An “Off” Time

When the boat is in the water and the fish are in the swim;

When the “bait” is in the hamper an’ you’re feelin’ right in trim;

When the atmosphere is “fishy”, an’ conditions they are right,

Thet is when, ez I hev found it, you can’t get a cursed bite.

c. Aug. 31, 1899

When The Cows Come Home

At sundown, when the day has fled,

      The sun has found the west,

And homeward come the bossy cows,

      I like that hour the best.

To see them crowding, pushing home,

      To hear the clanging bell,

To know that they are home again,

      O yes, I like it well!

To see them sheltered for the night

      To know they all are nigh;

I like to see my cows come home,

      Beef is so awfully high.

Aug. 31, 1904

“Waiting at the Church”

We’ve scanned the skies so much of late

        Folks asked us did we want ‘em;

Although it made us very wroth

        We did not choose to taunt ‘em.

And still we keep our eyes on high

        No chide or chaff can daunt ‘em;

We’re waiting patiently to see

        A monoplane from Squantum.

Aug. 31, ‘10

The Latest

“O, hubby may I take a trip

        Abroad another year?”

The good wife sweetly whispered in

        Her lord and master’s ear.

He looked her in the eye and said

        In manner most severe:

“You may if you will promise me

        You will not smuggle, dear.”

Aug. 31, ‘10

Homeward Bound

Alas the bathing suit is packed!

        The bathers seem to mind it;

We hope when Rose unpacks her trunk

        She’ll have no job to find it.

c. Aug. 31, 1910

A Joy Hunter

Now comes the glory time of year

        The red and yellow fall;

When “Bob White” o’er the barren field

        Sends forth his cheery call.

When nuts are dropping to the ground

        And squirrels by the score

Are darting here and there to find

        Their coming winter’s store.

I hear the merry partridge drum

        His well known autumn tune;

And ducks are herding from the chill

        Within some warm lagoon.

This is the time when game abounds

        Upon the lake or hill,

And hearing “Bob White’s” cheery call

        Just sets my heart a-thrill.

I like to take my gun and shells,

        My game bag o’er my back,

And wander daily, all alone,

        The woodlands’ voiceless track!

I like to steal upon the duck

        And watch it dive and play;

I like to hear the squirrel scold

        And see him run away.

I like to take my gun along

        For old-times sake, that’s all

I wouldn’t shoot a living thing,

        Nor still the “Bob White’s” call.

My game slung across my back?

        Most useful, if you please;

I bring it homeward full of nuts

        From off the kindly trees.

Aug. 31, 1910

The Poet and Seer

The poet is a seer, he sees

      What others do not see;

The future is an open book

      To such a one as he.

He sees beyond the inky night,

      Beyond the twinkling stars;

The mysteries of all the spheres

      To him let down their bars.

What joy to be a poet then,

      To see the great unseen;

To hear the voices of the night

      Tell softly where they’ve been.

What joy to talk with moon and star,

      Then seize the waiting pen

And pour one’s soul out through the ink

      To stir the hearts of men!

The blacksmith and the plumber see

      Not what the poet sees;

Except when it is transcribed

      In classic lines like these.

The poet sees the great unseen,

      But misses food and cash;

The blacksmith and the plumber see

      The money and the hash.

Aug. 31, ‘09

The City Man

He’s been to lake and forest depth

      And grown a coat of tan;

He’s whooped and hollered and he’s been

      A reg’lar Indian.

Old clothes, heart free, life’s been a joke,

      Forgetting ways and men;

But when he nears the town he looks

      The city man again.

One day a romping country boy

      Anear to nature’s heart;

Forgetting, in the simple life,

      The cunning of the mart.

Next day he’s breaking camp and off

      To busy hives of men;

And stepping from the train becomes

      The city man again.

Aug. 31, 09

R There!

O, life is worth living

      And fair once again;

The big sun is shining,

      And dried up the rain.

Adieu to dyspepsia

      And lowering mood;

For this is September

      And oysters are good.

Aug. 31, ‘09

A Memory

A wee one came one summer’s morn,

     Just at the break of day;

A new world ope’d, when it was born,

     But ah! it could not stay.

And she, she thought it were a dream,

     That it should taken be;

O, no; she could not make it seem,

     A cold reality.

But when the wee one ceased to cry,

     And back to Heaven flew,

While its dear face grew cold close by,

     She knew, poor thing, she knew.

And so these things must come and go,

     By Heaven rightly planned;

But tho’ we’re taught, “‘twere better so,”

     It’s hard to understand.

Aug. 31, ‘94

  Joseph and Emma Cone’s first two children died in infancy.

Forward March

Don’t wait for someone to say

“Forward March” to you every day;

Strike out when you see the morn light,

And keep at it and win the fight.

Don’t wait for someone to say

“Forward March” to you every day.

c. Aug. 30, 1906

The Cider Mill

The windfalls strew the orchard ground,

      And yonder ‘neath the hill

Behold the lively scenes within

      The good, old cider mill.

It’s sunken roof, its battered sides,

      Tho’ rough and tumble-down,

Have ever held a potent charm

      For every boy in town.

The slowly grinding cogs, the horse

      Who walks an endless round,

The “drip-drip” of the straw-bound cheese,

      The tub upon the ground.

The red-cheeked farmer, and anear

      The golden cider pile;

And O, the joy to take a straw

      And linger there awhile!

Aug. 30, 1904

The Helpless Clam

The fishes they can swim away,

      The lobster he can crawl,

But do you know the mournful clam

      Has no defense at all.

The bird can fly, the cat can scratch,

      The squirrel has his tree;

But O the clam, the mournful clam,

      Is helpless as can be.

He has to stay right in the sand

      And wait the cruel fate

That lifts him from his resting place

      To grace the dinner plate.

O cruel fate that made the fish

      With tail and fins I say,

And gave the poor and helpless clam

      No legs to run away!

Aug. 30, 1904

Worry Wise

Don’t worry o’er the weather,

        If worry boy, you must;

The weather is,

        Run by the weather trust.

Your worry will not change it,

        ‘Twill shine or rain the same;

So take it as they give it,

        And quit the worry game.

Don’t worry o’er the heather

        That warm the distant isle;

They’ve lived for eons without you,

        They’ll live a longer while.

It is our sly opinion

        They’re happier as they be

Without the lure of riches,

        Than either you or me.

Don’t worry o’er the future,

        The scarcity of coal;

Your worry won’t affect it

        So save your harried soul.

The future generations,

        It’s up to them to dig;

If there’s a mining shortage

        You cannot make it big.

If you are bound to worry

        Make worry worth your while;

Work out an easy method

        To make a sad maw smile.

If you can help a brother

        By worry, on his way,

Then worry, worry, worry,

        And worry ev’ry day!

Aug. 30, ‘10

A Thoughtful Husband

I’m lonely since you went away,

        Our home is blurring dull,

The house seems like an empty farm,

        Except the sink is full.

I roam the drear’, deserted rooms

        And speak your name in vain;

The plants are even withered now,

        Because we’ve had no rain.

I leave the office as of yore

        And take the self same car;

I try to spend the evenings in,

        Alas! They dreary are.

And then I think how lonely too

        You must be way off there,

And so I come back into town

        Where all is light and fair.

I know you’ll want to hear about

        The shows we’re having here

When you get back, and so to please

        I am going dear.

I take one in most every night,

        This sacrifice I make;

‘Tis not because I want to go,

        But simply for your sake.

Aug. 29, ‘10

Love Commands

Why do I choose the path she walks,

     When twilight steals upon the dying day?

Ah, well, love knows and love commands,

     I cannot keep away.

Why do I guard her cottage fair

     At night? Pass and repass till day?

Ah, well, love knows and love commands,

     I cannot keep away.

How will it end. God only knows,

     Love but commands, and I obey;

‘Tis vain, I know – I know – but I –

     I cannot keep away!

August 29, 1895

Pub. in The

Camb. Chronicle,

  Jan. 18, ‘96

The Sweet Old Dream

There’s nothing so sweet as the sweet old dream,

     The dream that never dies;

The sweet old dream of the glance and the gleam

     Of a pair of soft brown eyes.

There are dreams and dreams of many a kind,

     Dreams earthly and above;

But the dream that stays through the long, long days,

     Is the dream of a sweet old love.

And I dream and dream of the days agone,

     I live in dreams to-day;

I dream of a face of winsome grace,

     That chases dull care away.

O, dream if you wish of things to come,

     Of money, fame or bliss;

But the dreams I prize are of oft brown eyes,

     And of lips I used to kiss.

 Aug. 29, 1895

Pub. in “To Date”,

Early Nov. number,

   Chicago