I’m an old wooden clock, on the mantel I stand,
 Pointing the hours with my slender hand;
 Tick-tock I say, all day and all night through,
 If you’ll wind me I’ll even waken you;
 I never smile, I look always the same,
 For I’m caged up in this old wooden frame.
I keep on going, year in and year out,
 For I know just what I am about;
 It’s not much time that you give me to wind me,
 But that I demand, I’ll not run till you wind me,
 For I can be just as still—not a sound
 Will escape me until with the key I am wound.
You must handle me gently, I am easily shaken,
 If you don’t I to the clocksmith must be taken;
 I’m heavy, even though I’m not very large,
 For the larger the clock, the smaller the charge;
 And the times are quite hard, at least so they say,
 I work for love of you, but folks work for pay.
My springs are the finest of steel from the north,
 From the mountains of Norway I was brought forth;
 The fjords of that country for centuries have washed me,
 Till I’m the bluest of steel, none better there can be;
 How I came out here, I can guess, I suppose,
 And I have been faithful, as everyone knows.
And this wooden frame, from a far away land,
 Is from the black forests, so stately and grand,
 And carved in old Switzerland, so now you can see
 I’m really as costly as I can be;
 And, with your consent, on this mantel I’ll stand,
 And solemnly point the hours with my slender hand.

A Wedding Anniversary.

’Twas many years ago, my dear, do you remember?
 And how bitter cold it was, the twenty-fourth of December,
 When we plighted our troth, for better, for worse,
 When I promised to obey—and in sickness to nurse;
 When you said yes, I take thee to be my wedded wife,
 To have and to hold, for the rest of my life,
 To love and to cherish, ’til death us do part;
 Today I repeat the same—my old sweetheart.
 Sweetheart of my youth, sweetheart you are yet,
 And sweetheart from the time when first we met;
 Life seems more sweet now, with you by my side;
 Even before I was your little bride.
 Today I thrice promise, till death us do part,
 Till we’re wedded in heaven, sweetheart, dear heart.

Sing.

Sing, you happy children, sing;
 It makes you glad for everything.
 Sing from morning to the night,
 Everything will seem more bright;
 And for health there’s nothing better,
 Open your lung cells, do not fetter.
 If you want to be well and great and strong
 When you are older, the world among,
 Then sing, just sing, I pray you, sing;
 There will be sweet harmony in everything,
 Just sing.

Kindness.

Kindness has no value true,
 Only a sweet smile will do;
 Don’t you think the kindly touch
 Of the hand, it don’t seem much.
Yet it means more than one can tell,
 It is a time that is spent well.
 Let us not forgetful be,
 These little kindnesses to see.
Teach us purity and love,
 Lend thy light from heaven above;
 To you, and me, sweet peace divine,
 That goodness from our hearts may shine.

Roses.

Roses, roses, dear fair roses,
 In your heart sweet scent reposes;
 In the morning when the dew
 Trickles diamonds down on you.
Then you lift your head with pride,
 You can adorn a fair June bride,
 But your life, so short, so fair,
 Is dried up by noonday air.
But others come out by your side,
 And open up their petals wide;
 Life is but short, so let us throw
 Sunshine and roses where we go.

There Is a Time.

Life is so serious, life is so grand,
 Just look about on every hand;
There is heat to make vegetation grow,
 When the sun shines out in golden glow.
Can you make the chrysanthemum bloom in the spring?
 No, there is a time and place for everything.
Does the fruit tree bear when the weather is cold?
 It’s the kiss of the sun that makes it unfold.
In summer to grow, in winter to sleep;
 Below glaciers gay colored flowers peep.
A time to eat, a time to sleep,
 A time to laugh, a time to weep.
The ceaseless tides that ebb and flow;
 Their reason and wherefore, dost thou know?
A time to work, a time to pray,
 To ask God’s blessings on the day.
A time to plant, a time to reap;
 At night the stars their vigil keep.
A time for frost, a time for dew;
 These are nature’s changes, always new.
A picture today, you may love and adore,
 In the passing of time, will you care for it more?
A time to dance, a time to sing,
 A time to be glad for everything.
The song of the wind is singing to you,
 Moaning and whistling the whole night through.
Can we make our destines for weel or for woe?
 Are we not created to be just so?
For good or for evil, is there a hand that guides,
 All things are for good, none else besides.
Plants bend toward the sun to thrive and to grow,
 Are the stars reflected in the afterglow?
There is a time to mate for the birds that fly;
 Can we see all with the naked eye?
This law is as firm as the mountains that stand,
 Truly the world “somewhere has a firm hand.”
There is a time to laugh, a time to sigh;
 And there will come a time to lie down and die.

Rural Baptizing Years Ago.

A good and noble friend invited us to come
 And bring the family along, to spend the month of June.
 We planned and talked trip, both night and day,
 Until the time came, we would be on our way.
 We packed a basket full of good things to eat
 On the train, for the children, was happiness complete.
 In the afternoon at four, we reached our destination,
 Looking around, there was no one at the station
 To meet us with family small.
 Was our letter miscarried or lost in the mail?
A man on a horse came leisurely riding so light;
 Can you direct us to the home of Mr. White?
 It’s three miles from here—take the road to the right;
 And walk we must, there was nothing else in sight.
 We arrived there safely, ’twas a small home, but neat,
 Nestled away under pine trees so sweet.
 There wasn’t a screen on windows or doors,
 Not even a mat on any of the floors.
 A sturdy farmer, he declared a home to make
 For his family; but hard work it would take.
A church deacon called one cool Friday night,
 And said he wanted to have the right
 To have a baptizing in the lake next Sunday at eleven,
 For their minister had many souls to bring to heaven.
 Mr. White said the water in many places was deep,
 Especially such and such a place; must open eyes keep;
 The place that he mentioned was a very deep hole,
 You will have to be careful—I’ll prepare a long pole.
 Sunday morning dawned, not a cloud to be seen,
 And the weeds all around had been mowed down and clean;
 Many wagons drove in full of good people
 Who were going to praise God without a church or a steeple.
Out in the open, a gorgeous blue canopy, and the sun
 Was warm and delicious, this day in June.
 The minister looked pale, I thought, as he stood there.
 The services began, a few words and a prayer;
 Then an old man sang out, after giving thanks
 With a trill in his voice on Jordan’s stormy banks.
 They all joined in and sang this way and that,
 And another good friend passed ’round the hat.
 The minister held to the pole, and the Good Book,
 And began to descend into the water. I shook
 From my head to my heels, in every limb,
 I was very much troubled in watching him.
 The next cautious step he took I let out a yell,
 I was nervous true, I’m ashamed to tell;
 I heard Farmer White say, only two nights before,
 Be very careful, not too far from shore.
People said this fine minister was mighty brave,
 Such a good man of the gospel, these poor souls to save;
 The baptizing went on; each one received tender care
 By the friends who lived in the neighborhood there.
 When the last amen was said, I lifted a prayer
 And a deep sigh, for His merciful and tender care.
 It was all so simple, out on the green.
 To a more solemn service I never have been.
 They dined and feasted, the sun went to rest;
 Each wended their way to the home they loved best.
This was the beginning, but it was not the last,
 They have built up a church, and many years have passed.
 The days glided by, our visit came to an end
 Only too soon, we parted our mutual friend;
 Then we bade them to remember our latch key was always outside;
 Do come and make a visit, and we’ll show you our town, with much pride.

Leaving the Old Home.

We are leaving the old home that has sheltered us long,
 Its walls have recorded many a tear, many a song.
 How can I leave you, sweet home, for the new;
 We have baeen such good friends, some years, it is true.
 I know every corner, from the attic down,
 And also the cellar; dear house, painted brown.
This chair I have sat in, is creaky and old;
 I cannot give up, though you offer me gold.
 This bureau, and bedstead, is old fashioned, too,
 All painted white, with wide panels of blue;
 And morning glories entwined, with roses so pink,
 With my babes in my arms, sweet memories link.
In this bed our children first saw light of day,
 Where we taught them, Our Father, at even to pray;
 I’ll go out tonight and ask Venus, the star,
 Fair Queen of the Heavens, will I my happiness mar?
 And if she is blinking, I’ll know it means yes,
 And will shine in my windows, my new home to bless.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

Some skiis and some skates=> Some skis and some skates {pg 24}

Tick-tock I say, all day and and night through=> Tick-tock I say, all day and all night through {pg 69}