Cross Roads | Page 5

the house is
haunted with ghosts of other
days.
The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow
stair,
And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer
Steals out,
and then a love song, and then a bugle
call,
And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.
The story of the old house that stands beside the
glen?
That story is forgotten by every one; but when
The house is
touched and softened by sunset's golden
rays,
I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of
sweeter days.
TO A PAIR OF GLOVES
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter thin an' worn;
With th' fingers neatly darned,
Like they had been torn.
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Not s' much ter see. . . .
Not a soul on earth can guess
What they mean ter me!

Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter tossed aside;
Limp an' quiet, folded up,
Like their soul had died.
Every finger seems ter look
Lonely, an' my hand
Trembles as it touches them --
Who can understand?
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Ah, she tossed 'em there. . . .
Singin'-like, she turned ter go,
Didn't have a care!
Kissin' them? A prayer, a tear?
God, my head WILL bow --
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
. . . . Empty, now!
PEAKS
A storm may rage in the world below,
It may tear great trees apart;
But here on the mountain top, I know
That it cannot touch my heart.
I have struggled up through the lightning's glare,
I have walked where the cliffs fell sheer
To a gorge below, but I
breathed a prayer,
And my soul passed doubt and fear!
Here on the mountain top the air
Is clear as a silver song;
And the sun is warm on my unbound hair;

AND WHAT THOUGH THE WAY WAS LONG?
What though the way was steep and bleak,
And what though the road was hard?
I stand at last on the mountain
peak,
With my eyes upraised to God!
A storm may sweep through the world below,
It may rend great rocks apart;
But here on the crest of the world I
know
That it cannot touch my heart.
LIL' FELLER
When th.' sunshine's golden-yeller
Like th' curls upon his head,
Then he wakes -- th' lil' feller --
An' he jumps up, outen bed;
An' he scrambles fer his knickers
Flung, perhaps, upon th' floor,
An' he takes his hat (my old 'un),
An' he races through th' door --
An' I hear his voice, a-singin',
In his odd, ole-fashioned way,
'Cause he's glad -- th' lil' feller --
In th' mornin' o' the day.
Kinder makes me feel, well, lazy,
So I hurry up, outside,
Where th' mountains smile down, friendly --
And th' earth looks sorter wide;
An' I hear his voice a-callin',

Sayin', "Daddy, come an' see!"
An' I find him makin' gardens
Where a rock pile uster be --
An' I shout, "How goes it, sonny?"
An' my heart feels light an' gay,
Fer he's singin' -- lil' feller --
In th' mornin' o' th' day.
Lil' feller, an' his gardens!
It don't matter much ter him,
If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious,
An' th' crop he grows is slim;
Fer he loves ter be a-workin',
An' he loves ter see things start
Outer nothin'. . . . There's a garden
In th' rock-bed o' my heart
That he's planted, just by singin'
In his odd, ole-fashioned way --
'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER,
In th' mornin' o' th' day!
TO AN OLD SCHOOLHOUSE
Down by the end of the lane it stands,
Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,
Down where the sweet
wild berry patch,
Holds out a lure for eager hands.
Down at the end
of the lane, who knows
The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats,
When the moon is dark,
and the gray sky meets
With the dawn time light, and a chill wind
blows?
Ghosts -- well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams --
Rather like wistful shades, that stand
Waiting a look or an

outstretched hand,
To call them back where the morning gleams --

Dreams of the hopes we had, that died,
Dreams of the vivid youth we sold;
Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold
--
Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed !
Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep
With the lesson books on the dusty rack,
Of the joyous years that will
not come back --
That are drowned in the tears we have learned to
weep.
Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are
As a plant that grows in a desert place,
Sweet as a dear remembered
face --
Sweet as a pale, courageous star.
Where the sumac grows in a flaming wall,
It stands, at the end of a little lane,
And there do the children come
again,
Answering, still, the bell's shrill call,
Just as we came, with
their songs unsung,
And their hopes all new, and their dreams dew
kissed,
Brave as the sun in a