Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black; I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do, For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied, But what it needs most of all is some people living inside. If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid, I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be, And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store, But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known. But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Joyce Kilmer.

Color in the Wheat

Like liquid gold the wheat field lies, A marvel of yellow and russet and green, That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen, That play in the golden hair of a girl,— A ripple of amber—a flare Of light sweeping after—a curl In the hollows like swirling feet Of fairy waltzers, the colors run To the western sun Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky, Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea, The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye Under the fierce sun's alchemy. The slow hawk stoops To his prey in the deeps; The sunflower droops To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps— Then swirling in dazzling links and loops, A riot of shadow and shine, A glory of olive and amber and wine, To the westering sun the colors run Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. O glorious land! My western land, Outspread beneath the setting sun! Once more amid your swells, I stand, And cross your sod-lands dry and dun. I hear the jocund calls of men Who sweep amid the ripened grain With swift, stern reapers; once again The evening splendor floods the plain, The crickets' chime Makes pauseless rhyme, And toward the sun, The colors run Before the wind's feet In the wheat!

Hamlin Garland.

The Broken Pinion

I walked through the woodland meadows, Where sweet the thrushes sing; And I found on a bed of mosses A bird with a broken wing. I healed its wound, and each morning It sang its old sweet strain, But the bird with a broken pinion Never soared as high again. I found a young life broken By sin's seductive art; And touched with a Christlike pity, I took him to my heart. He lived with a noble purpose And struggled not in vain; But the life that sin had stricken Never soared as high again. But the bird with a broken pinion Kept another from the snare; And the life that sin had stricken Raised another from despair. Each loss has its compensation, There is healing for every pain; But the bird with a broken pinion Never soars as high again.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

Jamie Douglas

It was in the days when Claverhouse Was scouring moor and glen, To change, with fire and bloody sword, The faith of Scottish men. They had made a covenant with the Lord Firm in their faith to bide, Nor break to Him their plighted word, Whatever might betide. The sun was well-nigh setting, When o'er the heather wild, And up the narrow mountain-path, Alone there walked a child. He was a bonny, blithesome lad, Sturdy and strong of limb— A father's pride, a mother's love, Were fast bound up in him. His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round, His step was firm and light; What was it underneath his plaid His little hands grasped tight? It was bannocks which, that very morn, His mother made with care. From out her scanty store of meal; And now, with many a prayer, Had sent by Jamie her ane boy, A trusty lad and brave, To good old Pastor Tammons Roy, Now hid in yonder cave, And for whom the bloody Claverhouse Had hunted long in vain, And swore they would not leave that glen Till old Tam Roy was slain. So Jamie Douglas went his way With heart that knew no fear; He turned the great curve in the rock, Nor dreamed that death was near. And there were bloody Claverhouse men, Who laughed aloud with glee, When trembling now within their power, The frightened child they see. He turns to flee, but all in vain, They drag him back apace To where their cruel leader stands, And set them face to face. The cakes concealed beneath his plaid Soon tell the story plain— "It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for," Exclaimed the angry man. "Now guide me to his hiding place And I will let you go." But Jamie shook his yellow curls, And stoutly answered—"No!" "I'll drop you down the mountain-side, And there upon the stones The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow Shall battle for your bones." And in his brawny, strong right hand He lifted up the child, And held him where the clefted rocks Formed a chasm deep and wild So deep it was, the trees below Like stunted bushes seemed. Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze, It seemed some horrid dream. He looked up at the blue sky above Then at the men near by; Had they no little boys at home, That they could let him die? But no one spoke and no one stirred, Or lifted hand to save From such a fearful, frightful death, The little lad so brave. "It is woeful deep," he shuddering cried, "But oh! I canna tell, So drop me down then, if you will— It is nae so deep as hell!" A childish scream, a faint, dull sound, Oh! Jamie Douglas true, Long, long within that lonely cave Shall Tam Roy wait for you. Long for your welcome coming Waits the mother on the moor, And watches and calls, "Come, Jamie, lad," Through the half-open door. No more adown the rocky path You come with fearless tread, Or, on moor or mountain, take The good man's daily bread. But up in heaven the shining ones A wondrous story tell, Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf That is nae so deep as hell. And there before the great white throne, Forever blessed and glad, His mother dear and old Tam Roy Shall meet their bonny lad.

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