VERSE OLD AND NEW

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 12, 23 March 1907, Page 26

VERSE OLD AND NEW

Teacher's Pet.

'At school lie rather eoniiti'fl some, 'Phi Ferdinand Alonzo Plum; •His desk was nt the very, front, And there he’d do his little stunt, And work his sums, and be so good We Sahl he fed on angel’s food. Wtten no one else eould understand, Or answer give, up went his baud; And somehow, too, he always knew Who plaeed a taek, or spitballs blew. And then when teaeher asked, he say: •’l'lease. that was William Arthur Day!’ Then if 1 In ked the little brat, " Bed tell and get me linked for that. He kept n little sponge and rag To eh an his slate, and as for tag He eal’ed it ■ brutal"—so he'd stay And study when we went to play. And til) Hie ink-wells up, and do A lot of things for teacher, too— At school lie rather counted some, Pid-Ferdinand Alonzo Plum. ] met Alonzo Plum to-day. When thirty years had passed away Since we were scbooiinates up in Maine. 1 didn't know, though, again; He’d changed a bit. and lost his hair, And rather looked the worse for wear. But he knew me and wrung my hand, And wept in speaking of the "grand Obi buyli 1 days so far away,” And spoke of how we used to play Together, and what friends we were, And said that he was proud—yes, sir! To think he'd helped me get my sums, ■And shared his lunch down to the crumbs. This seemed to open up the way To even up at this late day, So seeking out a -restaurant, 1 told him. "Order what you want!” And waited, 100. till he got through, Which om-e 1 feared he’d never do. Ami then when on the street again. He touched me for a loan of ton— Al school he rather counted some, Did Ferdinand Alonzo Plum. — WII.I.IAM WAI.I.At'E WHITEI.OCK. © © ©

El earing’s Over—A Stockman’s Lament.

When the last bale’s on and the ropes are twitched, . And the team set into their chains; hhtii Hie lender looks In a gallant way ot t over the wellTgrasSed plains, With a year's monotonous work ahead, White the shade Is scant, and the soil Is Ami the* silent land in the heat is dea.d, We turn again to the changeless rim; Siu tiling’s over, shearing's done. Tliev have rolled their swags, they are far ami wide. Hv a hundred varied ways The' shearers head for the harvest hinds, And the pleasure of easier days, Whole Hie fruit is ripe ami the shady trees lin.p li sHns gifts oh their nerveless knees, t'e they sit and yarn in their careless ease, ) Ami we’r We turn to Ihe changeless run; :. Shearing's over, shearing's done. ; tj’J-ere are girls to woo, there are wives to I Thine are bairns to take on the knee. Ai.d a thousand joys that are theirs to know. As' tiiev plan of things to be, ■ As Un v talk ahead, and their fancies range t't’er tile pleasant, paths that are full of change. Where all . is new, yet where nought Is , strange. Ajid we? We turn to the changeless run. - ' siie.iring's over, shearing's done. We. think of Ike dreary days tn..pc. Hi the thitst of the endless plain, Ol tie sheep to drive ami the wires to mend; ■ Era shearing eonies again. Ami we feel that our life is dull ami stale Wit-li the dreariness of a twice-told tale; ' ’And < nr hopes for the future almost fail As we turn again to the changeless run; ■ ’ .Shearing's over, shearing's done. < BY W. M. FI.EMINC. : ©© © 7

A Foor Man's Prayer. 1 3

Froh < t m<», Lord, from these, Thy • saints. The sam-tinionions few: O, sax e me from theirclutches When my mortgages come due. <>. lend me not Into the’r hands, , Tlwse brethren. long and pale. ,V\ In- tails this earth "A Vale of Tears/’ ♦And promptly sebte the “Vale.”) O. put me not into their poxver, '•s These 100 nm-omimm good. JVliu tea<h i;s what we shouldn’t do 1 And preach us what we should. Tlnse saints who Hquepxe’a shilling And wear cheap aureoles; ,WI«.» take our eldidren's bread apd then Attempt to save our souls.. Give me instead a human man. With some few human status ' • 'that show he has the common blood <tf manhood In Ids veins. And heart that overflows sometimes To overthrow constraints; ’ Hut in my need. protect me. Lord, From these, Thy hutVgry RMntw.

EMANUEL ELAS.

How He Caught the 8.15.

On retiring in the evening, as the clocls t-hinicd out eleven, lie remarked, in languid accents, "Call me, please, at half-past seven; I’ve been late for several mornings, but to-morrow, mind, I mean To catch that early city train—you know, the 8.15.” They called him in the morning, when the sun had risen high; He murmured, “Wha’ yon want? Shut up! Oh, ha If-pa st seven—ail ri’; —- J’ll be down in half a jiffy! Then he rubbed his drowsy pate, Growled softly, thumped the pillow, and sb*pt on till half-past eight. When the clock was pointing grimly, with the bands at five to nine, lie bounded madly down the stairs in boots devoid of shine; His collar stud was missing, his tie was round his ear, And his wild demands for “breakfast?” made the household quake with fear. His coffee was at boiling point—h<» looked for milk in vain; HC couldn’t find his hat, his gloves—and who had grabbed his cane? One muttered word beneath his breath, one frantic rush, and then—He just got in the smoker of the twentyfive to ten. © © ©

Im Winter.

Sad is your voice. O Winter Wind, ■When all the woods are white and sere . • • Sweet are the thoughts you leave behind; Where laden brambles trailing blind The little paths in Summer clear— Sad is your voice, O Winter Wind! Yon wake sad music in the mind — Amt yet . . . ’tis sweet to feel you near; Sweet are the thoughts you leave behind— For Reverie is now relined By Peace, and knows no common fear; Sad is your voice, O Winter Wind I Earth to her snowy sleep’s resigned— Iler tranquil face* is strangely dear; Sad is your voice, O Winter Wind . . . . Sweet are the thoughts you leave behind. By ELSIE HIGGINBOTHAM. © © ©

When I Get Time.

When I get time1 know wiiat I shall do: I’ll cut the leaves of all my books, And read them through and through. When I get time— I’ll write some letters then That 1 have owed for weeks and weeks To many, many men. When I get time—I’ll pay those calls I owe, And with those bills, those countless bills, I will not be so slow. When I get time—--I’ll regulate my life In such a way that I may get Acquainted with my wife. When I get time - • Oh, glorious- dream of bliss! A month, a year, ten years from now— But I can’t finish this — J have no time! © © ©

The Clown’s Prayer.

Lord, I am poor, I have no gift Meet for Thy shrine; My life is spent in joke and jv«t, Ho empty. vain, e’en at its best, ■ This life of mine. But. Lord, beneath my mirthful face . J hide a tear. - - Ami when the crowd laugh at the fair They seem to gibe at my despair and mock my fear. Lord, 1 am poor save in this wise: A chl’.d have I, And as I joke the Ixest 1 may, . Hr, uncomplaining, fades away And soon must dlr. Lord, Thou hast many in Thy home I only one; Think, Lord, a jester’s life is sad, Change not !‘he has” into “he had,”— Grant me my eon. WALTER E. GROGAN. © © ©

To-day

Liven of some great men remind us That we will. If we nre wise, lA'ave our modesty behind us, Ami gel out and advertise.