Winter Apples

I would sing of winter apples,

     Now the trees are bare and cold,

Now Jack Frost has stripped the forests

     Of their raiment red and gold.

Lonesome now the orchard monarchs,

     Bending to the wintry blast;

Moaning for their swaying apples,

     Which are gathered in at last.

I would sing of winter apples,

     In the cellar warm and snug;

Apples poured in dusty barrels,

     Or, mayhap. the old stone jug.

Apples stacked in bins or barrels,

     Apples crimson, green and gold,

For the party, or the “parin’”,

     When the nights are long and cold.

I would sing of winter apples –

     As the treasure of the farm;

Sing of nights around the fireplace,

     Of the “wishing’s” mystic charm.

Apples russet, apples yellow,

     Apples blushing as a bride;

I would sing of winter apples,

     Jewels of the countryside!

Oct. 30, 1916

Over Her Glass

O, Hilda is fair as the blush of the morn,

     Her lips are as red as red wine;

And the light in her eyes when she’s filled with surprise,

     Is a gleam that approaches divine.

I like to watch Hilda when sipping her tea,

     She’s such a bright, cheerisome lass;

I like her the best when she’s drinking with zest

     And looks at me over her glass.

Her eyes are like stars that dance in the night,

     And look through the veil of my soul;

They give me a thrill, and she knows that they will,

     And a hunger I cannot control.

She sits and she sips all unconscious ‘twould seem,

     Of the harm she is causing, alas!

All the blood in my veins seems to deluge my brains

     When she looks at me over her glass.

O, Hilda is young and exceedingly fair,

     And knows not a care of the day;

And whenever we dine her laughter, like wine,

     Seems to drive all my burdens away.

I like her wherever she chances to be,

     She’s a winsome and lovable lass,

But I like her the best, when her fair lips are prest

     And she looks at me over her glass.

    

Oct. 29, ‘10

Psalm of Speed

Lives of rich men oft remind us

     We can make our lives likewise,

And, departing, leave behind us

     Dust clouds in the poor man’s eyes.

c. Oct. 29, 1910

The Song That Killed

“You are the star

     That guides my way;”

You lead me far

     Both night and day.

I follow you

     Where’er you go;

Beyond the blue,

     Across the snow.

O, distant star!

     Draw near this spot;

You are so far

     You hear me not.

Won’t you delay,

     Take me along,

Or let me pay,

     My way in song.

O, star, no more

     I see your light;

The heavens o’er

     Are dark as night.

In vain I call

     In vain I cling;

Why did you fall

     When I would sing?

    

c. Oct. 29, ‘09

A Power for Good

The man who says the world is wrong,

An’ ruther weep than hev a song,

An’ says in tones uv misery,

‘Tain’t nothin’ like it uster be,

An’ says he wouldn’t trust no more

His life-long neighbor lives next door,

An’ says they ain’t no use to try

To git ahead, he’d ruther die,

An’ home an’ friends ain’t wuth a rap –

What would you think uv sech a chap?

Now don’t git in a state like this,

Becuz you’re surely goin’ to miss

An’ awful lot uv fun each day,

Ez surely ez you live that way.

This picture isn’t overdrew,

They’s jest sech folks beside o’ you;

An’ what they need is daily food

Uv humor in their solitude.

Don’t let yourself git right down blue,

An’ think all things have gone askew;

Don’t b’lieve the worst uv feller man,

But b’lieve the very best you can.

Bring friendliness into the heart

Thet tries to live from you apart,

An’ you will be a power fur good

All threw your blessed neighborhood.

Oct. 29, ‘09

Plea of the Singer

I do not ask for wealth or fame,

     Nor honored place amongst the wise;

I do not ask to have my name

     Cut into stone for staring eyes.

I do not care old worlds to view

     Nor go where go the merry throngs;

I’d like to sit sweetheart with you,

     And listen while you sing my songs.

I do not seek to stir the hearts

     Of multitudes as men are want;

I do not wish to ply my arts

     Or put up any showy front.

All I would ask is some remote,

     Sequestered nook beyond the throngs

Where I into your face could look

     The while you sang my humble songs.

Oct. 29, ‘09

Sunday

          Oct. 31, ‘09

Frosty Mornin’s

O I like these frosty mornin’s

     When it’s lyin’ white an’ thick

On the walls an’ tumbled fences

     An’ the banks uv Lizzard Crick.

Puts a spring in heel an’ elbow,

     An’ a lustre in the eye,

An' a feller feels like goin’

     Where the game an’ fishes lie.

O I like these frosty mornin’s,

     When the air is keen an’ still,

An’ the cider’s drippin’ freely

     Over there in Martin’s mill.

June is fine an’ full uv promise,

     With its roses red an’ thick,

But I like beyond all others

     Frosty mornin’s on the Crick.

Oct. 28, 1903

The Poet’s Aim

I do not want to write for fame,

     I do not want to write for wealth;

I do not want to write for game,

     I do not want to write for health;

I want to write so that my song

     Will reach the cord of someone’s heart,

And start the springs of love along

     Which have become dried up in part.

I want to touch the magic wire

     That reaches God’s and Nature’s plan;

I want to waken and inspire

     Brave deeds within the heart of man.

But how can one thus hope to write,

     To stir a fellow being, too,

Unless he’s ready for the fight,

     Unless he’s brave and good and true?

So then it is for every soul

     Who thus would spread a noble thought,

Who would lead others to the goal,

     To deeds alone by heroes wrought,

He must a living model be,

     A soldier for the truth and right;

A fearless warrior if he

     Would win his soldiers for the fight.

Oct. 28, ‘10

Keepin’ Secrets

Ol’ man Crockett come down to the store,

     He’d a secret he wanted to tell;

So he told Bill Jones in the softest of tones,

     An’ told Bill to keep it right well.

“Don’t breathe a word more,” said Crockett to Bill,

     “There’ll be thunder to pay ef you do”;

Then he met Hiram Snow, jest a little below,

     An’ took him in confidence, too.

“Don’t dare breathe a word,” he cautioned ol’ Hi’,

     “Don’t want it to git round the town”;

Then he jogged on his way, quite important an’ gay,

     Till he met neighbor Cottonwood Brown.

“Say, Cot’,” said ol’ Crockett, “I’ve somethin’ to say,

     Thet’s important, but don’t dare repeat”;

An’ then I’ll be shot ef he didn’t tell Cot’

     What he’d told to the rest up the street.

An’ so it went on till he met eight or ten,

     An’ to each he imparted the tale;

Though he cautioned them all that the heavens would fall

     If to keep the dark secret they’d fail.

Then Crockett went home with an easier mind,

     For his secret was well hammered down;

But the very next day, to his surprise and dismay,

     ‘Twas the talk uv the hull bloomin’ town.

Now the moral is here, as plain as your face:

     We wonder our secrets are plain,

When we know mighty well, if the truth we would tell,

     We’re Crocketts right over again.

Oct. 27, '10

Farm Limericks

There was an old farmer named Horn,

Who got up quite early at morn;

     He labored all day

     On a plaster, they say,

Which he needed to put on his corn.

A cow met a horse one fine day,

And tried to make love right away;

     The cow gave a “moo”,

     And said, I love you,

But the horse he said to her, “neigh neigh!”

Oct. 27, 1912

A Moving Picture

They met in New York,

     They wed in Chicago;

They lived in St. Paul,

     Then came the embargo.

They fought in Duluth

     Did he know, did she know?

He went to Spokane,

     She finished at Reno.

Oct. 27, ‘10

No Hurry

The proper way for Dr. Cook

     To get the records left behind him

On Mt. McKinley, that’s to say

     If he’s really anxious to find them,

Is just to wait till aeroplanes

     Go everywhere gaily chug-chugging,

Then take sky passage to the mount

     And save so much climbing and plugging.

Oct. 27, ‘09

(Frederick) Cook claimed to have achieved the first summit of Mount McKinley (Denali) in September 1906, reaching the top with one other member of his expedition. Other members of the team (e. g., Belmore Browne), whom he had left lower on the mountain, expressed private doubts about this immediately. Cook's claims were not publicly challenged until the 1909 dispute with Peary over who had first reached the North Pole. Peary's supporters then publicly alleged that Cook's claim of ascent of Mt. McKinley was fraudulent.

Unlike Hudson Stuck in 1913 (Ascent of Denali, 1914, photograph opposite p. 102) Cook took no photograph of the view from atop McKinley. His photograph which he claimed to be of the summit was found to have been taken of a tiny peak 19 miles away.

In late 1909 Ed Barrill, Cook's sole companion during the 1906 climb, signed an affidavit denying that they had reached the summit. Since the late 20th century, historians have found that he was paid by Peary supporters to do so. (Henderson, 2005) (Henderson writes that this fact was covered up at the time, but Bryce says that it was never a secret.) Up until a month before, Barrill had consistently asserted that he and Cook had reached the summit. His 1909 affidavit included a map correctly locating what became called Fake Peak, featured in Cook's "summit" photo, and showing that he and Cook had turned back at the Gateway.

Modern climber Bradford Washburn has gathered data, repeated the climbs, and taken new photos to evaluate Cook's 1906 claim. Between 1956 and 1995, Washburn and Brian Okonek identified the locations of most of the photographs Cook took during his 1906 McKinley foray, and took new photos at the same spots. In 1997 Bryce identified the locations of the remaining photographs, including Cook's "summit" photograph; none were taken anywhere near the summit. Washburn showed that none of Cook's 1906 photos were taken past the "Gateway" (north end of the Great Gorge), 12 horizontal bee-line miles from McKinley and 3 miles below its top.

An expedition by the Mazama Club in 1910 reported that Cook's map departed abruptly from the landscape at a point when the summit was still 10 miles distant. Critics of Cook's claims have compared Cook's map of his alleged 1906 route with the landscape of the last 10 miles. Cook's descriptions of the summit ridge are variously claimed to bear no resemblance to the mountain and to have been verified by many subsequent climbers. But, in the 1970s, climber Hans Waale found a route which fit Cook's narrative and descriptions. Three decades later, in 2005 and 2006, this route was successfully climbed by a group of Russian mountaineers.

No evidence of Cook's purported journey between the "Gateway" and the summit has been found. His claim to have reached the summit is not supported by his photos' vistas, his two sketch maps' markers, and peak-numberings for points attained, nor by his compass bearings, barometer readings, route-map or camp trash. But, samples of all such evidence have been found short of the Gateway.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_Cook

Parting of the Ways

They met beneath the shades of night

     Out where ‘twas dark and still;

They tried to read each other’s eyes,

     As lovers always will.

He did not hold her tiny hand,

     Or kiss her as he ought;

But ‘neath the evening star they knew

     Just what each other thought.

He spoke to her in accents low,

     She answered him in turn;

The plaintive note in either voice

     Bespoke two hearts that yearn.

And then the unexpected came,

     And parted them, alack!

He swore, she screamed, then disappeared

     Into the night so black.

He went his way, and she went hers,

     No fond farewell for her;

A bootjack thrown from far above,

     Lay where the lovers were.

He went his way, and she went hers,

     To loneliness and pain;

Tradition says, and likely true,

     They ne’er returned again.

Oct. 27, ‘09

                                               

Worry, and Get There

It is fine to say “don’t worry”,

     To smile, an’ never stop;

To never feel no flurry,

     No matter how things drop.

But this is true, by gorry,

The man who doesn’t worry

     Will never reach the top.

Oct. 27, ‘09

Thingless Things

                 (Suggested by Horseless Carriages, Chainless Bicycles, Etc.)

I am what’s called a manless man,

     I live on foodless food;

I’m living in an ageless age,

     And have a moodless mood.

I ride upon a bikeless bike,

     And make a timeless time;

But up to date I cannot seem

     To make a rhymeless rhyme.

I fill my lungs with airless air,

     I talk a talkless talk;

At night I sleep a sleepless sleep,

     Or walk a walkless walk.

Oct. 27, ‘96

Pub, in Sunday N.Y.

Herald, Dec. 13, ‘96