The Threshold

Life lies before me, but shut is the door

On all of my childish days.  No more, no more

Shall I in all my years again be free

And careless—happy as I used to be.

So be it, Lord!  I know that all is right;

I would not alter it, or shirk the fight.

Shut then the door!—but leave a little crack

That when I meet a child I may slip back.

-       Barbara Seymour[1]

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[1] Barbara Seymour’s The Threshold was published in the March 1916 issue of Harper’s Magazine.  A diligent search uncovered no other references to her or her poetry.

Remembrance

There are moments in life that are never forgot

Which brighten, and brighten, as time steals away;

They give a new charm to the happiest lot,

And they shine on the gloom of the loneliest day.

These moments are hallowed by smiles and by tears,

The first look of love and the last parting given.

-       Percival[1]

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[1] In a July 27, 1897 article in The Wisconsin Sentinel, John Burton memorializes James Gates Percival:

A man who has left perhaps a more abiding literary fame than almost any other Wisconsin writer is hardly known and remembered by many people of the state.  The man was poet, geologist, musician and linguist, and was by merit a success in all these departments of literature and art.  Brilliant as a boy; spelling and reading by the age of 5; a thoughtful writer at the age of 14; graduated at the head of his class in Yale college at the age of 20; an author of prominence at the age of 25; a friend and associate of Noah Webster at the age of 30; instrumental in preparing the scientific words for the first edition of the Webster Dictionary at the age of 33; at 39 the state geologist of Connecticut, a position which he honored for seven years; and state geologist of Wisconsin from ’54 to ’56, in which position he died in the little town of Hazel Green in the year 1856, at the age of 61 years.  This, in a word, is the record of James Gates Percival.  Upon his plain and modest tomb are engraved these words:

Eminent as a poet

Rarely accomplished as a linguist,

Learned and acute in science

A man without guile

The Old Red Cradle

This song was requested some time ago by a reader

Take me back to the days when the old cradle rocked,

In the sunshine of years that have fled,

To the good old trusty days when the door was never locked,

And we judged our neighbor’s truth by what he said.

I remember when my years I had numbered almost seven,

And the old red cradle stood against the wall,

I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven,

But the old red cradle rocked us all.

Chorus

Rocking, rocking, gently rocking, in time with the tick of the clock on the wall,

One by one the seconds marking, the old red cradle rocked us all.

By its side father paused with a little time to spare,

And the care lines would soften on his brow,

Ah!  ‘Twas but a little while that I knew a father’s care,

But I fancy in my dreams I see him now,--

And if e’er there came a day when my cheeks were flushed

When I did not mind my porridge or my play, and hot,

I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot,

When the old red cradle rocked away.

Chorus

Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters, in it lay,

And it gave me the sweetest rest I’ve known,

But tonight the tears will flow, I let them have their way,

For the passing years are leaving me alone.

By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid,

And again I seem to see her as she smiled,

When the rest were all in bed, ‘twas then she knelt and prayed

By the old red cradle and her child

Chorus

But the cradle long has gone, and the burdens that it bore,

One by one have been gathered to the fold,

But the flock is incomplete for it numbers only four,

With a dear one now left straying in the cold.

Heaven grant again we may in each other’s arms be locked

Where no bitter tears of parting ever fall.

God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked,

For the dear old cradle rocked us all.[1]

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[1] In the February 14, 1917 issue of The New York Times, editor Anne Perrin provides the provenance for this song:

A poem called ‘The Old Red Cradle,’ written by Miss A. J. Granniss and dedicated to her mother, was set to music by J. L. Gilbert and became popular.  It was sung by Maude Beverly and also used by the male quartet in Denman Thompson’s ‘Old Homestead’ company.”

The Vision

A little lane ‘twixt sun and shade

Where dancing shadows “catch me” play;

A little primrose-covered glade,

A little seat beside the way;

A little hand laid soft in mine

Through silence far too sweet for words

A little sigh of peace divine,

And tender songs of mating birds.

A little lull ‘mid shell and steel,

A memory of love and pain.

My heart that clinging hand can feel,

My feet run down that little lane.

-       Ella E. Walters[1]

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[1] Little can be found about Ellen E. Walters. In addition to the above, she wrote the lyrics for the song Three Angels, published in England in 1925, with music by Mabel Down.  (Source: Music Australia - musicaustralia.org) 

Back Home

If I could go back to my home to-night,

Back to the long, low house, when evening light

Just shadowed down to darkness—what would be

My first glad act?  The first thing, I would see

Where mother was—go calling far and near

Through every room, until she answered, “Here!”

Then I would run so fast—I could not wait!

And I would cry: “Has father come? It’s late;

I want you both—I’ve something I must tell.”

(How well do I remember, oh, how well!)

Then father’d come, and after tea, we’d go

Into the quiet room we used to know;

And I would tell them all—the joy, the gain,

Since I had seen them last—the grief, the strain.

And mother’d kiss me, and my father’d smile,

And say: “God’s will is best; just wait a while.”

And both would know—and all things would be right,

If I could go back to my home to-night.

-       Grace Adele Pierce[1]

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[1] In a 1908 biographical sketch, Luther A. Ingersoll wrote: Grace Adele Pierce, a literary woman and lecturer, for six years a resident of Santa Monica, is the daughter of John C. and Marron A. (Pingrey) Pierce, and was born in New York State. She was educated in her native State and in Boston, where she trained for literary work and public speaking. She is an author known on both continents, her poetical work being represented with honor in the Bibliotheque National, Paris. She is the author of two books, The Silver Cord and the Golden Bowl—a volume of poems—and Child Study of the Classics, used in the schools of Boston and introduced as a text-book throughout the state of Massachusetts.

Grace continued to live in California and write; perhaps her most popular volume was a book of poems published in 1920 entitled Come unto Me: Songs of Eternal Life.

Childhood

Blue depths of sky

Where the white clouds pass

Shadows of leaves

On the soft green grass;

Low drowse of bees

In the noon-tide hush;

Laughing of waves

Where the waters rush.

Couple of kids in the noon-tide heat

Watching the turkeys out of the wheat?

Couple o’ thieves

In a cavern dim.

‘Ware of the outlaws

Dick and Jim.

Glory of God

In the sunset’s glare;

Clovery scents

In the warm June air;

Whispers of birds

Sinking soft to rest;

Glory of God

On the river’s breast.

Couple o’ kids by the river’s side

Driving the cows to the pasture wide?

Couple o’ braves

In the prairie glades

Stalking their prey

While the daylight fades.

Reek of the muck

In the alder swamp;

Croak of the frogs

In the pasture damp;

Strawberry’s red

‘Midst the hillside’s green;

Rollicking song

Of a bird unseen;

Couple o’ kids with a berry pail

Hustling to fill it and go and sail?

Couple o’ pirates

Burying gold—

Glamour o’ childhood,

Wealth untold.

-       A. L. McBeath

Richibucto, N. B.

The Threshold

There are times when I grow impatient of our threshold, it is so new, and consequently so expressionless.  Under the green door, wide to admit whatever may come of life, it waits, hospitable and expectant, but it is as yet, unworn….I like to watch, too, people at their doorways….From all the walks and ways of life what knowledge have these folk brought home; word, or look, or gesture may perhaps bring some fragment of their hard-won wisdom to me as I pass….I think….of the significance of the threshold.  To all of us, human, or bird, or beast, it means refuge; it has thus a sanctity that nothing else in the wide world possesses.  It brings the joy of the familiar, the settled, to relieve the haunting sense of endless quest.  That enduring trust in home, one of the deepest things in human nature, is magnificent in this universe of constant flux and devastating change.  “It is more strong than death, being strong as love.”

-       Margaret Sherwood[1]

From “Familiar Ways”[2]

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[1] Margaret Pollock Sherwood was an educator and author.  She was born in Ballston, New York in 1864, the daughter of Thomas and Mary Beattie Sherwood. She graduated from Vassar College in 1886 and began teaching college in 1889. Margaret completed a Ph. D. at Yale in 1898; her dissertation covered the dramatic theory and practice of John Dryden (see footnote 138). Afterward, she became a professor of English Literature at Wellesley College. She was a frequent contributor to magazines, and wrote several books. Margaret did not marry. She died in 1955.  (Source: Who’s Who in America, 1903-1905) 

[2] This book was first printed in 1917, the timeline of Clare’s book has at least reached that point. 

The Old Schoolhouse

By Minnie Reid French

To-day I found a road that led 

To scenes of long ago.

A road down which I often sped

Ere heart and step were slow.

It led me to the schoolhouse door

Unhinged by storm and rain;

And on its threshold worn I stood,

And truant lad, again.

The wind its boist’rous mood had flung

The creaking shutters wide;

The sunbeams with the shadows gray

Played hide-and-seek inside.

The weeds and flowers about the door,

In summer-time array,

Peeped in to see why no one called

The children back from play.

No hum of voices now was heard,

No sound of stern reproof;

The birds were flitting in and out

Beneath the falling roof.

They seemed to know that school was out

And never more would “keep;”

That boys and girls had wandered far—

The master was asleep.

I wondered, as I stood within

The silence and the gloom,

Where they had gone, the merry throng

That once had filled the room.

Where were the gifted and the good,

The dunce, the ne’er-do-well?

What fortune had the long years brought

What changes, who could tell?

And she with whom I first began

That story, all too brief,

Which ended, ere we were aware,

When we had turned the leaf;

I wondered if within her grave,

Were youth and love forgot;

Of all that we had hoped and dreamed,

Was there no fleeting thought?

I turned away, and left the place,

Softly, lest I should break

The slumbers of those early years,

Their saddest echoes wake.

I left it to the birds and flowers,

The shadows and the sun;

And to its memories of these

Whose lessons here are done.

Some Day I’ll Wander Back Again

Some day I’ll wander back again,

To where the old home stands,

Beneath the old tree down the lane

Afar in other lands.

Its humble cot will shelter me

From every care and pain,

And life be sweet as sweet can be

When I get home again.

Some day I’ll wander back again,

To scenes so dear to me,

Where life, sweet infancy’s refrain

Beside a mother’s knee.

To live once more the golden hours

Of joyous, merry play,

No thorns but only sweetest flowers,

There in life’s merry way.

Some day I’ll wander back again,

To hearts so kind and true;

Whose gentle faces still remain

In memory’s cherished view.

No more my wayward feet will roam

Life’s troubled pathway o’er.

But in the light and love of home

I’ll rest me evermore.

-       (Exchange)