not half the price I pay; 

 When the girl I've loved so fondly 



With my rival runs away. 

 Then I smile at fate's ill treatment— 



Up and down is just her way — 

 And I whistle and remember. 



"Tomorrow is another day." 



Tho' I am an old bachelor 



(As my saucy nephews say), 

 And my truthful mirror tells me 



That my hair is growing gray, 

 Yet for Age and that One Other 



Whose behest none may gainsay, 

 I shall have my answer ready — 



"Tomorrow is another day." 



