USA > Texas > Early pioneer days in Texas > Part 12
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Poor hands so empty and so cold tonight.
If I should die tonight
My friends would call to mind with loving thought Some kindly deeds my icy hands had done; Some gentle words the icy lips had said, Some errand the willing feet had sped. My hasty words would be all put aside, And I should be loved tonight.
Oh, I pray tonight,
Keep not your kindness for my dead, cold brow, The way is lonely ; let me feel it now. Think gently of me; I am growing old- My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Oh, hearts so cold, oh, I plead,
When dreamless rest is mine, I will need, The tenderness for which I long tonight.
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To my cowboy friends of my youth these lines are dedicated.
THE DYING COWBOY.
(By J. Taylor Allen.) Honey Grove, Texas, R. F. D. 7, Box 51, February 16, 1918.
"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie !" Those words came low and mournfully From the pale lips of a youth who lay On his dying couch at the close of the day.
He had wasted and pined till o'er his brow Death's shadows were gathering thickly now; And he thought of his home and loved ones there, As the cowboys came to see him die.
"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie," In a narrow grave just six by three, Where wild coyote and the crow sport free, And bury me not on the lone prairie.
It matters not, so we've been told, Where the body lies, as the heart grows cold; Yet grant, oh grant, this boon to me, And bury me not on the lone prairie.
I always hoped to be laid, when I died, In the old churchyard by the green hillside ; By my mother's and father's bones, oh, bury me, And bury me not on the lone prairie.
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Oh, bury me where a mother's prayer, Or a sister's tears might mingle there ; Where my friends might come and weep, And bury me not on the lone prairie.
"Oh, bury me not," and his voice there failed, But they took no heed to the dying prayer; In a narrow grave, just six by three,
And they buried there on the lone prairie.
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To mothers everywhere these lines are dedi- cated.
MOTHER LOVE.
(By J. Taylor Allen.) Honey Grove, Texas, R. F. D. 7, Box 51, February 16, 1918.
The eayer crowd impatient waits Before the jail-yard's massive gates ; The prisoner comes; on either side Two bearded bailiffs stiffly stride.
He mounts the scaffold; close behind The bailiffs follow, and they bind His trembling hands in close embrace; The sheriff stands with somber face.
The cap is drawn above his eyes, The noose is placed about his neck ; Then at the sheriff's nervous beck, The trap is sprung ; he drops and dies.
The body swaps awhile in space, The people leave the ghastly place, Save only one, whose piteous cries Must surely pierce the leaden skies.
He was her boy! In mortal pain, She gave him life. The crimson stain His deed has placed upon her name, But adds new fuel to her heart's flame.
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She loved him when his infant cry She hushed to silence o nher breast; Love more than that she gave the boy Whose daily conduct marred her joy.
And now as dark against the sky, His body swings, she loved him best. For all the crimes that soiled his days, His wasted life the forfeit pays; And mayhap, when the deep bells toll, A mother's tears shall buy his soul.
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TO MY WIFE. (By J. Taylor Allen.)
It is forty years since we were wed- Time, like a ship upon the sea, With sail all spread;
Or, as an eagle, swooping on its prey, So swiftly the years have passed away, To me it seems but yesterday.
Yet forty years have fled ; Loved ones of other years,
Are numbered with the dead.
While we are spared with gray hair on our heads, A crown of glory, so the wise man said, To those who are walking heavenward.
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ONLY SAY THAT I AM FORGIVEN.
(By J. Taylor Allen.)
Only tell me I am forgiven for hasty thoughts and words expressed,
Which in an unguarded moment has often driven peace from our breast.
We all have our failures and weak points which we ever regret-
With trials, affections and bereavements on every side it seems we are beset.
Oh, how oft have we sighed, for words spoken that are forever gone,
And for which have often felt ruined, cast down in sorrow undone.
Oh, that pure, happy thoughts and words may characterize our lives until our race is run. Oh, if I only knew that you entertain good will for me in your heart and that I am forgiven.
It is human to err, love is divine, kind words and actions makes our earth a heaven.
So let us not harbor in our breasts ill will, but by our actions prove we desire to make this earth a heaven-
Only then, by thought, deed and act prove to me honest, earnest, sincerety ; only let me know I am forgiven.
A guilty stricken conscience, heavily burdened mind, sadly bereaved broken heart in dis- tress ;
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Seemingly friends and character all gone, none to encourage, none to cheer, comfort and bless, When it seems that there are none to pity, none to sympathize and save;
Oh, then how comforting that through true peni- tence, earnest, faithful prayer, we are re- leased from the bonds and burden of sin's slave.
1 Angry words are lightly spoken in one rash and thoughtless hour,
Brightest links are often broken by their deep, insidious power.
A little word in kindness spoken, a motion, or a tear,
Often heals a heart that's broken and makes a friend sincere.
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FROM THE ALAMO TO SAN JACINTO.
(By J. Taylor Allen.)
You may talk about Napoleon And sing of Washington and Lee, But they can't compare with the Texas men That fought for liberty.
You may read the history of all nations And the brave of every land, But there is nothing found to equal Colonel Travis and his band.
Before the storming of the Alamo By a dim and flickering light, A line was drawn by Travis To test them for the fight.
Now, all that went to die like heroes Just stepped across this line; They were like a group of giants That were nerved to do or die.
And they fought the hordes so desperate That it made the price of victory high- It was early in the morning when they Stormed the Alamo.
But they killed them as they came, and Killed them on the wall, And with their knives and muskets They tried to kill them all.
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One hundred and eighty-two Texans Against five thousand Mexicans, And in thirty minutes they killed and Wounded five hundred of the foe.
They all fought to desperation, That our country might be free; And Texas was baptised with blood In the creed of liberty.
Then Santa Anna was rejoicing And said there was nothing more to dread, And he gave his soldiers orders To burn the rebel dead.
The funeral pyre was then enveloped And blazed with a lurid glow, As it burned the bodies of the heroes That fell at the Alamo.
"Heap on fire," they shouted In all their fiendish glee ; But the flame that burned the martyrs Was the death of tyrrany.
Fannin, he at last surrendered, But it seemed all the chance was left, And his men were stood in solid line And cruelly shot to death.
The Texan then grew desperate, And they seemed in an awful plight; But the bloody hordes of Santa Anna, They had determined yet to fight.
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At last Houston, with his little army, Charged upon the bloody foe, And gained a glorious victory And avenged the Alamo.
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IS THIS LIFE WORTH LIVING? (By J. Taylor Allen.)
No, if all our talents and our time To the devil we are giving, Our life will be a failure And hardly worth the living. 1
Or if this life is all and death the last, With no hope beyond, nor sins forgiven, No God to meet, no friends to greet ; Then this life is a blank, and not worth living.
The poet has said : That life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal ; That dust to dust returneth Was not written of the soul.
Shall our souls be bound to things of earth, Amidst sin, deceit and worldly strife, When there is a fountain we may reach That gives to us eternal life.
Our minds and thoughts may rise above All cares and worldly strife, And on eagles' wings may soar aloft And taste the bliss of a higher life.
This life on earth is worth the living If we improve God's given time, And if we obey His blessed teachings We can make our lives sublime.
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Our souls can rise to heavenly heights, Above this sin-cursed world of strife, And work for Him who died for us, And live a glorious, happy life.
Then when time on earth shall be no more, Our soul shall take its homeward flight, And gloom and fear shall be dispelled By a brilliant flame of heavenly light.
The poet has described the passing from this world into the next in the following lines :
What is this absorbs me quite, It steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath. Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.
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TEXAS AT THE PRESENT TIME. (By J. Taylor Allen.)
Texas now is a dilghtful place And is forging to the front, And there are modern towns and cities Where once we use to hunt.
And our cattle are of the very best That is exhibited at the show, And nearly always take the premium Everywhere they go.
And the hogs are of the very best That are brought upon the ground, And will weigh from seven hundred Up to a thousand pounds.
And our horses, too, are very fine, And we have the best of every breed- The Norman and the Suffolk, Down to the Arab steed.
We have free and universal education For the rich and all the poor ; And everything that's needed Is delivered at our door.
And when the weather is growing warm We use the electric fan, And we all enjoy the comfort Of this artificial plan.
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We ride in electric carriages, In company and alone, And talk with people miles away Over the telephone.
Our women are modest, fair and beautiful, And all like ladies dressing neat, And are equal to the queens of old When seen upon the street.
And our country is rich and beautiful, Although it was abhorred;
It is like a flowery kingdom Or the garden of the Lord.
It has grown to a mighty nation, After going through the rub, And we have a good many commercial cities, And our Dallas is the hub.
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LOVE AND KINDNESS. (By J. Taylor Allen.)
When man was first created By the power of God above, The strongest passion He planted In the heart of man was love.
The youth that loves the maiden Or the men that love their wives, When in danger or in trouble Will protect them with their lives.
Kind parents love their children, And their battles they will fight; And the children love their parents If the parents treat them right.
Our hearts go out to near kin When in sickness, pain or sorrow; But our love, when measured by God's word, Is weak and small and narrow.
Men engage in strife and cruel war, And sink to murderous depths of sin; But Christ commands to rule by love For all the world of man are kin.
We love to greet the smiling face, And happy, loving words we crave; It cheers the heart, and does more good Than wreath of flowers on our grave.
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Bad habits grow and cling to men And bind them like a fetter; They fret and fume, and fuss around, When kindness would be better.
You, parents, should be pleasant And kind in all your ways, And when your child deserves it Be sure and give him praise.
The aged, with silver locks and tottering steps, Where once they firmly trod; Be kind to them in word and deed With love that's born of God.
Their wrinkled face and trembling limbs, And aching heart does crave, A word of cheer and kindness now, Not flower upon their grave.
Father Time is swiftly passing, And no stop will he allow; Then if you have some words of comfort, Be kind, dear friend, tell us now.
I often think of Robert Burns, The genius and the poet, That almost starved in Scotland, And no one cared or seemed to know it.
But now they worship at his shrine, And of his genius prate, And the kindness he deserved At last has come too late.
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Soon the death knell of time shall sound the note And liberate the slave; Then give me words of kindness now- Not flowers upon my grave.
I do not write these lines to condemn the beauti- ful custom of placing flowers on the graves of our dear departed friends, but rather to impress the readers to be kind to the living and throw them a few boquets while they live.
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OUR DEAR LITTLE BOY AND GIRL, DOCIE AND FRANKIE.
Our dear little Boy and girl, Docie and Frankie That had come to give us joy,
With dimpled cheeks and golden hair,
Our bright-eyed, blue-eyed Docie and Frankie.
They grew so fast and looked so bright, And acted so very smart;
Their golden hair and tiny arms Were twined about our heart.
Oh, our home was made so happy, And life's blessings we enjoyed
With these priceless treasures in our hearts- Our bright-eyed, blue-eyed little girl and boy.
The cords of love that are so strong Has bound their hearts to ours, And it was a sad and awful day When we did have to part.
But the angel of death, in a pitiless flight, Passed over our happy home, And the treasures we loved was called away And we are left to mourn alone, For they are gone never to return.
If God's judgment then is always right, We must put our trust in Him; If He takes the treasures of our hearts Before they know of sin.
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May heaven open wide her golden portals, And swing the pearly gates afar,
And hail the coming with glad tidings,
Our bright-eyed, blue-eyed Docie and Frankie.
In memory of our little boy and girl these lines are dedicated by their papa, J. Taylor Allen.
Oh, grand and most glorious thought, we shall meet again. Look out for us, we are coming where there will be no more dieing, no black crepe on the door; no grave on the hillside any more.
Yours and His,
J. TAYLOR ALLEN.
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CABIN HOME.
A little lonely cabin beside a lonely way-
A little lonely cabin, deserted, quiet, and old- Yet memories that bless it shall never fade away, Although its friendly hearthstone is gray with dust and cold !
For Youth and Faith have met there, and lingered for a space,
And Happiness has dwelt there, and Hope has crossed the sill;
And Love has made his home there, a smile upon his face.
Dear little lonely cabin, deserted now and still!
The forest creeps behind it, a mystic place of trees :
A river flows before it, reflecting sun and shower-
And in the early springtime, the murmur of the breeze
Tells secrets to the bird-folk, and the arbutus flower.
A little lonely cabin beside a peaceful stream,
A little lonely cabin, from all the world apart.
I see it when, at twilight, I find the time to dream-
Dear little lonely cabin that holds my very heart !
-By Margaret E. Sangster.
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THE PURPLE ROAD.
There's a purple road that's leading to a country far away,
There's a purple road to Somewhere that is calling us today ;
Like a vagrant satin ribbon, it is winding through the plain-
There's a purple road that's calling, and it may not call again !
What if hills loom up before us? There's a castle at the top;
There are vivid bits of garden where a wayfarer may stop;
And slim poplars cast their shadows at the noon- tide of the day
On the purple road that's leading to a country far away.
Will you take my hand and follow up the winding purple path ?
Yes, there may be rocks to stay us-we may meet a tempest's wrath ;
We may shrink before pale lightning, we may cover under rain,
But the road is calling, calling-and it may not call again !
We have Youth and Hope for comrades and True Love will be our guide,
And we'll meet our great adventure walking proud- ly side by side,
For the purple road is Romance, and it's calling me and you
To a Golden Spot in Somewhere-to the Land where Dreams come true.
-By Margaret E. Sangster.
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"THERE'S NOTHING TOO GOOD FOR YOU!"
(Tribute to Our Soldier Boys by S. A. Fishburn.)
A fond adieu, to you, brave boys, As you heed your country's call, On land, on sea, in skies above, God bless you, one and all. When this mad war shall have ended, And we praise the noble, the true, All the world will join in saying: "There's nothing too good for you."
Go join this war against tyrrany, Go fight that the world may be free, That the humblest man and nation Shall never be robbed of liberty. When this great cause shall triumph And freedom is born anew, Our beloved President will say : "There's nothing too good for you."
Go fight to a world-wide truce, One that shall never have end, But bring all nations to know "Peace on earth, good will to men." When your swords are turned to plow shares, And the soldier's task is through, From heaven will come the glad refrain, "There's nothing too good for you."
Boys: When you have wiped Kaiserism from the face of the earth-and you are going to do it
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in short order-come back and do the same for old King Greed at home. Come back, and by your ballot help bring about the reform referred to in these resolutions, adopted by the Dallas Land Limit League in 1909:
"Whereas, Holding that men, in the acquire- ment of homes, are imbued with a greater respect for themselves, a keener love for their families, a better feeling toward their fellow-man, a stronger faith in their government, and a deeper devotion to their religion;
"Whereas, Believing home ownership would forestall anarchy and communism and strengthen our government as would no other remedy pro- posed for the dangers that threaten our republic ; we pledge ourselves
"1. To individually urge upon our fellow-citi- zens the importance of home ownership and seek to induce its constant agitation by the press, in the pulpit, on the platform, and through every other agency available.
"2. To direct the attention of philanthropists to the greatest of all opportunities for helping the worthy poor to help themselves, viz .: Providing them with modest homes at reasonable prices, on long time and at a low rate of interest.
"3. To urge large land owners, in their own interest and in the name of patriotism, to sell at least a part of their holdings in small tracts and to actual settlers only.
"4. To advocate partial exemption from taxa- tion of every home, large or small, when occupied by the owner.
"5. To work for a constitutional amendment
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which, while not affecting present holdings, would in future limit the real estate a man may acquire, both in town and country, which policy, we be- lieve, would prove a happy mean between govern- ment ownership and unbridled landlordism.
"6. To seek the placing in the platform of every party strong demands covering the policies herein referred to."
Keep this card and discuss these resolutions around your camp fires; better still, should you have time between battles, organize Land Limit Leagues-no matter how small the membership -and send us proceedings to be published at home. They would be precious tidings to those of us who want home ownership made easy, if not free, to the returning soldier boy and his loved ones. If wanted, will mail these cards to any address, any- where, even to your future address in Berlin.
S. A. FISHBURN, President Land Limit League. Dallas, Texas, December 25, 1917.
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GOOD FIGHT BY OLD-FASHIONED FARMER.
.(By Secretary James Wilson.) 1
The old-fashioned farmer with a thin soil has, in most instances, fought a good fight. He strug- gled to educate the young people, whose education led them away from the farm, and left him to struggle alone. Everything taught them had a tendency to turn their eyes toward anything but agriculture for a career. The developing indus- tries-the factory, the railroad, the forest, and the mine-coaxed the boys away with big pay. The nation was offering farms of new land for noth- ing. It gave its mines for the opening and its forests for the cutting, and it protected the fac- tory of every kind, enabling these industries to outbid the farmer when he wanted help. The State encouraged the railway, and its schools fur- nished forth the youth of the land for every voca- tion but agriculture. The boys and girls went away, leaving the father and mother with gray hairs, on the old acres. The unproductive farm of today, in its primitive strength, educated boys and girls who have helped to build up the West and Southwest into great States, and have helped to build up the industries of the East.
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DEDICATED IN MEMORY OF THE OLD-TIME ROAD.
(By Taylor Allen, Feb. 21, 1896.)
Many feet along this road have trod That have gone from sight and under the sod. And oh! how often in childhood's happy glee Have we walked and run cheerful and free.
Where are those who were with us then? Many have passed away from the walks of men. No more do we meet them, from our sight they have gone,
When shall we meet them, when will our work be done ?
Many who bid fair for long life are now gone, And I, always a weakling, feel left alone. My schoolmates and early friends, nearly all gone, And are realizing and experiencing the great be- yond.
Let us keep in the true road, the narrow way That leads to the home beyond, to a more perfect day.
And when we are all done traveling that road . May we be secure forever in heaven's happy abode.
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THE DESERT PATH.
(By Margaret E. Sangster.)
The camel tracks led whitely across the desert sand,
And one came riding after with furtive mystery ; Ah, one came swiftly riding, a dagger in his hand, And he was bent on plunder-a nomad thief was he!
He did not heed the starshine that glimmered from on high,
For laden beasts had traveled along the lonely way.
He did not see the glory that swept the Eastern sky,
For he had far to journey before the dawn of day.
He followed through the desert, and then at last he saw
An inn upon the outskirts of some small village place ;
And there were camels resting before the stable door -
He left his horse, crept nearer, with greed upon his face;
And peering o'er the threshold, he saw that gold was piled,
With precious stones and incense, before a little Child.
II.
A thief he was by calling, who to the stable came, A thief whose youthful fingers had learned to steal their fill;
A thief he was who valued his heritage of shame,
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Yet, standing by that doorway, he did not want to kill !
A thief he was, but-watching-he saw a Baby face,
And, bending near, a Mother, whose joy was unde- filed ;
And for one breathless moment across the stable space,
The Baby's eyes gazed at him-and then the Baby smiled !
A thief he was by calling, but there beside the door
He saw a Holy Vision-he knelt and tried to pray-
And something, thrilling, whispered of love for- evermore-
And then he rose, half-weeping-and it was Christmas Day !
A thief he was by calling, who felt the Father's plan,
But back across the desert there silent rode a man !
III.
The years are met as mile stones upon a winding road,
And some slip by like shadows, and some are fair with flowers ;
And some seem dreary, hopeless-a leaden chain of hours-
And some are like a heart-throb, and some a heavy load.
The thief, a thief no longer, a lonely figure strode
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Haert-weary down life's pathway, through tem- pests and through showers,
But always prayed that somewhere, among sweet- scented bowers,
A Baby's smile might show him where happiness abode.
For he was often hungry-a thief, reformed, must eat-
And there were folk who shunned him, and turned his plea away ;
And there were those who scourged him from out the market place-
They were the ones who told him to earn his bread and meat!
Yet ever he walked onward, and dreamed of some fair day
When he would find the Christ-Child with love upon His face !
IV.
Where work lay for the asking it seemed that men might work,
But prejudice was rampant in every shop and field ;
And, "What if you are trying, my scythe you may not wield !"
Men told the thief, who answered-"Indeed, I will not shirk !"
And carpenters and builders turned from him with a smirk,
And farmers hurried by him to house the harvest's yield, .
And so he took his dagger, all rusted, and his shield,
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And sought again the highway where thieves and jackals lurk.
And yet the spark of manhood still flamed within his heart,
And still he saw the Baby, beyond the stable door ; And oftentimes at even, as crimson daytime died, He knelt, a sorry figures, from all of life apart.
And, "Oh, if I could see Him-and feel His love once more,
"If I could see Him smiling, I would not steal !" he cried.
V.
It was a glowing ruby that caused the thief to fall, But-he was very hungry, and lonely, too, and cold ;
And youth lay all behind him, a tattered funeral pall,
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