NAWSA Subject File Tallant, Alice W. A COLLECTION OF VERSES by and about THE CAMPERS AT BIRCH BAY CAMP 1892-93. Lake Memphremagog. Sent by Dr. Alice Weld Tallant of Philadelphia, to Edna L. Stantial in August 1953, as "camp data about the Barrows group" of which Alice Stone Blackwell was a member. B INDEX (with explanatory remarks by Dr. Alice Weld Tallant) p. 1. "Aunt Isabel" - written by Alice Stone Blackwell, though - 5 her name is not given as its author. 6. - Aunt Polly Dolphin - by Rev. Samuel June Barrows 8. - To Miss Babby Snicker-rat - by Samuel J. Barrows 10 0 To Pokie - by S. J. Barrows 11 - To Rosalind - by Wm. L. N. MacEvan 14 - Isaac's Farewell - by Alice Stone Blackwell 15 - Cousin Effie - (Miss Hayes) - by Alice Stone Blackwell 16 - To Isaac - by Babbie (Miss Alice Brown) 17 - To the Ex-Chaperon - by Babbie. 19 - Aunt Isabel, to the Camp Reunion, June 1893, - Isabel Barrows. 21 - Welcome - by Rev. W. P. McKenzie. 22 - Hymn for Reunion - Rev. W. P. McKenzie. 23 - Lines - by Alice Stone Blackwell (written to Alice Brown) 25 - Burnet - by S. J. Barrows 26 - A Welcome to Isaac (Alice Stone Blackwell) by Alice Brown 27 - " " (by Rev. W. P. McKenzie. 28 - To the Dominee - by Alice Brown. C Explanation of nicknames used in "camp data": Aunt Isabel - Mrs. Isabel C. Barrows, head of the camp. She was a co-worker with her husband. Rev. Samuel June Barrows - the editor of the CHRISTIAN REGISTER, Unitarian publication. Isaac - is Alice Stone Blackwell. Babbie - Miss Alice Brown, the writer. Cousin Effie - Mrs. Barrows' sister, Miss Effie Hayes. Mac - Rev. W. P. McKenzie, a minister from The Dominee Canada, who later lived on Concord Avenue in Cambridge Ku Klux Klan - name given to a group at camp Her-cules (two syllables) was Dr. Alice Weld Tallant (she is not mentioned in these verses, but was the Smith College girl about whom Miss Blackwell wrote an article for the Woman's Journal. Miss Amy Wentworth was the Vassar girl mentioned in the article. Miss Alice Phillippa Chase of Lynn is another of the campers, often mentioned by Miss Blackwell. D (COPY) Letter from Dr. Alice Weld Tallant, Philadelphia, Pa. to Edna L. Stantial, August 2, 1953, accompanying the "camp data about the Barrows group". Dear Mrs. Stantial: Your letter of July 23rd reached me only Saturday, after my return from my vacation. Unfortunately I left West Chop the evening of July 17th, so there was no chance of my seeing you. I only wish that we might have met. I did call on Miss Blackwell once when I was visiting the Vineyard, and I remember well the house and its surroundings. I promptly hunted up the Barrows camp data about "Isaac" and am sending you the screed with many apologies for my inexcusable procrastination. Any of my friends will tell you that I am the worst of correspondents. I don't believe that I could have called the data "old diaries" for I did not keep a diary then. What I have is a copy, made by one of the campers, of various camp poems or songs, some of which concern Isaac. Some were written by her, others about her. I am afraid that they have no particular biographical value, but they may amuse you and add some personal interest. By way of explanation I will add a few remarks about persons connected with the poems, as I probably did not tell you about them all. "Aunt Isabel" as you doubtless know, was Mrs. Isabel C. Barrows, the head of the camp. She was a co-worker with her husband, Rev. Samuel June Barrows, the editor of the Christian Register. The long poem with which the collection starts was written by A. S. B. though her name is not given as its author. The next pages I have clipped together, as having little interest for you. Then comes "Isaac's Farewell," of course by A. S. B. "Babbie", to whom she refers, was Miss Alice Brown the writer. It is needless to say that they were great friends. Next is "Cousin Effie", who was Aunt Isabel's sister. She is mentioned in the "Farewell" as Miss Hayes. "To Isaac" was probably written by Babbie, though credited to an unidentified "miscreant". The "Lines" concerning Babbie "with Isaac's compliments" are a notable companion piece to it. Skip a page and you will come upon an effusion by Babbie in another vein, "A Welcome to Isaac". Then come two which concern both Isaac and "Cousin Mac" (Rev. W.P. McKenzie, a minister from Canada.) The "Ku Klux Klan" was a name given to a group which included Babbie. If there are other points which I can clear up for you, please let me know, and I will try to answer with a fair degree of promptness. I have enclosed a word from Isaac herself, when The Dominee E -2- she returned the book to me after I had lent it to her, some years ago, as you see. . . . . . . . The copy was made for me by a special camp friend who died fifteen years ago, and I like to keep it as a memory of her. I wonder if you happen to be familiar with something which Isaac wrote (for the Woman's Journal, I imagine) about camp and some college girls who were there one summer. The Vassar girl was the friend whom I have just mentioned, Amy Wentworth, and I was the Smith girl. . . . . . . . My hearty thanks to you for writing to me at the Vineyard and my sincere regret that I did not have a chance to see you. With all good wishes, Alice W. Tallant (known to Isaac as "Hercules" (2 syllables) -1- AUNT ISABEL (April 17, 1892) "At a moderate estimate, there were about three-and- twenty sides to that lady's character." Rudyard Kipling. * * * Aunt Isabel! Aunt Isabel! A birthday rhyme befits you well; But the subject is really too utterly too! Who shall venture to write on it? Who, oh who? (And Echo, like an ambushed owl, Repeats, "Oh, who? with plaintive howl). The task is stupendous, distracting, immense, For the subject's a tough one in every sense. E'en in her girlhood would folks designate her, As "one half horse and one half alligator." She is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and half a dozen strange folks beside, In one small woman personified. If anything happens to rouse her gall, She will take your head off and chop you small. And sprinkle red pepper over it all. If softer feelings her breast control, She will pet you warmly with heart and soul, and feast you on goodies and jelly-roll. She is like a hedge-hog with prickly skin, But full of rich, juicy meat within, Or a chestnut-burr with a thorny rind, But full of sweet nuts, and velvet-lined. My knowledge of life, gained from novels is great; I revel in reading them early and late; But I never yet found, in the wildest of fictions, A woman made up of such strange contradictions. She is honey and vitriol mixed in one flagon, A marvellous compound of door-mat and dragon. A dragon to those whom she loathes as sincerely. A hybrid of angel and griffin, because With celestial wings, she has terrible claws. * 2 * Her brains have qualities so rare They feed a wondrous crop of hair It curls and crinkles everywhere, Like tendrils sunny vineyards bear, Or writing snakes Satanic, According as her humor goes. (Each traveller in the tropics know Luxuriant vegetation shows The soil is rich whereon it grows - Rich, and perhaps volcanic!) -- Her blue Scotch eyes are keen and clear, Her features, in repose, severe; But when a smile breaks o'er them, The light that beameth from her phiz A sight to be remembered is - As when a sunburst, far and wide, Has some stern landscape glorified With rays that pour a dazzling tide And chase the clouds before them. But when one comes to sketch her mind, One's powers are "cabined, cribbed, confined". With gifts and talents she is brimming, Enough to set up twenty women. It would take all the old year and into the new, To enumerate half of the things she can do. - - If an orator rises to startle the land, She is lying in wait for him, pencil in hand. Be it Swedish or Russian or Choctaw or Greek, She will take him down almost before he can speak, And before the last echoes have died on the air You will see the whole speech in the Herald appear. When the speakers are shy, she has shown herself able To take them down secretly under the table. She can edit the REGISTER*, lecture and preach, And shorthand and other strange arts she can teach. She is learned in medicine; shocking to tell We suspect that she dabbles in witchcraft as well. If she gets up a noon lunch intended for four, She can stretch to reach to a dozen or more. *When the Rev. S. J. Barrows is absent on a spree. - 3 - We don't know how she does it - the problem is tough, Yet somehow or other they all have enough. But then certain condiments always abound Whenever this same B. C. B. is around, - Certain relishes for which she is ne'er at a loss, I refer to all kinds and descriptions of sauce.* For finding her friends situations in plenty This lady is equal to seven and twenty Intelligence offices, all in full blast; Her circle is wide, her benevolence vast. Though her stock of sharp language is large and complete, She is full of kind deeds as an egg is of meat. - - She can put up a tent; she can make up a mighty Nice bed of the twigs of the sweet arborvitae. She can also do tailoring, and "do it up brown", (Though she sewed in a coat collar once upside down). She can take a sick baby that weighs but eight pounds** And fatten him up till his plumpness astounds. And his clear rosy cheeks look so wholesome and good He might serve as a picture to mark "Mellin's Food". - - Of course, like a good woman suffrage wife, She loves her husband more than her life. (She is so clear-sighted, and 'cute and knowing, She picked out the very best husband going.) She is foremost and first of the Slaves of the Lamp*** She shows it in town, and she shows it in camp. Yet she often finds time, 'mid her manifold labors, For making sweet eyes at her masculine neighbors. - - She has the most wonderful genius for work, Both winter and summer she toils like a Turk. All summer for seventeen campers she cooks. Voracious keen campers with wild hungry looks. Sharp-set both because of the fresh mountain air And because of the camp cook's delectable fare. *I have had more sauce administered to me at the REGISTER office than anywhere else in my experience. This rhyme is in part payment for the same. ** Willie's weight when she took him. ***For an explanation of this expression consult Miss Clapp. - 4 - They swoop on the table like hawks on their prey And before them the victuals melt quickly away; The porridge and chowder and other good things All vanish as quickly as if they had wings. And the dishes are scraped till so spotless to view That the washes and wipers have little to do. - - (She has made domestic discord in a score of happy homes, For each father of a family, when home from camp he comes, In mournful accents tells his wife, "My dear I cannot see Why you find it so impossible to cook like Mrs. B!") - - When somebody must on an errand be sent, Aunt Isabel stands in the door of her tent, And she looks for a camper whom she may employ, And she says with authority, "Catch me a boy!" And all the wild kids of her frolicsome flock, Obey her like soldiers, nor venture to mock. After breakfast is over she climbs to a shelf In the spacious log-cabin she shingled herself. You may see her there many a morning and oft, Like the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, Preparing reports while her small fingers fly And her typewriter clicks as the long hours go by. Stacks of proof come by mail and are sent back corrected, with lynx-eyed attention, no flaw undetected; And often her lamp in the log cabin glows When the rest of the campers are wrapped in repose. A row after supper is her sole recreation In a day full of toils; and she calls this "vacation". - - In winter from city to city she goes, "Taking" everything earthly excepting repose. She will traverse a continent, or sail o'er a sea, As calmly as others go out to take tea. And when she is weary and should go to bed She goes to gymnasium and stands on her head, refreshing herself from the toils of the day By vaulting o'er bars in a frolicsome way. And going through all the proceedings fantastic That delight devotees of the science gymnastic. - 5 - When she goes abroad on her coming trip, If the weight of her sins should sink the ship, And the whole Barrows family, at one swoop Should find itself suddenly "in the soup", The shark or other aquatic sinner That makes off Mrs. B. his dinner, Will find the consequences fearful; His woes will make the brine more tearful. The colic caused by that fiery morsel Will rack him from ventral fins to dorsal; While some big whale is peacefully Digesting gentle Mr.B., Without one colicky qualm or quaver, Delighted with his rare sweet savor, No bitterness in all his flavor. Unequal fate for two poor fishes From dining on such different dishes. - - What will become of this compound creature When death dissolves her earthly frame? One part of her is of celestial nature, The other portion the fiends will claim. A thousand voices will outpour, Their welcome in a mighty roar, Uniting in one joyous yell - "Aunt Isabel! Aunt Isabel! - 6 - AUNT POLLY DOLPHIN by Rev. S. J. Barrows Oh golly* How jolly Is Aunt Polly. Aunt Polly is our Birch Bay belle Whate'er she does, she does it well. How many things I could not tell. For work or play she's always good. She'll eat her share of daily food, And make it all into good blood. Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, Aunt Polly. - - Her smiles illuminate our camp, Whene'er she's round we need no lamp. She is a belle of the right stamp With brain or tongue, or hear or hand, She's busy aye on sea or land. What force Aunt Polly can command. Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah Aunt Polly. - - But would you see her dolphin craft, Just watch her swim from shore to raft, And do not think Aunt Polly daft. If some mischievous wave alarms She flings the full weight of her charms Plump into Uncle June's wet arms. Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah Aunt Polly. - *Used by poetic license for the sake of the rhyme as neither "jimminy" nor "blazes" would fit. - 7 - She mends the stocking for the boys Indeed 'tis one of her chief joys Oh, what industrious equipoise! And if she wants some other yarns She hears a story while she darns - Or Italy's sweet tongue she learns. Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, Aunt Polly. - - And often with the bag-de-bean Aunt Polly's active mirth is seen. (The bags wash out, they are not clean)* And with a half coquettish toss She'll fling the bag the field across, And time thus spent she counts no loss. Rah rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, Aunt Polly - - All hail, Aunt Polly, Birch Bay belle, We cannot all your virtues tell But indicate them just pell mell. We thank you for your sunny face And wish we had but half your grace To run our sublunary race. Rah, rah, rah, (about twenty-seven times by all the camp boys). AUNT POLLY! - *Having played with the bags on a rainy day the blue color washed out on the players' hands, and Chee Chee had to scrub Uncle June's hands with soap and brush. August 8, 1892 -8- TO MISS BABBY SNICKERATT By an admirer. Sweet angel of the classic brow, I own they melting charms. A glance from thee is worth, I trow, Two Memphremagog farms. Those rare-ripe lips, those sparkling eyes, Aflame with Love's own fire! Who getteth thee doth get a prize; You are my heart's desire. Thy finely modulated voice Its tones they thrill my ears, They make my inmost soul rejoice And confiscate my fears. Sweet mermaid of the lucid lake, I claim they fishy hand, Thy love alone my thirst can slake, Oh yield to my demand! Proud tosser in the bean-bag show, Unfurl thy pug-wound hair, And let its wavy tresses flow Upon thy shoulders fair. Oh, bold night-footed Snicker-rat, Resolve they mystery! My tender heart goes pitty-pat; Beats not thy heart for me? Oh Rosalind! Oh! Pokie dear, Please intercede for me! I'll wipe the dishes, do not fear, If she will wash for me. Sweet author of the Woman's Rest, No "fool of nature" I, And yet loud rappings in my breast Occur when thou art nigh. I will supply they inmost need, I'll pass the mush to thee, More cream and butter, yes indeed; But I your honey'd be. - 9 - But should you fail, my Babby dear, To grant my fervent suit, I will not plunge in waters clear Or mourn on pensive flute; I'll dig a six-foot hole, my dove, And bury all my smiles, And to some other gal make love Who duplicates your wiles. (Samuel J. Barrows) August 8, 1893 "Babby was Miss Alice Brown, the author. -10- TO POKIE (A diminutive for Pocahontas) Pokie had a little mouth, Her teeth were white as snow, And everywhere that Pokie went Her mouth was sure to go. It followed her to camp one day- Look out for jelly roll- And every time she took her food She'd ope the little hole. Though Pokie had a little mouth She's tongue enough for three, And when she ope'd her ruby lips, It wagged as fast could be. Though Pokie could not chew big words She learned a foreign tongue The words that gurgled in her throat Stuck cross ways in the bung. If Pokie's lips were up for sale I'd like to buy their grace I'd like to take her snicker-rat pigtail If I could get her face. 'Tis said that Pokie's rose-bud mouth Is far too small to kiss But if I ever get a chance I guess I'll take that bliss. (S.J. Barrows) Bung is not a very poetic word to apply to a young lady's mouth; but in this case the cask contains syrup. -11- TO ROSALIND (Tune: Maryland, my Maryland) What beam is this across my way, Rosalind, O, Rosalind Which fills my path with genial ray Rosalind, O, Rosalind What artist flung the rainbow arch Whose colors glow upon my march, Through fragrant pine or spreading larch? Rosalind, O, Rosalind. 'Tis thine illuminating smile Rosalind, O, Rosalind Whose rays my willing feet beguile, Rosalind, O, Rosalind, The deep calm of the mighty sea Suggests thy placid soul to me, Prophetic for futurity. Rosalind, O, Rosalind. (The poet who was writing this amatory gush seems to have been startled in his vision by an apparition which changes somewhat the tone of his apostrophe.) What's that! I hear thee in the dark, Rosalind, my Rosalind. I fear you're out upon some lark, Rosalind, my Rosalind. With Baby, Pokie,- what a three, You mischief-making Trinity, You're hatching plots as we shall see Rosalind, O, Rosalind. The padded footstep in the night Rosalind, O, Rosalind! Upon my ear-drum doth alight Rosalind, O, Rosalind! What deep and wicked sorcery Thy cunning brain shall mix for me, What bold MacNev'lan devilry Rosalind, O, Rosalind. Had he asked her and had she consented? The old writers used to say "Machiavelian"; but the "h" has dropped out, and by transposition "avelian" has become "nevilian", contracted to "nev'lan". It is probable that it here refers to the victims of Rosalind's deviltry, though if it concerned galoshes, Mac and Evil may have joined it. (see signature p. 13.) -12- O, silent platter, this thy trade Rosalind, my Rosalind! To figure in some masquerade Rosalind, my Rosalind! How nicely you can cut and trim Adapt your wiles to mood or whim You're filled with mischief to the brim, Rosalind, my Rosalind! You're fond of gazing at the stars Rosalind, O, Rosalind! At Venus, Jupiter and Mars, Rosalind, O, Rosalind! With midnight owls and flying bats With centipede and Snicker-rats With Pokie-spooks and Babby-cats, Rosalind, O, Rosalind! For arch reserve, mysterious fun Rosalind, O, Rosalind! I'm sure that you will take the bun Rosalind, O, Rosalind! But though your plots our slumbers wake and when you're round with fear we quake You never make our hearts to ache Rosalind, our Rosalind! In spite of your sly witchery Rosalind, our Rosalind! There's love behind your mystery Rosalind, our Rosalind! Whate'er your tactics or your game You somehow keep yourself from blaming You're Cousin Rose, all just the same, Rosalind, our Rosalind! It is not certain whether Snicker-rats should be spelled with a capital or small letter. It all depends upon whether it is a proper name or not! Buns are not used in camp. "Take the (Johnny) cake" would have been a better expression. The phrase "take the bun" is a quotation from a poem addressed to Uncle June by Mr. William Lloyd Garrison. Slang is not used in camp and no expletives except "jimmy!" and "goloshes". -13- (The poet now seems to have recovered his original muse, and ends with the amorous strain with which he began.) A jacqueminot without a thorn Rosalind, my Rosalind! Thy bloom and fragrance shall adorn Rosalind, my Rosalind! Some heart whose tendrils shall entwine Its loving foliage with thine, Shall that glad joy, dear Rose, be mine? Rosalind, my Rosalind! ----- William Lloyd Nevil MacEvan -14- ISAAC'S FAREWELL. (On leaving an inhospitable camp) Farewell, ye camp of crocodiles, Who come, and with deceitful smiles, Ask pardon, feigning to repent, While on fresh mischief you are bent. In camp, one rigid line denotes Division clear 'twixt sheep and goats. All those who have not passed their teens Are ducks and darlings, kings and queens. Every grown person in this camp Is an unmitigated scamp! Except Aunt Polly and Miss Hayes, You walk in dark and devious ways; You court destruction, and your fall will be the gallows soon or late. And when you grace the fatal tree, O joy! May I be there to see! If all the rest of you were sainted, By Babbie would the camp be tainted, For vicious tricks, devices evil, She is in truth a little d----, A thing whose form alone is human, In likeness of a slim young woman. Meanwhile I find departure sweet; I shake the dust from off my feet! May rain descend in showers and splatters May whirlwinds tear your tents to tatters. May cows your tennis court destroy! (Yet no- for that might grieve some boy. The boys and girls in all my verses Shall be exempt from Isaac's curses.) May some appalling avalanche Come and destroy you, root and branch, May earthquake, famine, fire and flood Soon rid the earth of you fro good. Fairwell, atrocious camp, farewell! May all your inmates fo to - dwell In climates where the hear ne'er ends. All, save unhappy Isaac's friends. -15- COUSIN EFFIE Who keeps aloof from strife and noise, From squeals of girls, and yells of boys, And finds in sylvan shades her joys? Cousin Effie! Who in a hammock oft reclines, Where through thick trees the daylight shines, And listens to the whispering pines? Cousin Effie! Who is well skilled in soaring song, And sometimes puts weak altos wrong By singing tenor clear and strong? Cousin Effie! Who likes her quiet dip before The circus opens on the shore And takes a nap when it is o'er? Cousin Effie! Who likes upon the lake to row Not only in the sunset's glow, But in the rain, the wind, the snow? Cousin Effie! Who teaches little boys to write In shorthand with the speed of light? In this she's simply "out of sight" Cousin Effie! Who steeps her soul in golden dreams, Where through the boughs the clear lake gleams, And never joined nefarious schemes? Cousin Effie! Who from her tent no victim plucks? Who never trains with the Ku Klux? Who therefore is a duck of ducks? Cousin Effie! Alice Stone Blackwell -16- TO ISAAC Christmas, 1892 (By some miscreant, not yet identified.) What ails our Cousin Isaac, Whose actions scandalized The Birchbay camp last summer? He never was baptized! An unbaptized heathen, He loved to baptize others, And went a-round-a-sprinkling His sisters and his brothers. When we would serenade him Amid our little games, He gave us chill baptisms, And christened us bad names. If water is not handy, The followers of Mahound Will wash their hands with desert sands When they to dine are bound. When seeking to pour water Upon a foeman's head, Sometimes this heathen Isaac Will pour on sand instead. With vicious Cousin Isaac What measures shall we take To make him quite innocuous? Baptize him in the lake! Though nothing else could vanquish His tendency to riot, Total immersion for an hour Would leave him very quiet, And if he keeps on sprinkling, His friends will have to try it! -17- TO THE EX-CHAPERON Christmas 1892. (By the same unidentified miscreant) By Memphremagog's inland sea, A chaperon there used to be. Our tallest and our gentlest maid A chaperon's qualities displayed. She looked on noisy revelry With mild but disapproving eye; Each separate thread of her brown hair Stood up, to see us "on a tear"; And oft we raised her silky locks By antics far from orthodox. Still stand the mountains, blue and dim, Upon the far horizon's rim; Streamlet and lake and rock and tree, All things are as they used to be; But, though unchanged the forest shore, The chaperon exists no more! -- In future summers, youths and maids Will frolic in the forest glades; Will dance on light fantastic toes, And go for sentimental rows; Unchaperoned, they'll eat their fill Of raspberries on Gibraltar's hill, And in the woods and on the plain Exert their powers of raising Cain. For folks of good, trustworthy stuff The moon is chaperon enough; And though they prance and make a noise We fear not for the girls and boys. But who, alas! from this time on Shall chaperon the chaperon? Invade one's quarters without knocking! O chaperon, the deed was shocking! And did you fancy it was soothing When your friends lay, suspecting nothing, Wrapped deep in slumber's soft embraces, To dash cold water in their faces? -- - 18 - Say not, that as a chaperon, You felt obliged to frown upon So many midnight serenades And wild KuKluxish escapades! The moon herself blushed very read While looking down from overhead, And called a cloud her face to veil; The early dawn with fright grew pale, The stars were changed to petrifactions With horror at your awful actions! -- Farewell, farewell your dignity! Henceforward you can only be A girl among the other lassies! Although your stature theirs surpasses, Your moral altitude, we see Is just as low as theirs can be! -- We may admire your rose-leaf cheek, Your temper, soft and seeming meek; That liquid, sweet soprano voice That makes the hearers' ears rejoice; Those nut-brown locks that fell to screen The shoulders of the Indian Queen; But never more, oh, never more Can we revere you as of youre; Your dignified prestige is gone, Ex-chaperon, ex-chaperon! - 19 - Aunt Isabel to the Camp Reunion June 1893. -- Hotel Dieu, Montreal, June 20, 1893 My very dear Campers: The tables are turned; You've got a new mistress, as I have just learned. She orders me round as I've ne'er ordered you, Demanding a letter from sweet Hotel Dieu. The one who commands must know how to obey: I'll show my credentials by granting her way. Obedient I sit in the moonlight so pale, Writing wholly by feeling: - a dubious trail The morn may reveal, but for gas 'tis too warm, And the brilliance of flame my darling might harm. He sleeps. The fair ringlets are shorn from his brow. The thin cheeks, so pallid, no dimples allow. But he's better; and gaining with ev'ry new day. For what better boon could a mother's heart pray? So I sit in my cloister, where none may intrude, My heart brimming over with deep gratitude. My window looks out on a quadrangle neat, One angle of which - 'Twixt me and the street - Is formed by the chapel, whose high graceful dome Shines white in the moonlight as sea-beaten foam. Through arches of maples and other tall trees Steals in, so refreshing, the cool evening breeze. So still is the evening, so peaceful and mild I note but the breath of my dear sleeping child. And thus, as I sit in the gloom here alone, I think of the campers and days that are gone. -- The campers where are they? Say, where do they dwell? Where seek the two hundred remembered so well? Like leaves of the summer, by autumn winds hurled, They're scattered to different parts of the world; From ocean to ocean, in many a State From Maine on the east to the bright Golden Gate; In Arabia, Sweden and eke Hindostan In Canadian regions and charming Japan, In England, and Germany, yes, and in France! How over the planet these campers do dance! And shall I be chidden, or trouble your peace, By saying the best of them all is in Greece! - 20 - Or, if not in Greece, he may be with the Turk, Whose emblem the crescent, whose weapon the dirk. Wherever they tarry, this wide-scattered band, They stretch to each other a comrade's warm hand. A bond quite unique binds us all to each one, In spite of the devious ways that we run. -- And two are no more. In the midst of your mirth Speak gently of those that have faded from earth: The dear gentle girl and the General brave Who laid down his life that a race he might save. What lends to the lot of the campers its charm? Is it free out-door living with naught to alarm? I believe it is rather the mutual aid And the mutual love without any parade. It is life close to nature - so simple, so close, It purifies all that is carnal and gross. It is more: 'tis a unison deeper of faith, Not a Shibboleth drear growing out of "It saith" - -- Thus far had I written my nondescript rune, When scurrying clouds blotted out my fair moon. A quick crash of thunder, a smart shower of hail, Gave presage of what might become a great gale. I feared for my sleeper, and moved to his cot, And sat by him silent. The laddie spake not, But slumber was broke, and softly a hand Sought mine in the darkness - a tacit demand. I pressed it and kissed it, with swift grateful tears To think my mere presence could quiet his fears. I thought of this letter and how I had said The thing that unites us is heart and not head. Yea, whatever our faith, and whatever our creed, There's not one among us whose trust would not lead In the darkness of sorrow, the hailstorm of care, To the outstretch of hand to the Hand always there. We believe, though our prayer with mute lips alone, That true Hand of Love would be clasped o'er our own. -- Adieu, my dear campers, I love you right well, Come soon, I beseech you, to Aunt Isabel. - 21 - WELCOME August 12, 1893 by W. P. McKenzie The joyous waters plashing Give welcome to the bay, Where birches white have quivered With joy since dawn today. chorus: Hail to the long expected, The comers from far lands! Sing "Welcome", happy voices, Wave "Welcome", happy hands! -- All breathing things cry "Welcome", "Welcome", the echoes tell, "Welcome", the cedars whisper, Earth, air and sky as well. chorus: Hail to the long expected, The comers from far lands! Sing "Welcome", happy voices, Wave "Welcome", happy hands! Sung to the tune "Webb". - 22 - HYMN FOR REUNION, August 12, 1893 By W. P. McKenzie (Tune: "Manoah") Father of mercies, God of grace, Our thankful hearts we bow Here in Thy presence, for Thy love Is present with us now. Where'er lvoe is, there Thou art found, For only love Thou art And so our dear ones make increase Of God within our heart. We thank Thee that the absent ones Once more are with us here; We thank thee for the guiding hand That guarded them from fear. As hope and courage make increase Through loving trust of friends, We thank Thee that our birthright is Thy love that never ends. - 23 - LINES on the origin, nature, and probable destiny of An evil demon, yclept in camp parlance, Babbie Christmas, 1892 With Isaac's compliments. As Archimago, long ago, To work the Red Cross warrior woe, Shaped forth a sprite from liquid air, And formed Duessa, false and fair, So witches of more modern date, Who held the human race in hate Concoted Babbie to their mind, To be the scourge of human kind. -- They made her out of various things, Poison of asps, and scorpions' stings; Foam of a dog to madness wrought; Slime from devouring quicksand brought; Quills from the fretful procupine, Fish bones and bristles from the swine; And rats and bats and snakes and toads, The carrion crow that evil bodes; Hornets and wasps and flies and 'skeeters, A plague of locusts, awful eaters. They mingled in their hideous brew Nightshade and poison ivy too; And liquid glue,* and murderers' gore, And cholera microbes by the score; And then they mixed and flavored it With brimstone from the nether pit. -- They build a bonfire, huge to see, Of branches from the Upas tree; They kindled it with coals from - (A place unmentionable to ears polite) And when the broth was boiling well, And sending up a wondrous steam, Wierd figures, x like a witch's dream, Ghouls, griffins and chimaeras dire, danced in a circle round the fire. ----- * fraudulently represented to be soap. - 24 - They let it harden and grow cold Till it was stiff enough to mould; Then modelled from the frightful mass The figure of a graceful lass, And smeared her over carefully With honey from the Judas-tree; So outwardly she seemeth sweet, Though framed of guile from head to feet, As verdure oft will fairest show Where bogs are fathomless below. And when their work was ended quite, They shrieked and snorted with delight, To find the thing they had created Far worse than they anticipated. -- Then Babbie through the world they sent, Upon a fiendish errand bent: To deal in baleful thaunmaturgy, To plague and persecute the clergy; To let in icy blasts to vex Old gentlemen's defenseless necks, Whenever she may chance to see 'em Sit reading in the Athenaeum; To waken, with discordant capers, Tired editors of suffrage papers, Who, after months of toil, at length Are seeking to recruit their strength With rest, afar from noise and fray, In hopes to fight another day. -- When Babbie quits this earthly state, I wonder what will be her fate, To heaven, of course she cannot go; And if admitted down below Satan himself would feel afraid Of being cast into the shade! Alike rejected [and] in disgrace From heaven and from the other place, She'll ride the air, a houseless ghost, And dance where clouds are tempest tossed, When ships go down in stormy seas, Her laugh whistle in the breeze. A mischievous and pagan sprite, She'll haunt the church-steeple by night, And strive, above the sleeping town To drag the ponderous iron cross down; * And oft will she, on autumn eves, In churchyards heaped with fallen leaves, Sing serenades in doleful tones Round graves where sleep the campers' bones! ** * A la evil spirit in Longfellow's "Golden Legend." ** Especially those of Isaac, who expired in consequence of her persecutions. - 25 - BURNET By Rev Samuel June Barrows June 13, 1893 Sacred wine of Love's libation, To the Father evermore Gratitude and consecration From our hearts we'll daily pour. In the Hand extended o'er us, In the golden days behind, In the sky-bright hopes before us Thy compassion we may find. For the friendships that engirt us, For affections sacred flame, For thy law that doth convert us We would magnify thy name. Thanks we give for home and nation, For the blood that set us free, Seeking still the consummation Of our perfect liberty. For the altar fires glowing With religion's holy light, For the spirit breezes blowing, For the faith transcending sight; For the storm, the sun, the rainbow Verdant pastures, pleasant ways, For thy mercies' constant inflow, Hear our orisons of praise. - 26 - A WELCOME TO ISAAC (A.S.B.) by Alice Brown (Babbie) August 1893 Darkness had settled down upon the camp. Its guiding star, its one unfailing lamp Of peace, its soft and silver-shining beam Of hope gave forth, alas, no fostering gleam To guide the timid campers on their way - Whether at wholesome task or riotous play. Isaac it was, sweet pity's tender child, Whose voice and look were ever soft and mild; Who owned no law but kind affection's sway; Whose footsteps sought and followed out the way Of peace; and who, when fiery words ran high, Still, like a guardian angel, hovered nigh, To bless her foes, her thronging friends to save, And cast smooth oil upon the troubled wave. She had departed, oh, alack the hour! And neither song nor gambollings had power To lift from off the camp its leaden cross, - Naught could console those lone ones for their loss. O'er all the campers, where erstwhile she trod, A guardian angel with goloshes shod - Settled a pall, blacker than darkest night. No star illumed that dusk, no ray of light! -- But hush! Ah hush! What sound salutes mine ear? What prophecy enchanting do I hear? The dip of happy cars! She nears the land And sets one firm golosh upon the strand! Isaac is here! Rejoice, ye camp, rejoice! Yet not too loud, for that might drown her voice, Soft counsel uttering, or some pious text, Spring from that dep, limpid fount, (unvexed By wordly vice or care) her maiden soul - Sundered from hate as pole from farthest pole! -- Welcome, our precious Isaac! Three times three And thirty times three hundred peal to thee From loyal campers' throats! Put on thy shawl, And hat and veil, and wrap about thee all That solemn toggery in which, of late Thou hast been wont to keep thine abbess' state. - 27 - Welcome to Isaac, continued: Imbibe the cooling milk from granite ware! Draw forth dried beef from some deep-hidden lair!! Enjoy camp salad, peas and beans and squash, And keep inviolate thy proud golosh! Thine are our hearts, thou timid, gentle dove! Loyal we bend beneath thy reign of love! *** Air "Clementine" by W. P. McKenzie August 1893. Isaac's come home, Isaac's come home, Shout a welcome loud and long! Absence makes the heart grow fonder, And our joy breaks forth in song. Chorus: Precious Isaac, precious Isaac, Glad are we that you've come back; You bereft us when you left us, Dreadful sorry, Isa - ac! -- All of yester-day our jester Made no record-breaking jokie, And the Domine was omi- Nously silent next to Pokie. Although jolly was Aunt Polly, Much she missed your gracious face; The milk pitcher, although richer, Anxious scanned your far-off place. Cousin Babbie held confabbu0 lations in her mental dome How the Snicker-rats might cause a Jubilee and welcome home. Chorus: Precious Isaac, precious Isaac Glad are we that you've come back; You bereft us when you left us, Dreadful sorry, Isa - ac! - 28 - TO THE DOMINEE August 1893. (Tune: "Clementine".) Poet, preacher, author, teacher, Carpenter and clergyman, Who would think this gifted creature Would assist the Ku Klux Klan? O you wicked, O you shocking, O you dreadful Cousin Mac! Say why should you - pray, how could you Persecute poor Isa - ac? When he preaches, lo! he teaches Mercy, peace and righteousness, On the Sunday; but on Monday Adds to Isaac's deep distress. Sometimes saintly, then not faintly Tinged with hues of brimstone he, Sometimes prayerful, sometimes swearful, O amazing Dominee! Persecution with great courage He was ready once to take, And a set of stiff old fossils He withstood for conscience' sake. Who'd have thought he would turn naughty, And a persecutor be? Fallen spirit! vanished merit! O backslidden Dominee! Yet he wields a might oar-blade Where the blue lake waters flop, And with skill he washed dishes, Though he hates a ragged mop. And he chops up logs for firewood Till warm dews his forehead drench, And he studies with great ardor The shrill language of the French. Deeply thinking, never shrinking For the truth to do and dare, We revere him - till we hear him Get off puns that raise our hair. In a twinkle, without a wrinkle, He can write a fine camp play, He is able to make a table, or a chair, in deftest way. - 29 - To the Dominee, cont. As his talents grow upon us We admire him more and more; But when on his flute he flatteth, Then we long to shed his gore. O, you wicked, O, you shocking, O you dreadful Cousin Mac! Say, why should you, pray how could you Persecute poor Isa - ac! Transcribed and reviewed by contributors participating in the By The People project at crowd.loc.gov.