USA > Texas > Early pioneer days in Texas > Part 11
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all who will accept Him; therefore, come now to Him if ye hear His voice; harden not your heart, yield to the gentle wooings and entreaties of the spirit before too late. Now is the day of salvation to every soul. The sincere, fervent and effectual prayers of the righteous availeth much. There- fore, oh, for one united petition to God to cause the dark threatening war clouds to roll by and peace, joy and love be declared throughout the world, and the sun of righteousness arise with healing in His wings-a new sun of hope, joy and . gladness. No more war forever.
Yours and His, J. TAYLOR ALLEN.
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CHAPTER XV.
SELECTED POEMS AND CONTRIBUTIONS BY J. TAYLOR ALLEN AND OTHERS.
To my old schoolmates of Allen's Chapel log cabin school and church house of the long ago these lines are dedicated.
IN. THE LONG AGO.
The old schoolhouse at Allen's Chapel, The place we use to go,
When our hearts were light and our hopes were bright, Just fifty years ago.
Our teacher, dear schoolmates, has died since then ; He was so good and true;
But his soul is gone to live with God, And few are left but me and you.
They were joyous times, dear friends, And my memory loves to go
To that old school house, Allen's Chapel- Just fifty years ago.
The sparkling water, crystal clear, From the fountain head did flow;
A swinging, moss-covered bucket from the deep well below- From the Allen well, as it was in the long ago. Dear schoolmates, I well remember, The names of every girl and boy,
And the games we played upon the green, And those we did enjoy ;
But most of them are gone, dear friends,
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A few are left to know That played with us at Allen's Chapel Just fifty years ago.
'Twas then the blue-back speller Was the greatest book in school,
And we use to spell quite often Because it was the rule. We stood up in our classes Upon the puncheon floor,
And spelled, and spelled, and spelled, Almost forever more ;
But most of them are gone, dear friends, But few are left we know, That spelled with us at the old school house Just fifty years ago.
There we had the spelling match With a chief on either side, To make the best selections For in that they took a pride. And then the spelling would begin, And the words go around and around, And everybody had a chance To spell the others down. But most of them are gone, dear friends- A few are left we know, That spelled with us at the old school house Just fifty years ago.
But now the time does fly, And the winters come and go; But we've been blessed by the God above From whom all blessings flow.
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And when the march of time has passed, And we are called upon, May we meet our friends in the field of bliss In the unknown world beyond. Yes, the time is coming quickly When we all will have to go;
Hoping for a grand reunion With those of fifty years ago.
Yours and His God be with you till we meet again.
J. TAYLOR ALLEN.
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TEXAS IN THE EARLY DAYS SIXTY YEARS AGO.
(By J. Taylor Allen.)
In the early days of Texas The deer and buffalo, In herds were found so plenty, No matter where we would go.
The wily Indian, with his tomahawk, Had nothing then to fear,
And he lived in peace and plenty On the buffalo and deer.
These herds and flocks, they did inherit, And the great Father gave the land; But the advancing step did echo Of the greedy pale face man.
The Indians, they grew desperate, ,
And painted for the strife,
With their trusty bows and arrows And a wicked, flashing knife.
They swore vengeance on the white man As their sharpened tomahawks they felt;
And said the scalps of many a pale face Should dangle from their belts.
The whites took possession of the country, And killed the deer and buffalo, And looked upon the Indian As a savage, treacherous foe.
During forty years of warfare With death and blood and strife,
There has been many a scalp taken By the savage Indian knife.
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There were many tribes to conquer, And they had many ways to fight; They would lie in ambush by day And attack in the dark and stormy night.
They prowled along the Southern coast, Both winter, fall and spring,
Where the mosquitoes, with their merry song, Had such a business ring.
Where the hideous alligators bellowed, And the owls had an Indian whoop, Near the slimy, muddy banks Of the sluggish Guadaloupe.
They would steal upon them in the night, And when near would give a whoop, With tomahawks and scalping knives Down on the Guadaloupe.
The ferocious, savage, ugly, kronks, As fierce as any beast, And every white man they could catch They would celebrate and feast.
The Comanches and the Wacos Further North and West were found,
Where the howling wolves and rattlesnakes And the prairie dogs abound.
And the tarantula and the centipede, And the little horned frog, That would make a fair collection Without the prairie dog.
·
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AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE. (James Whitcomb Riley.)
As one who cons at evening over an album all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till in shadowy de- sign
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.
The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low, to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco, and to vanish with the smoke.
'Tis a fragrant retrospection, for the loving thoughts that start
Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine-
When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart of mine.
Though I hear, beneath my study, like a flutter- ing of wings,
The voices of my children and the mother as she sings,
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I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme
When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream.
In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm-
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm-
For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine
That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweet- heart of mine.
A face of lily beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase ;
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.
I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little check- ered dress
She wore when first I kissed her, and she answered the caress
With the written declaration that "as surely as the vine
Grew round the stump," she loved me-that old sweetheart of mine!
And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,
.
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As we used to talk together of the future we had planned ;
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do
But write the tender verses that she set the music to.
When we should live together in a cozy little cot, Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weath- er ever fine,
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweet- heart of mine.
And I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray ;
And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb
They would not smile in heaven till the other's kiss had come.
But-ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair,
And the door is softly opened and my wife is standing there !
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my vision I resign
To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.
-James Whitcomb Riley.
.
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PERFECTION.
There is a chamber in my brain, From which I hear a song So sweet, so pure, I oft remain A listener all night long.
I've never seen the singer's face ; The door I may not ope; Yet out and in my soul doth race, And bids me toil and hope.
Enough if I do never know The face of her who sings; If only everywhere I go Her song its message brings.
Enough if now and then a light From out that room doth shine; If only in the ways of night I make her vision mine.
-John Rhuddlau in Chicago Evening Post.
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SOUTHERN SONG.
Sunlight in the window shines ; Bluejays calling from the pines, Mammy must be up betimes Working for her baby.
Baby must not stay in bed Sun-kist clouds are overhead, Banks of roses blushing red Waiting for my baby.
Soft the Southern breezes blow, Daddy's working with his hoe, That will make the cotton grow For my darling baby.
Harvest time will soon be here, Drifted snow the fields appear, Mammy'll make a dress this year For her little baby.
Blessed Southland calm and fair, Song and fragrance fill the air With enchantment everywhere For my precious baby.
-Oscar Laighton in Boston Transcript.
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EARLY PIONEER DAYS IN TEXAS THE PILOT'S THERE.
The pilot's there, and the ship sails on, We'll weather the storm and we'll reach the dawn, We'll ride the waves of doubt and fear- The pilot's there-take cheer! take cheer !
In the rolling trough of the keen debate, In the angry breath of war; In the hour of greed and pride and hate, In the storm's contending roar ; In the settlements of questions born From the issues of the hour- Look up to the promise of the morn, The pilot's at his tower !
We crossed the tariff sea with him, And the income storm blew wild, But he steered the good ship to her port As gently as a child. The wild, rambunctious beasts that lay Await in the great sea's roll Were brought to time-not a word to say, He's the captain of his ship.
The Powers wink eyes from realm to realm, And the lion and the unicorn- Forgetting the pilot's at the helm- Scent war in the distant morn, But the good ship sails where glory smiles And peace reigns round her still- He's taken us safe through the stormy miles, And he's going to take us still.
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The pilot's there, and he's calm and wise; He'll sail the ship to the sunny skies; We'll watch and wait, as he wants us to- Take cheer, for the pilot will bring us through!
-Baltimore Sun.
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"GOLD, PRIDE, LOVE AND DEATH."-Part III.
A week has passed, Oh weary days, And nights that have no end ! For what avails this pride of gold, That pity may not bend : Like tender vines from which support Too rudely's wrenched away, Despair deep-rooted in her soul, Slow saps her life away.
The father marks the failing step, And hectic flush that burns, Sooth well his conscience from its stings, Nor from his purpose turns : Thinking, "Nay, this will pass again, Such grief will shallow prove," Ah, who can balm a wounded heart By giving gold for love ?
Within the wildwoods silence deep, The partridge whirr is heard; The gorgeous folliaged chestnut bough, By falling nuts is stirred ; The golden rod gleams on the hill, The aster by the brook; But none of these from Clare's sad eyes, Can win a second look.
'Tis not the beauty of earth's scenes Can win of praise the best; If that same gladness hath not part Within the human breast; For earth is fair when hearts are light,
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And skies shine blue above; For winter chills the air in vain, Where souls are filled with love.
But in the quiet country side Soon woke a tale of woe: The fever plague whose strength has laid Full many a loved one low, Finds here its way with baleful breath Unto this valley fair;
Until the eyes can scarcely count One out of households there.
Brave Rudolph, too, the loved, and lost, Sore-stricken like the rest,
Within the hospital's rude ward, Finds fitful fevered rest : There in delirium's madness tossed, Betrays his love, and care;
For through the long and weary watch, They hear no name but "Clare."
At length the news has reached her ears, Nor longer can she stay Than time it takes for nervous feet, To choose the nearest way: They seek her wildly at the hall, But proves their search in vain; Till weary Rudolph sleeps in peace, Forever freed from pain.
But ere his dark eyes closed in death, The solemn words were said, That gave her right to linger still,
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Beside his dying bed: Then peaceful as an infant sleeps, His spirit calmly passed, With Clare's hand within his own; Clasped closely till the last.
Then wait they not in ignorance long, For sundry tidings drear Have reached her home, and parent stern, Who hears with rising fear, Lists to the end, then hurries forth Forgetful of his wrath: Ah, Arnolt, that which never turns, · Must be a lengthy path.
He finds his child no longer pale, But flushed with fever high; By Rudolph's lonely pallet's side, She speaks with tearless eye: "Father, your vengeance came too late, Death holds the chasm wide, But will no lengthy barrier prove To keep from him his bride.
Go, cherish well thine ancient name, All comfort let it be ; For it will live in thee alone, One dearer dies with me; Death has been kinder far than life, And on that shining shore, When I shall meet my love again, Earth's partings will be o'er."
Hardly the stubborn pride gave way,
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The iron will to bow: "Oh God! my all of wealth I'd give, Were he but living now!" Too late, Oh Arnolt! thy remorse, Mourn not thy peaceful dead; But rather blame the erring pride, That to such grief hath led.
For yet another woe is thine, And yet another grave, For no amount of practiced skill, Fair Clare's life may save ; Yet still she sinks though much they strive Her strength is little worth; Soon in poor Rudolph's pallet bed, She sees the last of earth.
Beneath the churchyard's solemn mound, Within one grave they rest ; White roses bloom above their heads, And scatter o'er their breast; At Clare's old home a desert look, Comes with the owlets call; And all's fast falling to decay, For Arnolt left the Hall.
-Ella C. Eckert.
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IN MEMORY OF OUR FRIENDS AND LOVED ONES.
(By Taylor Allen.)
Where are our departed friends and loved ones today,
Are their angel-spirits with us or are they far away ?
Do their sweet angel-spirits, as swift messengers from above,
Attend us day by day and point us to that God who is love ?
To that happy home far beyond the star-bedecked sky,
Where it is our privilege to live forever with our Savior when we die?
In heaven's pure world, with mother and loved ones gone long before,
They are free from sorrow and care, and are watching and waiting on the other shore.
Oh, may God help us to watch and pray and ap- preciate his love every day,
And may true principle and the Holy Spirit keep us in the narrow way ;
And may we ever have the courage of our convic- tions, be true for the right,
Like Paul, David, Moses, and all the faithful, who fought a good fight;
Like Washington, Jefferson, Jackson, and all the patriots, tried and true,
There is a chance for every one to improve their talent, a work for everyone to do.
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There are times that try men and prove who are faithful and true,
And though our bodies may soon be laid in the churchyard, old or new,
There to await the resurrection of our bodies and in Him be complete,
And go home shouting and rejoicing and walk the golden street.
How often we shall meet to work our graveyard, God only knows,
Who will be missing, when we meet again, or who will be first that goes.
And when the final roll is called and from our graves we come,
Which side will we be on, the good and pure, or lost and undone ?
Oh, may God, our Savior and Holy Spirit, guide and conduct us home
When our work, persecutions and bereavements are over, we will no longer roam.
So, kind friends and loved ones, be sincere, faith- ful and true ;
Discharging your duties cheerfully, whatever you have to do;
And meet me over there, when your last battle with sin has been fought,
Where we will rejoice and sing praises forever with the blood bought.
-By Taylor Allen.
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IN MEMORY OF "THE OLD HEWED LOG . CABIN." (By J. Taylor Allen.)
Where are the hands today
That hewed these logs? They are in the clay.
And, Oh! could their history and secrets tell Of how many brave and true that in early days fell ;
When buffaloes and Indians in abundance were here,
And deer and turkeys, squirrels and quail were as free as air ;
And prairie chickens were as free as wind, But the bear and wolves and all game are thinned.
Happy childhoods memory lingers still, And could those hewed logs leave their will
It would be cheering and comforting still Of buffalo, venison, and honey bees skill.
Good wishes expressed encourage us to press on, Realizing our conveniences over those who are gone ;
And ever realize the inconveniences of men, Who hazarded their lives, their homes to defend,
When on every side the war whoop of the Indians was heard;
In those days when men were brave and true to their word;
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When all were more sociable, true and brave, Before a curse was made of money to bind us to slaves.
Oh, for good, happy, prosperous times once more When the money was with our people as of yore;
No notes, securities, or mortgages required then, Because people were free, brave patriotic men ;
From the bonds of slaves, always free, Which is always best for you and me.
-By Taylor Allen.
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MY FRIEND.
(By Mrs. Nora Farris, Levita, Coryell County, Texas.)
Your letter came, but came too late,
For heaven had claimed its own;
Ah, sudden change! From prison bars unto the great White Throne !
And yet I think he would have stayed,
Could he have read those tardy words, which you have sent in vain.
Why did you wait, fair lady, through so many weary hours ?
Had you other lovers with you, in that silken, dainty bower ?
Did others bow before your charms and twine bright garlands there ?
And yet I ween in all that throng his spirit had no peer.
I wish that you were with me now as I draw the sheet aside,
To see how pure the look he wore a while before he died.
Yet the sorrow that you gave him still had left its weary trace,
And a meek and saintly sadness dwells upon his pallid face.
"Her love," he said, "could change for me the win- ter's cold to spring."
Ah, trust of the thoughtless maiden's love, Thou art a bitter thing!
For when those valley's fair in May once more with blooms shall wave,
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The Northern violets shall blow above his humble grave.
Your dole of scanty words had been but one more pang to bear;
Tho' to the last he kissed with love this tress of your soft hair.
I did not put it where he said, for when the angels come
I would not have them find the sign of falsehood in the tomb.
I've read the letter and I know the wiles that you have wrought
To win that noble heart of his, and gained it, fear- ful thought !
What lavish wealth men sometimes give for a trifle, light and small !
What manly forms are ofttimes held in folly's flimsy thrall.
You shall not pity him, for now he's beyond your hope and fear,
Altho' I wish that you could stand with me beside his bier,
Still I forgive you, heaven knows, for mercy you'll have need,
Since God his awful judgment sends on each un- worthy deed.
Tonight the cold winds whistle by, as I my vigil keep,
Within the prison deadhouse, where few mourners come to weep.
A rude plank coffin holds him now, yet death gives always grace,
And I had rather see him thus than clasped in your embrace.
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Tonight your rooms are very gay, with wit and wine and song ;
And you are smiling just as if you never did a wrong !
Your hand so fair that none would think it penned these words of pain ;
Your skin so white-would God your soul was half so free from stain!
I'd rather be this dear, dead friend than you in all your glee,
For you are held in grievous bonds, while he's for- ever free.
Whom serve we in this life, we serve in that which is to come.
He chose his way, you yours; let God pronounce the fitting doom.
-Mrs. Nora Farris, Levita, Coryell County, Texas.
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TO THE POOR IN HEART. (By Carroll Cone, Dallas, Texas.
Think you in this fair world of ours, Though you search it far and wide, You could find a life so happy That it's perfectly satisfied ?
If you look beneath the surface, Deep down in the heart of life, You will see pale Hope and Patience Battling with doubt and strife.
Often the face that is brightest Is acting a well-learned part ; Just as purple and fine linen Oft cover a care-worn heart.
Do not all of us have longings, Wishes or hopes unfilled, That will wring the heart with anguish Till by death alone 'tis stilled ?
It may be a hope from childhood, Nurtured with loving care, Till the wisdom of mature years Doomed it to sad despair ;
Or something which instinct tells us Was made for us, sure, some day. Thus we go on, hoping and seeking, Down to the infinite day.
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It may be the hope or the longing, Died out, or has never been, And our hearts ache with the longing And the emptiness within.
Ah, well we have this blest comfort, The poor in spirit, you know, Received from Christ a message When he walked on earth below.
The poor in heart are the sorest- Then this promise is yours and mine; To those who are poor in spirits, The Kingdom of Heaven is thine.
-By Carroll Cone, Dallas, Texas.
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THE BLUE-EYED BOY.
My love is like a little bird That flies about from tree to tree ; And when it sees a fairy face It soon forgets to think of me.
Remember well and bear in mind, A trusting friend is hard to find; But when you find one good and true, Change not the old one for the new.
CHORUS.
Go bring to me the one I love, Go bring my darling back to me; Go bring me back the blue-eyed boy, And Oh, how happy I would be!
Oh, who, oh who will be my friend, And who shall love those little white hands,
And who shall kiss the rosy lips While he is in the distant land ?
My father, he will be my friend; My sister shall love those little white hands,
But none shall kiss the rosy lips While he is in the distant land.
Or must I go bound while ye go free ? Or must I love a man who doesn't love me ?
Or must I go act the childish part And marry a man who will break my heart?
I loved him once, I love him still; I love him now and always will. His flattering words and memoring way Are near my heart, and there they'll stay.
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To all those having mothers up yonder these lines are dedicated.
WILL MY MOTHER KNOW ME THERE?
(By J. Taylor Allen.) Honey Grove, Texas, R. F. D. 7, Box 51, February 24, 1918. · When I reach my home eternal, Reach that city bright and fair, When I stand among the angels, Will my mother know me there?
CHORUS. Yes, I know she will know me In those mansions bright and fair ; Mother's love can ne'er forget me, And I'm sure she'll know me there.
I've changed with changing seasons, I am bent with toil and care; Do you think she will remember- Will my mother know me there ?
Oft for me my mother wrestled When she used to kneel in prayer ; Do you think she has forgotten ; Will my mother know me there ?
Mother's face has been a beacon, O'er a sea of deep despair, And I will for her up yonder ; Will my mother know me there ?
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BE KIND TO THE DEAR ONES AT HOME.
(By J. Taylor Allen.)
Honey Grove, Texas, R. F. D. 7, Box 51, February 24, 1918.
Be kind to thy father, for when thou wert young, Who loved thee so fondly as he ?
He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue And joined in thy innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, His locks intermingled with gray;
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold ; Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother, for lo! on her brow May traces of sorrow be seen.
Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort her now, For loving and kind hath she been.
Remember, thy mother, for thee will she pray As long as God gives her breath.
With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way, E'en to the dark valley of death.
Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth If the smile of thy joy be withdrawn. The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth If the dew of affection be gone.
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Be kind to thy brother wherever you are; The love of a brother shall be An ornament richer and purer by far Than pearls from the depth of the sea.
Be kind to thy sister, not many know The depth of true sisterly love;
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below The surface that sparkles above.
Be kind to thy father, once fearless and bold, Be kind to thy mother so near;
Be kind to thy brother, nor show him thy heart cold, Be kind to thy sister so dear.
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Let us think seriously and be prepared, for death which will come to all. Oh, be prepared.
IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT.
(By J. Taylor Allen.) Honey Grove, Texas, R. F. D. 7, Box 51, February 24, 1918. If I should die tonight
My friends would look upon my cold, quiet face Before they laid it in its final resting place, And think that death had left it almost fair, And lay snow-white flowers against my hair ; Would soothe it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands with loving care;
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