Boys and Girls / The Verses of James W. Foley

I USED to know a little lad,
A youngster of thirteen,
Who wasn’t very good or bad,
But somewhere in between.
He had such freckles on his nose
As your nose seems to bear;
Indeed, I’d almost think that those
Were some he used to wear.

He used to have an old straw hat
All frazzled at the brim,
Indeed, I’d almost think that that
Came down to you from him.
And he had such a dog as now
Barks joyfully along
With you—it makes me wonder how
It could have lived so long.

And in his heart he held such song
As fell upon my ear,
And echoed through the shadows long
When you came whistling near;
So when at twilight, dawn or noon
This overture you bring,
It seems to be the very tune
This other lad would sing.

And he had pockets bulged with things
By which he set much store,
With knives and marbles, tops and strings
And half a hundred more;
I see your pockets emptied now,
Your things cast up with care,
Until they seem to be, somehow,
His treasures you have there.

I know not where it was or when,
But with his heart of song
He went and came not back again,
And took his dreams along;
So some day in a little while
He’ll wave a sun-browned hand.
And leave you with his cheery smile—
And you will understand.

THE PARTED WAYS

A MESSAGE HOME

SAY, Little Boy, ’twixt dawn and dusk who treads such devious ways,
I wish you would remember me to all your sunny days;
For once they were such friends of mine; so bid them my good cheer
And say you saw an old, old friend, who holds them very dear;
Remember me to those cool paths, that led by fields and streams,
Where what were my songs now are yours and what were mine your dreams;
Just say you saw an old, old friend, who wanted you to tell
Them all he sent them love and cheer and wished them always well.

And, Little Boy, if you should lie beneath some spreading tree,
Be good enough to say it has remembrance sweet from me;
For once it used to cover me with shade so thick and cool
And bid me lie and rest and dream as I came home from school;
And when you romp with comrade boys at noontime, Lad, I pray,
Remember me to all of them and to the games they play;
And let no games too humble be, no youngsters be too small
To know an old, old friend sends love and blessings to them all.

Remember me to all your dreams, to rose and bush and stem,
To days too short to hold your joys, remember me to them;
To all your secrets deep and vast, of things that are and were
And are to be, half-whispered in the twilight’s dusk and blur;
Just say an old friend, long away, but still remembering
Would have them know his heart is full of memories that bring
Delight to bygone fellowships, and he would have you tell
Them all he sends them love and cheer, and wishes them so well!

For, over land and over sea the hearts of us that fare
Swell with the messages they bid the homebound comrade bear;
And over days and over years have I fared forth and so
I bid you bear my greetings, Lad, to all the joys you know.
Remember me to all the hearts and hopes and dreams and deeds,
Bear blessings of mine everywhere the path of boyland leads;
Just say you saw an old, old friend, who wanted you to tell
The joys and boys of youth he loved and wished them always well.

LULLABY

SLEEPY little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming
With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow,
Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming
Hear their rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go;
Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing
In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies,
Creep, creep, creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little chatter
Sings his prattling little, rattling little, tattling little tune,
Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter,
As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon;
Beaming little, gleaming little fire flies go dreaming
To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies,
Creep, creep, creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

LULLABY

Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver
In the mushy little, rushy little, reedy, weedy bogs,
Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river
In the joking little, croaking little cadence of the frogs,
Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming
Where the clover heads like fairy little night caps rise,
Creep, creep, creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

DISGUISING TOIL

WHEN I was just a little boy and sent to cut the weeds,
I played myself a hero bold and given to mighty deeds;
I played myself an armored knight, my scythe a broadsword keen,
The weeds an army of my foes come marching o’er the green;
I laid my good broadsword about, they broke and ran pell-mell,
At every stroke some stubborn lout and his retainers fell.
And when I told them of my play, with lusty shouts and glee,
The neighbor boys brought scythes and fell to cutting weeds for me.

When I was just a little boy and sent to cut the wood,
I played myself a frontier scout, six feet in buckskin stood;
I played the red men swarmed about and all the timbers laid
Must be quick hewed and fashioned for an old frontier stockade;
Quick fell my axe with flashing blade, for all about I heard
The war-whoop of the warriors who in the thicket stirred.
And when I told them of my play, with lusty strokes and cry,
The neighbor boys fell to and wrought my woodpile brimming high.

When I was just a little boy and sent to scrub the walk
With hose and broom, I used to play it was the good ship Hawk
Or Hornet, Spider or Whatnot, afire far out at sea,
Nor help at hand where’er I looked, to windward or to lee;
And how I fought the tongues of flame that swept by stern and bow!
The clouds of smoke that rolled above—I almost see them now!
And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout,
The neighbor boys plied hose and broom to put the fire out.

And when I had to shovel snow I led’ some hardy band
Of undismayed discoverers, in far-off Arctic land;
With stores and goods and blubber, too, all buried deep below
The mark that I had left beneath some good six feet of snow;
And almost famished, there I dug, full knowing I should find
At last the goodly stores of stuff that we had left behind.
And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout,
The neighbor boys plied willing spades and helped me dig them out.

LITTLE GIRL WITH THE CURLS

LITTLE girl with the curls, and the passionless eyes,
With your heart that is pure as the cool springs that rise
In the green of the hills, and with cheeks that are fair
And unsoiled of the world as the snowflake in air,
With your dreams that are sweet and that always come true,
Little girl with the curls, here’s a blessing for you.

Little girl with the curls and with grace that is sweet
From the toss of your head to your fast-flying feet,
With the light in your eyes that is brimming with truth
And the straightforward gaze that’s the glory of youth,
With your smiles that are glad and your days that are fair,
Here’s a blessing as rich as the gold of your hair.

Little girl with the curls and the kisses as light
As the butterfly’s kiss of the flower in its flight,
With your heart all atune to the beauties you see,
With the song of your days sweet as music can be,
With your peace like the pardon of heaven unfurls,
Here’s a blessing for you, little girl with the curls.

And Oh, be the days of thy trial as far
From the deeps of the sea as the snowy peaks are!
And Oh, be thy heart in its singing atune,
Thy skies be but blue with the splendors of June.
So bless thee and keep thee and spare thee—with pearls
Be thy days strung through life, little girl with the curls.

MY WONDERFUL DAD

MY Daddy, he lived in a wonderful house, and he played with such wonderful boys;
They were neighbors of his; and the attic they had was a storehouse of wonderful toys;
He slept every night in a wonderful bed, with a tick that his grandmother made
From the feathers of geese that she picked all herself, and so soft he was almost afraid
He would sink out of sight when he got into bed; he could look from his window right out
And see where the vines used to bring him sweet flowers just by crawling along up the spout;
And he could look over and see where the woods and the squirrels and birds used to be.
He must have had wonderful times where he lived from the way that he tells them to me!

My Daddy, he caught the most wonderful fish—there were thin ones and fat ones and round,
And some were so long that their tails when he walked would be dragging right down on the ground;
He scraped off their scales on a log that he had at the woodpile, and said he would know
That log just as well if he saw it today, although that was a long time ago.
He used to dig worms of a wonderful size—he has never seen any like those
Since he was grown up; and on Saturdays he wore a wonderful old suit of clothes
And a hat that an uncle of his had forgot, for on Friday he did all his sums,
And Saturday always he went off somewhere with his one or two wonderful chums.

My Daddy, he lived in a wonderful place when he was a twelve-year-old lad,
For no matter what kind of a day it might be there was always some fun to be had.
He learned how to swim in a wonderful creek, where all of the whole summer long
The water was warm, and the springboard they had it was springy and slippery and strong.
And on the way home they found berries to eat, and he said he remembers them well,
And it didn’t seem nearly a mile to back home, for there always was something to tell
That took up the time both for him and his chums, and sometimes they came home a new way,
And always all summer they had it all planned what to do on the next Saturday.

My Daddy, he said he could go back there now and could take me as straight as a string
To all of the wonderful places he knew—where the first flowers came in the spring;
Where you almost were sure to catch fish in the brook—where the nuts would come dropping in fall;
Where the most berries were on the way to back home—he is sure he remembers them all.
He knows where the squirrels were most apt to be, and the lane where the hay wagon comes;
And said he’d find names in the bark of a tree that were cut there by him and his chums
Twenty-five years ago, and the log where they sat when they found the big garter-snake curled.
My Daddy, he must have had wonderful times in the splendidest place in the world!

REMEMBRANCES, BILL

I WONDER if you still remember them, Bill,
The fresh morning glories that crept up the sill
And nodded at us when the night time was gone
And curtains thrown open to let in the dawn;
The light over there, and the edge of the sun
That blazed on the hill when the day was begun,
The air on our cheeks and the sparkle of dew,
Our hearts and our hopes like the day that was new.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
The way of a thousand delights up the hill,
Through lanes and by hedges, where orchards were sweet,
And clover dews healing the woes of bare feet;
The chatter of squirrels, the rattle of leaves,
The round, yellow pumpkins, the wind-tattered sheaves,
The shade that was deep and lent splendor to dreams
And lips that were laved by the bubbles of streams.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
The times when the cup of all nature would spill
Its gladness for us, when the days overflowed
With the laughter of playtime, and far down the road
Were milestones all marked by delights jointly shared,
To set off the days where adventure’s steps fared;
Nor ever a secret but innocence knew,
The heart of youth hallowed and joy bubbled through.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
The times in the twilight, on hedgerow and hill
When we whistled homeward, upon the old road
With hearts full of gladness that quite overflowed;
The pillows where nestled two tangles of hair,
The joy-freighted dreams, with a left-over share
For the dawn of the morrow—a thread that was pearled
With jewels of joy that were strung ’round our world.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
Our vows to the future we thought to fulfill;
Our day dreams to cherish, our faith to endure,
Through trials how bitter our hearts to keep pure;
No gladness of living but we two would share—
The lanes and the byways are wondrously fair,
But somehow the voices grow tuneless and still—
I wonder if you still remember them, Bill.

THE BEREAVEMENT

WE’RE all alone, ’ist Pop an’ me,
’Cuz Mamma’s gone away somew’eres
T’ stay the longest time; an’ we
Are all alone; an’ Pop ’ist stares
A-past me an’ he never hears
Me when I ast w’ere she could be,
An’ both his eyes are full o’ tears
W’en we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ after w’ile I ast him w’y
She don’t come back; but he don’t know;
An’ ’en some way he starts t’ cry
Till I say, “Please, Pop, don’t cry so.”
An’ put my arms part way around
His neck an’ hug him, ’ist cuz we
Are lonesome; he don’t make a sound;
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ he ’ist hugs me up so tight
An’ sez my Mamma’s gone so fur
She won’t come back, but sez we might
’Ist some day, maybe, go to her.
An’ I ast w’y can’t we go now
’Cuz we’re so lonesome here; but he
Don’t seem to hear me ast, somehow,
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ ’en I ’ist fergit she’s gone
An’ think it’s almos’ time fur her
T’ come an’ put th’ supper on,
But w’en Pop’s eyes are all a blur
I ’member ’at’s she’s gone away,
An’ can’t git supper; Pop sez he
Ain’t hungry, an’ I ain’t, I say;
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ ’en Pop rocks me in his lap
An’ rubs my head, ’ist soft an’ kind,
An’ asts me if I’ll take a nap
If he pulls down th’ parlor blind.
An’ in a little w’ile I fall
Asleep an’ he ’ist rocks; but he
Don’t never go t’ sleep at all,
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

IN CHILDHOOD TIME

HARK! I hear the happy laughter that from children’s voices rings,
Swelling out like some vast golden harp with half a thousand strings,
Every one vibrating grandly in an ecstatic acclaim,
In a medley of sweet melodies that set the birds to shame;
On the harp of childhood’s happiness each note rings clear and true,
For the heart is pure and perfect and each quivering string is new,
And it tells and swells like bells afar that ring and rhyme and chime
The sweetest music ever told in note or tune or time.

When the heart is growing older and the harp of laughter rings,
There’s a false note clashing somewhere in the swelling of the strings;
There’s a chord that strikes imperfect, where some sorrow echoes through
The melody, and grief has warped the strings to strains not true.
Sometimes there’s brilliant music that rings from an empty heart,
But it’s not the melodious laughter of the child, that knows no art,
But just flows full and free, for Nature’s teachings, undefiled,
Make music that is heart-true in the sweet voice of a child.

Could I gather every note that floats and rings and swells and tells
The gladness of the child’s heart, true as any chime of bells
May tell the passing hour, and fashion them into a song,
’Twould thrill and fill the air with melody as though a throng
Of seraphim, as tinkling cymbals struck the twinkling stars
In heaven’s perfect music, where no din or discord mars,
And a myriad strings would mingle in a melody sublime,
The rhyme and chime of laughter gathered from all Childhood’s Time.

DON’T

A HUNDRED times a day I hear
His mother say: “Don’t do that, dear!”
From early morn till dusk ’tis all
“Don’t do that, dear!” I hear her call
From the back porch and front and side
As though some evil would betide
Unless she drummed it in his ear:
“Don’t do that, dear! Don’t do that, dear!”

If he goes out and slams the door;
“Don’t do that, dear!” and if the floor
Is newly scrubbed and he comes near;
“Don’t do that, dear!” is all I hear.
If he comes romping down the stairs;
“Don’t do that, dear!” and if he wears
No coat, but hangs it somewhere near,
She sees and says: “Don’t do that, dear!”

If he goes shinning up a tree:
“Don’t do that, dear!” If he should be
Astride a roof I know I’ll hear
Her call to him: “Don’t do that, dear!”
His life is all “Don’t this,” “Don’t that,”
“Don’t loose the dog,” “Don’t chase the cat,”
“Don’t go,” “Don’t stay,” “Don’t there,” “Don’t here,”
“Don’t do that, dear!” “Don’t do that, dear!”

Sometimes he seems to me as still
As any mouse until a shrill
“Don’t do that, dear!” falls on the air
And drives him swift away from there.
So when he finds another spot:
“Don’t do that, dear!” and he says: “What?”
And she replies and cannot say say—
But—“Well, don’t do it, anyway!”

EXTINGUISHED

THE boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled”—
When Tommy Gibbs stood up to speak he had it in his head,
But when he saw the schoolroom full of visitors, he knew,
From his weak knees and parching tongue, the words had all fled, too.

“The boy stood on the burning deck”—a second time he tried,
But he forgot about the boy, or if he lived or died;
He only knew the burning deck was something nice and cool
Beside the rostrum where he stood that awful day in school.

“The boy stood on the burning deck”—he felt the flames and smoke.
His tongue was thick, his mouth was dry, he felt that he would choke.
And from the far back seats he heard a whisper run about:
“Come back here, Tom, and take your seat. They’ve put the fire out!”

THE UNCHEERED HERO

TIM Brooks he studies awful hard
And faithful all the year,
But goes out in the school house yard
And never gets a cheer;
And Billy Gibbs, he shirks and frets—
He hates to work at all—
But you should hear the cheer he gets
Because he hits the ball.

Tim Brooks he always leads his class
And gets his lessons done;
But Billy Gibbs lets hours pass
Just thinking up some fun;
But no one cheers and throws his hat
And says: “Hurrah for Tim!”
But when Bill Gibbs goes up to bat
The boys all cheer for him.

Bill Gibbs he suffers awful pain
When he comes to recite;
He cannot do his sums again
Or get his grammar right;
Then teacher calls on Timmy Brooks
And points to him with pride,
But when we play a game she looks
And cheers for Bill outside.

Sometimes Tim Brooks he sees the game
And watches Bill at bat,
He gets excited just the same
And cheers and throws his hat;
But when he has his sums in school
And Bill is watching him,
Bill quite forgets the Golden Rule
And never cheers for Tim.

I guess I’d rather be like Tim
Than Billy Gibbs, but when
The boys outside are cheering him
It sounds quite pleasant then;
And it must sometimes seem quite hard
To study all the year,
And go out in the school house yard
But never get a cheer!

OLD HALLOWE’EN FRIENDS

OHO! Mr. Ghost, with your raiment of white,
Come to frighten me out of my wits in the night!
With your eyes flaming forth like two coals and your breath
Bearing fire that would scare a poor mortal to death;
With your rows of great teeth grinning widely at me
And your loose-hanging gown flapping under the tree
In the orchard out there—Oh! I know how you’re made,
And the youngsters who made you, so I’m not afraid.

Oho! Mr. Ghost, I am waiting for you;
You’re an old friend of mine, both trustworthy and true;
For that big head of yours that near gave me a fright
Was in somebody’s pumpkin patch only last night.
And out of my window not two hours ago
I saw your head scooped out by Bill, Jack, and Joe;
And I saw you stuck up on the end of a lath
Before you were stationed right here in my path.

Oho! Mr. Ghost, with your garments so fine!
I know what became of that sheet on the line
In the neighbor’s back yard, newly washed and alone,
It is hiding that lath that you use for backbone.
And the candle that burned in the kitchen last night
Lights those cavernous eyes that near gave me a fright;
Indeed, you are made from such odds and such ends
That I feel we’re the warmest of very old friends.

And those sepulchral groans you are making at me,
I know whence they come—from that big apple tree
That is right behind you—I have heard them before;
They were begging for cake at the side kitchen door.
So you see, Mr. Ghost, with your pumpkin and lath,
With your candle and sheet, when I came up the path
I heard a boy chuckle up there in the tree,
And that is the reason you can’t frighten me!

A REFUGE IN DISTRESS

A FELLOW’s father he looks wise
Of office work and such,
But when it comes to things like what
A boy wants, he ain’t much.
For when it comes to cuts or warts
Or stone bruise on your toes,
A fellow’s father don’t know, but
A fellow’s mother knows.

A fellow’s father he looks wise
And says: “A-hem! A-hem!”
But when it comes to cakes and pies,
What does he know of them?
He knows the price of wheat and rye
And corn and oats, it’s true,
But if you get the leg ache, why,
He don’t know what to do.

And if you burned your back the time
That you went in to swim,
And want some stuff to heal it, why,
You never go to him,
Because he doesn’t know a thing
About such things as those,
But you just bet, and don’t forget,
A fellow’s mother knows.

And if your nose is sunburned, till
It’s all peeled off, and you
Go to him for some healin’ stuff,
He don’t know what to do.
He’s just as helpless as can be,
But when a fellow goes
And asks his mother, why, you see,
A fellow’s mother knows.

A fellow’s father knows a lot,
But it ain’t any use,
So if a fellow’s really got
The leg ache or a bruise,
Or if there’s anything he wants
He gets right up and goes
And asks his mother, for, you see,
A fellow’s mother knows.

THE LOST HEART

BACK among the trees and trellises, along the leaf-strewn lane,
Sitting on the bank of the mill stream and dreaming dreams again,
Drinking water sweet as nectar from the bucket at the well,
In the orchard’s leaf and silence, watching windfalls as they fell,
Trying here, at five and thirty, just to be a boy again,
To recall the joys of boyhood and forget the cares of men;
But I listen to a lesson in the twitter of the wren:
When the boy’s heart turns to man’s it never throbs the same again.

Once the sun marks noon of lifetime, once the morning steals away,
Once the shadows growing shorter and then fall the other way,
Once the play time ends at manhood, once the frolicking is done,
Once the face is turned from dawning to the setting of the sun,
You may sit among the flowers that you plucked and threw away,
Turn the leaves of Time all backward, try to read them as you may,
You may kindle fires of Memory, you may sit and watch the flame,
But there’s something changed within you that can never be the same.

You may lay aside the burden of your troubles as you will,
But the bent and sunken shoulders tell the story to you still;
The story of the troubles and the trials that are sealed
From the simple hearts of children, and to men alone revealed.
The sorrow dulls, the sigh is stilled, the sore hearts soothed are,
The smarting wound is healed again, but always leaves a scar,
The fire of youth burns only once, and dies in its dead flame,
The simple heart of boyhood that can never be the same.

So I sit among the trellises and trees and wonder why:
Clear the air as in my boyhood and as blue the unflecked sky,
Full the leaves as ever blowing, sweet the bird songs and as free,
But the boy’s heart that throbbed to them is untuned and dead in me.
There’s a longing, longing, longing, speaking in a deep-drawn sigh,
For the heart that throbbed in boyhood, cloudless as the azure sky;
For the heart that was the sunlight and the air—that tongue nor pen
Can ever paint or picture—that I cannot know again.

VERSES OF A LITTLE CHILD

NEVER care as she lies asleep,
Dear little lassie with red-brown hair;
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep,
Keep for the little one slumbering there.
Never a dream as she lies so still,
Never a dream but of Fairyland,
Fairyland and the flowers that fill
Her bed, and the lilies within her hand.

Never a tear as she lies at rest,
Now or ever or evermore;
Never a sorrow to bruise her breast,
Ever the gladness of fairylore.
Never the rough way to bruise her feet,
Never or ever a discord sound,
Only the murmur of music sweet,
And the laughing of Cherubim, all around.

Never a sigh from the silent lips,
For the dollies all carefully laid away;
Only the music of laughter slips
Out of the realm of the sunlit day.
Never or ever a thought or care,
For the little hat with its flowered wreath,
Bearing a vision of red-brown hair
Flying in tangled curls beneath.

VERSES OF A LITTLE CHILD

Dead? Ah, no! She is just asleep,
Asleep where the dreams and daisies are;
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep,
Keep in the light of a twinkling star.
Asleep, and the odors of flowers fill
Her bed, and the lilies within her hand;
Asleep, and the whispering angels still
Her sighs with the dreams of Fairyland.

GOLDEN DAYS IN SLOWVILLE

THESE are golden days in Slowville; there is gladness up and down;
For they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town.
Flaming sheets of red and yellow on its every barn and fence
Tell of wonders aggregated disregardful of expense.
Tell of wildernesses threaded for the fierce Bigrigmajig;
Tell of jungle-beasts made captive and of marvels small and big,
“In a most stupendous spectacle of splendor and renown,”
Say the flaming circus posters in the little country town.

They have wielded monster brushes from the dewy hours of morn,
They have covered half of Jones’s barn with grandeur heaven-born;
They have pictured fluffy ladies on the backs of dashing steeds,
They have ornamented Slowville with a wealth of daring deeds;
They have left a Ripperumptus on the back of Robbin’s fence,
Captured in the wilds of Africa at marvelous expense;
They’ve a retinue of big-eyed lads as they move up and down
When they put up circus posters in the little country town.

Oh! the multicolored marvels done in wonder-rousing haste
With a broad red barn for background and no means but brush and paste.
“Hi, there, Jimmy! See the monkeys!” All the air is shrill with cries
As the likenesses of wild beasts are upreared in gorgeous dyes;
There’s the fierce Ornithorinktus and the dreadful Whatisnot,
The blood-sweating Crinklawoozum and the awful Bingleswat.
Tent and sideshow, flag and streamer, elephant, parade, and clown—
Oh! they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town.

These are sleepless nights in Slowville; sleepless nights and anxious days;
There’s a hoarding of stray pennies got in half a hundred ways;
There are lads in wonder raptured; open-mouthed, with bulging eyes,
Where the marvelous menageries from gorgeous posters rise;
Oh! there’s glory, glory, glory in the chariots arrayed,
There’s rapture in the promise of the splendorous parade;
And new life has come to Slowville and is surging up and down
Since they put up circus posters in the little country town.

Boys and Girls / The Verses of James W. Foley

About This Book

A MESSAGE HOME

LULLABY

DISGUISING TOIL

LITTLE GIRL WITH THE CURLS

MY WONDERFUL DAD

REMEMBRANCES, BILL

THE BEREAVEMENT

IN CHILDHOOD TIME

DON’T

EXTINGUISHED

THE UNCHEERED HERO

OLD HALLOWE’EN FRIENDS

A REFUGE IN DISTRESS

THE LOST HEART

VERSES OF A LITTLE CHILD

GOLDEN DAYS IN SLOWVILLE

THE HEART OF A CHILD