Peal loud the bell, and call the school together!
      We are but "children of a larger growth,"
Though now, matured, we range with longer tether,
      Restraints and duties appertain to both
Childhood and manhood – parts of life’s progression –
Peal loud the bell! the school’s again in session!

And as we meet to-day, on classic ground,
      To enjoy and celebrate our great Reunion,
To let the story, song, and jest go round,
      To call up bygones, and, in glad communion.
To interchange experiences of life,
Of wanderings and trials, toil and strife,

Let us awhile, with retrospective view,
      Go back to eighteen hundred thirty-eight,
When what is now theold school was thenew.
      Not having yet sent forth a graduate.
Impressed on mem’ry’s page, we see it still,
The venerable "School-house on the Hill."

We see again each sturdy little "form,"
      Painted inridicule of bird’s-eye maple,
The clumsy stoves, which failed to keep us warm,
      The drinking-closet door, with hook and staple,
The little room, enclosing various matters,
Labelled conspicuously, "Apparatus."

The staring figures, blazoned on the seats,
      The pegs for hats, numbered to correspond,
The bell-rope, leading down between its cleats,
      The windows, looking on the "Lily Pond,"
The maps, the black-boards fixed against the wall,
All rise before us now, at mem’ry’s call.

Then Father Pierce reigned over us, who seemed,
      To us, a cyclopaedia of knowledge;
Not less for humble piety esteemed
      Than for his stores of learning, gained at college;
We think of him as teacher, guide, and pastor –
A faithful servant of the greater Master.

And after him, our veteran teacher, Morse,
      Who, more than others. made the school his own
By long and arduous service in its cause,
      Giving to it his spirit and his tone,
And grafting his own character upon us, –
He lives to-day to wear his well-earned honors.

The pupils of theold school on the hill
      Are scattered broadcast – some have passed away;
But others, spared to do it honor still,
      May, with their children, gather here to-day;
Two generations, vying with each other
In love and tribute to theirone Fair Mother.

A fine new school-house has usurped the old;
      Yet "on the Hill" it stands, a beacon light,
Shedding its rays, more precious far than gold,
      And younger pupils now may claim the right.
To pen its later hist’ry, and to tell
How other teachers labored, and how well.

Let then the new-made High School graduate
      Take up the Book of Chronicles anew,
As we about theold school love to prate,
      So let the young Alumni sing thenew.
One theme may both inspire: it stands there still.
Ever the same – the "School-house on the Hill."

Long may it stand! its "shadow ne’er grow less"!
      Our children, and our children’s children may,
In years to come, rejoice in its success,
      And sing its praises; let us ever pray
For blessings on it, and, with hearty will,
Cherish for aye the "School-house on the Hill."

When, in duck pants and shirt of check,
Elate, I paced the lighter's deck,
      A new-fledged, proud young sailor,
– How little I, so salt and bold,
Dreamed that my eyes would e'er behold
      The last Nantucket whaler!

Had one, with gift of second sight,
Made prophecy (as some one might,)
      That whaling soon would fail, or
Foretold that, within thirty years,
(The truth, as plainly now appears,)
      One lonely little whaler,

One solitary bark, would bear
The name "Nantucket" here and there
      In quest of giant whale, or
Drop anchor in some foreign port,
There to be sold, and thus report
      Herself as our last whaler,

I should, while headed "rounded Cape Horn,"
Have ridiculed and laughed to scorn
      The Idle, croaking railor!
He ne'er could have persuaded me
That I should over live to see
      The last Nantucket whaler.

Yet "gone's our occupation," now;
No longer do our proud ships plough
      The ocean under sail, or
Bronzed-faced young seamen walk our streets,
Or sit and tell tales of their feats
      Performed while in a whaler.

No more we hear of "on Japan,"
"Off Patagonia" or "Tristan,"
      Where blows th' Antarctic gale, or
"Adown the Line," or "Archer Ground;"
These have an unfamiliar sound,
      Since not a single whaler

Remains, of all the long, proud roll,
That once, almost from polo to pole,
      Defied the howling gale, or
Threw canvas to the gentle breeze,
And gathered wealth from tropic seas –
      – We've sold our last, last whaler!

But cheerfully we face the truth;
We retrospect upon our youth,
      But don't complain, or wail, or
Blubber about what once we had;
– It can't be helped, – but give one sad
      "Farewell!" to our last whaler.

Pater-familias (solus).
”Cheap gas" – or Kerosene – that is the question;
Whether 'tis better to stick to the old lamps,
And run the risk of being burned alive,
Or blown into the middle of next week, –
– Or to employ the plumber's art, forthwith,
And put in fixtures, – if we have them not, –
Discard the vile petroleum, and have
A cheap, convenient, and safer light,
At half the old rate – 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To read; – to sleep; –
To nod; perchance t' o'erturn the lamp; enough;
For in that dread explosion which attends
An accident like this, one might contrive
To shuffle off this mortal coil, perhaps, –
Put out the lamp of life, (O wick-ed fate!)
For who would bear the use of dirty rags,
Odors of kerosene, cracked chimneys, fingers burned,
And all the plagues petroleum entails,
When he might do away with all at once,
And make life joyous, burning gas at cost?
But that the dread of something afterward,
– The bill-collector's call, – puzzles the purse,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than fly to blessings that we can't afford?
Thus poverty makes cowards of us all;
And thus the impulse to turn on the gas
Is checked and hampered by the sordid thought,
That bids us hesitate and count the coat.

Away, this doubt! this base irresolution!
I'll have the gas, it I give up tobacco!
Away, these Lamps! Send me the plumber, straight,
And usher in the piping times of peace!
I'll set the pipes, e'en as my thoughts, to meter,
Nor longer waste the time in gas-conade!

The shades of night were fading fast,
When by Nantucket isle there passed,
A steamer, scorning all the ice --
A flow'r in Winter's nosegay nice, --
                  Verbena!

She brought the males, but not as yet,
The mails of English alphabet!
At Quidnet, near the morning's dawn,
She lay, fond hope to hearts forlorn,
                  Verbena!

The passengers will bless the hour
That freed them from the Ice King's Power;
And sweetest of earth's floral bloom,
Will be, through every winter's gloom,
                  Verbena!

It was so cold the other day.
I couldn't work. I couldn't play,
So I resolved to spend the day,
        Attendin' Annual Meet'n.
So down to 'Tlantic Hall I went,
Where an attentive ear I lent,
To learn how money should be spent
        As shown at the Annual Meet'n.

Then all the orators uprose,
I swan, I thought they'd come to blows,
Just as they stood, in dress-up clothes,
        Right there in the Annual Meet'n.
So many subjects were discussed.
Some of the talk was calm and just,
And some so silly, I thought I'd bust
        With laughter at Annual Meet'n.

I learned that guardians of the schools
Are necessarily knaves or fools,
Accordin' to all human rules,
        – This I learned at the Annual Meet'n.
I thought, if every town or city
Must thus abuse its School Committee,
Once every year, the more's the pity
        We had any Annual Meet'n.

They voted to put wimmen on,
I wondered that, in years bygone,
They hadn't sent 'em round Cape Horn
        By vote at the Annual Meet'n.
Now into office they must go.
It seems so strange that this is so.
But 'tis the fact, as I well know,
        – I was there at Annual Meet'n.

And when another year rolls round,
The ladies must all right be found,
Or they will be to powder ground
        In the mill of the Annual Meet'n.
O glorious days of Woman's Rights!
When for the offices she fights,
And anxious days, and sleepless nights
        Are hers during Annual Meet'n.

"O woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy and hard to please,"
Only to think, that in times like these,
        Her name is in Annual Meet'n!
That they who've heretofore been slaves,
May be made "Cullers of Coopers' Staves,"
And, next year, stigmatized as knaves
        By vote of the Annual Meet'n!

I went to see what I could learn,
And heard the speakers, turn and turn,
Until they voted to adjourn,
        And break up the Annual Meet'n.
I listened to bad rhetoric,
Till of it I was tired and sick,
It touched my feelin's to the quick,
        What I saw at the Annual Meet'n.

I'm thankful now that all is o'er,
And never want to hear no more
Such stuff as I heard talked before
        The people at Annual Meet'n.
Hokee, Pokee, Sassyfras,
Foolish talk and noisy gas,
Pollytiks may go to grass,
        If that's an Annual Meet'n.

Jerusha Jenkins has spoken her piece
      Concerning the Annual Meeting,
There is no more sense to it than cackling of geese,
      Or a stray sheep, wofully bleating;
And first of all, I don't believe she was there,
      My husband says he never knew it;
And he was there, I know, and talked his full share,
      I don't think she'd venture to do it.

She don't seem to like it, that women should be
      Elected to serve in high places:
Good Lord! what do we care for such folks an she?
      When we women get "into the traces."
She'll see better works done on roads and in schools,
      And more will be done for less money,
The land! does she think all her own sex are fools,
      That against us she tries to be funny?

It's admitted by people of sense the world through,
      That women are good educators
Of children, and isn't it equally true,
      That in finance, we're good calculators?
Let us all have a chance, for we think it is hard
      If we don't prove the best politicians,
When we all go and vote, without further regard
      To sex, color, or previous conditions.

There are so many places that ladies can fill
      Better far than the "lords of creation,"
They must have a vote, and what's morn, they soon will,
      And control the affairs of the nation.
Now, as for being chosen as "Cullers of Staves,"
      Why not, if they know how to do it?
And if next year, they're sent to political graves,
      Don't fear, they'll contrive to live through it.

Jerushy, your ears ought to tingle with shame
      To write thus concerning your sisters,
I wonder you dared to append your full name,
      Why don't you come up and assist us?
If you really have talent – I own you have some.
      Employ it in lifting up Woman:
When she is enfranchised, the good time will come,
      And we'll be beholden to no man.

Now as for the gas that you hear at Town Hall,
      I quite agree with you about it,
'Tis our mission to put an end to it all,
      And do the work better without it.
Come into our ranks, an a welcome recruit,
      The war into Afric we'll carry,
We'll train the Town Meet'n – ay, down to the root,
      Or my name's not

The shades of night were falling fast,
As round Brant point a good sloop passed,
And to the pier her hawsers cast –

Then music raised its stirring tone,
Great guns were fired and fog-horns blown,
That her arrival might be known –

Once more, in his own native place,;
The Captain, with his Ray-diant face,
Can tell his stories with a grace –

How for two months he has been gone,
Long enough to have reached Cape Horn –
In Woods Hole, ice-bound and forlorn –

Long may the honest captain tell
Of all the mishaps that befell,
During that long, cold, bitter spell –

Through ice-fields did the good sloop drive
In eighteen hundred seventy-five
She came forth safe and all alive –

Propitious gales the old craft bless
Through many years of good success.
And "may her shadow ne'er grow less!"

'Twas Christmas Eve, and the father sat by his home fireside,
While the wintry storm in fury, howled around the house outside;
He had kissed his youngest darlings, ere they hied away to bed,
With a "Good Night" and a blessing on each weary little head.

And still he sat there, thinking of each Christmas in the past,
From the earliest, dim in distance, to one year ago, the last;
For each had its tender memories, some so joyous! some so sad
That the merry greeting had no power to make the heart feel glad.

For his past life had been chequered by Fortune's smiles and frowns,
Full of wanderings and adventures. changes, and ups and downs;
Hope and courage had not failed him, where'er his lot was cast,
For earth had one bright haven, where he hoped to moor at last.

He had sailed the treacherous ocean, for many years, indeed,
He had battled for his country in her hour of direst need;
But ever looking forward to the time he hoped would come,
When his wanderings should be ended in the dear delights of home.

Brief was the term of happiness, which had been so enjoyed;
In the very prime of manhood, life was made almost a void;
A strange blindness closed upon him, till the day became as night,
And the faces of his loved ones slowly faded out of sight!

Yet he sees them all in memory, those faces loved so well,
Carrie, Joe, and little Jennie, stout Willie and bright-eyed Belle;
And two sweet infants sleeping now beside their mother dear,
At thought of this most crushing blow starts the unbidden tear.

For she, so true and tender, who had journeyed at his side
Through all changes of his life, was stricken down and died,
When his eyes had grown too dim to see the dear, wan, wasted face,
But his mental vision sees her, as in days of youth and grace.

She had left to him a legacy, – the children, dear to both,
And he felt the obligation, sacred more than any oath;
Yet how much, – rather how little, – could a helpless blind man do,
Except by moral influence to keep them good and true?

He hears the eldest daughter, filling now the mother's place,
Arrange the children's treasures with ready tact and grace,
For Santa Claus, the Bountiful, had planned a glad surprise
For all those slumbering innocents, to greet their waking eyes.

"A Merry Christmas, Father! I've arranged the things all right,"
(She anticipates a little, for it is not yet midnight,)
Soon the last good-night is spoken, all the house is hushed in sleep,
Save the father, left alone, his sad and sightless watch to keep.

All the presents lie on the table, O! for the boon of sight!
To see them, and to share in full the little ones' delight!
"It can never be," says Science, "'tis useless more to try,"
Can we wonder that the father still asks the question, Why?

'Tis Christmas morn! and early the darlings are awake,
O! happiest day of all the year, for the dear children's sake!
There are treasures spread before them, – pretty things so nice and rare,
That in their view the wealth of Ophir no comparison will bear.

He hears their merry shouts, as they discuss and praise them all,
The scarf, the knife, the picture-book, the doll, the rubber ball;
"Isn't it pretty, Father?" cries the youngest, wild with glee,
Then lowers her voice so sadly, "I forget that you can't see!"

Let him pray for strength of purpose, and for counsel from above,
To bear his cross more bravely, to deserve his children's love;
With the thought of his lost happiness e'er present to his mind,
His is not a merry Christmas;'tis enough to be resigned.

Though calm may seem the outward life, its bright spots are but few,
And when his thoughts at Christmas-tide call up the past anew,
Spite of resignation, spite of faith in Justice by and by,
Is it wonder that the father finds himself still asking, Why?

We've all heard the song so cleverly snug,
      Got up by our friend, a new subject to raise;
But I don't believe, just because we are young,
      That all things were right in our grandfathers' days.

We all have heard tell how in the year '96,
      Some fellow, who wished the hard money to raise,
Broke into the vaults of the Nantucket Bank
      And ran off with the funds in our grandfathers' days.

And in these latter days, when the rights of our women,
      Are held up by some as a subject of praise,
We look back to the time of our "Miriam Coffin,"
      That strong-minded Tory of our grandfathers' days.

How, near our Straight Wharf, in her then famous dwelling,
      Her parlors were bright by the fire's cheerful blaze;
And she, for the sake of her full coffers swelling,
      Would feed the proud foe in our grandfathers' days.

Then again at our shearings, by Washing Pond's borders,
      When the sheep packed in pens met the drivers' keen gaze,
On many an ear where a "fork" had been marked,
      Appeared a "half-take" in our grandfathers' days.

I know not the author of friend Tobey's verses song,
      Which were sung in a manner to merit our praise;
But I shrewdly suspect that the poet's grandfather
      Was Miriam's guest in our grandfather's days.

Will the reader, when these few lines he has finished,
      Just give them at once to the fire's cheerful blaze;
At the author don't wish for those who succeed us
      To hear of the "sad dogs" of our grandfathers' days.

How wondrous are the changes, Jim,
      Since forty years ago,
When girls wore light, thin slippers, Jim,
      Even in rain and snow;
And corset boards and whalebone stays,
      That hurt and cramped them so,
They are better dressed to-day, Jim,
      Than forty years ago.

'Tis true our girls wove cloth, Jim,
      In those old slow-coach days,
But aren't they now as well employed
      A hundred different ways?
A girl would be a ninny, Jim,
      To waste her leisure so,
For times are greatly altered, Jim,
      Since forty years ago.

And as for needle-work, Jim,
      Wouldn't a girl be green,
To work all day by hand, if she
      Could get a nice machine?
Women used to be fools, Jim,
      But now it is not so:
I guess they've learned a thing or two,
      Since forty years ago.

They tell of "good old times," Jim,
      But who'd want to go back
To those old, stupid, clumsy ways,
      Unless his wits were slack?
They worked a good deal by main strength,
      But they've no right to blow –
'Twas cause they knew no better, Jim,
      Some forty years ago.

Before we bought that stove, Jim,
      (Which never did explode )
It makes me shiver now to think
      Of wood by the cart-load,
Piled up against the chimney back
      Andiron to lift it higher,
And what a dreadful job we had
      Trying to make a fire.

With back-log, fore-stick. go-betweens,
      And cat-sticks all in pile,
We puffed with bellows at the flame
      And froze our backs the while;
With flint and steel and tinder-box,
      Brimstone that wouldn't go –
We gave our fingers awful knocks,
      Some forty years ago.

The light of other days, Jim,
      Was brought home in our ships,
Petticoat lamps, and candle-sticks,
      Whale-oil and tallow-dips
Such lights were dirty, dull and mean,
      As you and I well know –
We'd neither gas nor kerosene,
      Some forty years ago.

And so we might keep talking, Jim,
      Of those old stupid times,
'Till all gut hearers would be tired
      Of nonsense strung in rhymes.
We hadn't many comforts then,
      We hadn't Jim, that's so,
Although we rubbed along, somehow,
      Some forty years ago.

'Tis said that folks were honest then,
      It seems so at first glance,
If they weren't so bad as now, Jim,
      They hadn't the same chance.
We may growl and grumble at the times,
      But one thing we both know,
We don't want to go back, Jim,
      To forty years ago.

Our birthdays are as milestones
      Set in our life's highway,
To mark to us the flight of years,
      Filled slowly, day by day;
We heed not the swift lapse of time,
      Until the rounded year
Adds still another to our count,
      And brings the end more near.

If retrospection may look back
      Upon a life well-spent,
Age surely has no terrors then,
      The heart must rest content;
From the ripe harvest in the sheaf
      We've laid up future store,
We reach the "sere and yellow leaf,"
      Ask but for rest – no more.

So let each birthday, as it comes,
      Be met with joyous calm!
Let social pleasures bless the hour
      And music lend its charm;
Old age steals on insensibly,
      And life's declining sun
Slants his last rays across the past,
      Shining on work well done.

I'm no great of a reader, you know,
      (At least, I thought all of ye knew so,)
Though I used to like Daniel Defoe,
      (I mean him that writ Robbison Crusoe,)
And John Bunyan's "Progress.: I say,
      Was to me a delight and a wonder,
But I'm made almost crazy to-day,
      By this talk about – Daniel Deronda.

I wondered much who he could be,
      I'd heard about Daniel O'Connell,
The great patriot over the sea,
      (Mike Flinn used to call him O'Donnell.)
Our great Webster, too, was called Dan,
      He also was called "Great Expounder,"
(I don't mean the spellin'-book man,)
      But who on airth's – Daniei Deronda?

I know about Daniel of old,
      Cast into the den full of lions,
Daniel Dancer, the miser, so cold,
      Daniel Lambert, that fattest of giants.
These were all famous men in their way,
      But my memory had to knock under,
All those men are forgotten to-day,
And, instead, I hear "Daniel Deronda!"

If I only go out on the street,
      I'm subject to just the same bother.
Wherever two young people meet,
      I'm sure to hear something or other
Concerning this pesky hard name,
      Which to me was a puzzle and wonder,
The question was always the same,
      "How do you like Daniel Deronda!"

I heard one young lady declare
      That the least said of him, soonest mended,
While her, friend, with a toss of her hair,
      Said she thought that' Daniel was "splendid!"
So "elegant," "noble," and "nice,"
      With other pet words; even fonder,
I was tempted to ask; once or twice,
      Why, who is this Daniel Deronda?

I picked up the last magazine,,
      'Twas lying on Mrs. Brown's sofa,
She smiled, for she knows that I'm green,
      I ran the leaves hastily over.
I confess I was struck all aghast,
      Though I wouldn't express any wonder,
For almost from first page to last,
      'Twas "Re-views of Daniel Deronda."

My husband's much exercised too,
      For even his old daily Journal
Has a column or two of "Review,"
      About what be calls "that infernal
Dry stuff that would give him the blues."
      And sometimes he asks, "Why in thunder
Don't the editors give us some news,
      Instead of this Daniel Deronda?"

"Why that's news," said I, "I suppose,
      At least the young people so tell us."
"It is?" says he. "Well, the Lord knows
      I don't read about such queer fellers.
When I used to go round Cape Horn,
      We cruised for whales off Rock Redonda,
But never yet since I was born
      Did I hear such a name as De-ronda,"

Just then comes in Malviny Jane,
      With her book from the old Atheneum,
She gets books that are silly and vain,
      And don't always want me to see 'em.
But now, full of pleasure and pride,
      She danced about, hither and yonder,
"O mother! I've got it!" she cried,
      "Yes, Ma! I've got Daniel Deronda!".

"Set right down Malviny!" says I,
      "For now I can't stand it no longer,
If I don't find out soon, I shall die,
      My cur'osity can't grow no stronger.
I won't ask nobody outside,
For fear I might make some great blunder,
      But what means year pleasure and pride?
And, for land's sake, who's Daniel Deronda?"

"Why, lor, Ma!" says she, "Don't you know?
      He's just the young ladles' ideal,
He's pictured and colored up so,
      You'd almost believe he was real."
"Real! Why, what do you mean?
      Is he a stuffed figger, I wonder?
Don't laugh at your Ma, 'cause she's green!
      But tell me who's Daniel Deronda?"

Then Malviny gave such a look,
      My husband's face went down to zero, –
"Why, George Elliott's made a new book
      And put Daniel in for a hero."
"George Elliott?" I cried, "and who's he?
      Our minister's grandson, I wonder?"
"His grandson!" she laughed, "It's a she!
      It's a woman wrote Daniel Deronda!"

"Malviny! Don't tell me no more!
      I hain't got the patience to listen!
How can you tell, if you don't know her,
      Whether'ts a her'n,or a his'n?"
I put on my dignity then
      And Malviny knookled right under,
But my husband has no patience when
      He hears or sees "Daniel Deronda."

"A woman that wears a man's name,
      Ain't much," says he, "my way o' thinkins,
Jerusha, I'd say just the same
      If you signed your name as George Jenkins.
True wimmin are wimmin, d'ye see,
      And don't let their ambition wander,
What business has women to be
      George Elliot or Dan'l Deronda?"

But I can't drive cur'osity out,
      And so I determined to feed it,
Took the book when Malviny was out,
      And neglecting work, set down to read it.
And so, as I read more and more,
      I was filled with delight and with wonder,
That woman, I'm crazy to know her.
      That writ about Daniel Deronda.

I read till my back and eyes ached,
      (I was never before such a sinner,)
My bread's In the oven half baked,
      And my spouse had to whistle for dinner.
He came in and caught me by surprise,
      Looked over my shoulder; "By thunder!
Jerusha, can I trust my eyes?
      She's readin' that Daniel Deronda!"

One year has passed since that first meeting
      Where our movement was begun,
Welcome to-night with joyous greeting
      To review the work we've done.
We've saved some scores of friends from falling
      In the gulf of despair,
And still the warning voice is calling
      Unto young and old, "Beware."
Chorus –
            Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
                  Be sober and be free!
            Come join us in our celebration'.
                  Of our Temperance Jubilee!

Our hearts are strong, our numbers growing.
      We have won true men's applause,
Our ranks will fill to overflowing
      For we serve a righteous cause.
Not man alone, but woman's moving,
      She is with us, hand and heart,
In all that's good she's clearly proving
      She can nobly bear her part.
Chorus –
            Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
                  The star of hope we see!
            It shines upon This celebration
                  Of our Temperance Jubilee!

Come swell the chorus we are singing,
      And we'll raise it clear and strong,
The walls of old Town Hall are ringing
      With the music of our song.
We're bound to save our wandering brothers,
      Who are struggling in the storm,
With the blessings of their wives and mothers
      On the temperance reform.
Chorus –
            Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
                  Come join us and be free!
            Come Join us in the celebration
                  Of our Temperance Jubilee.

One year has dropped into the past,
      Since first the call was sounded,
No clang of boll or trumpet blast
      Through our old town resounded
Nor beat of drum, nor ringing peal;
      The sisterly, kind greeting
Of one lone woman, filled with zeal,
      Called the first temperance meeting.

Nor courage well deserved the name
      Of Spartan or of Roman,
Though scarce a dozen people came
      At call of this brave woman.
The seed was sown, It struck deep root,
      Its growth has been surprising;
To-day we are harvesting the fruit
      Of the first year's uprising.

We welcome those who've been reclaimed
      From rum and all its terrors,
Who now declare themselves ashamed
      Of former faults and errors.
They've joined the ranks of sober men
      Who're proud to call them brothers;
Of late their noble task has been
      The work of saving others.

The meetings, started by so few,
      Have grown and swelled in numbers,
Our pledge-roll counts its hundreds, too,
      The interest never slumbers.
So many, holding adverse views,
      Take part in the discussions,
Not less adsorbing than the news
      From the fierce Turks and Russians.

For some go for a license law,
      Others for prohibition;
While some would make no law at all,
      But sell without condition.
Some trust our own unaided strength
      Sufficient for resistance;
Others for God's grace pray at length,
      Asking Divine assistance.

Is drink a crime, or a disease?
      The law, or the physician?
Argue the subject as we please,
      Each side holds its position.
Are rum shops to be closed by prayer,
      Or forcible invasion?
Shall we employ mob violence there,
      Or gentle moral suasion?

Let minor differences aside,
      And join in this great movement,
And let it be our boast and pride
      To work for man's improvement.
And let us work with all the vim
      That God and nature gave us,
For thousands in disease and sin,
      Are crying. "Come and save us!"

Encouraged by the year's success
      We now renew our labors,
And victory will our efforts bless,
      Lifting our fallen neighbors.
Reform's the rallying cry for all,
      Raise its bright standard o'er us;
Onward, responsive to the call!
      On to the work before us!

Our neighbor Dobson's wits are pretty cute,
      Though he is but a butcher by profession,
He puzzles all his friends with cubic root,
      And sums in arithmetical progression,
And in his syntax he's so absolute,
      The best of us are fain to make confession,
That he, like Hamlet's sexton, puts it to us
So that "equivocation will undo us."

While standing at his door the other day,
      Waiting for customers, he saw Joe Russell.
Joe's noted for his strength; 'tis but child's play,
      To lift a round five hundred, on his muscle;
No ordinary man, we dare to say,
      Would want to grapple with him for a tussle,
But Dobson lightly on the shoulder hit him,
Determined with a smart joke to outwit him.

"Joe," said the butcher, "I have no belief
      In your great strength, but here's a chance to test it,
Throw off your coat, shoulder that side of beef,
      (Four hundred pounds, – I've weighed it since I dressed it,)
Go round the square – the distance is but brief,
      And never lay it down (thus he expressed it,)
And there's a chance for you to earn five dollars,
Pocket it, and go off with flying colors."

"The beef is heavy and my purse is light,
      What if I fail?" said Joe. "You'll lose no money,
In any case, I don't think 'twould be right
      To make an even bet, so don't fear, sonny,
Whether you fail or not, you'll be all right.
      I pay five dollars, if you win; it's funny
If you whose strength is boasted through the town,
Can't carry that meat and never lay it down."

The young man pondered, then with knowing wink,
      Glanced at a stout hook in the beam beside him.
"Old Dobson, I can do the job, I think."
      (The butcher thought how he should soon deride him)
Went to the water-pail and took a drink,
      And while the bystanders all sharply eyed him,
Shouldered the beef, balancing it with care,
And started on his journey round the square.

The great feat was accomplished with much ease,
      While a large crowd to witness it assembled.
Joe showed no signs of weakness at the knees,
      Nor stopped, nor wavered once, nor even trembled.
Said Dobson, "Here on this bench, if you please."
      Joe hesitated and for once dissembled;
He made a move, as if to drop his load,
Then turned, and straight across the market strode.

He lifted up his burden to the hook,
      Forcing it through the meat, – and left it pendent, –
Turned toward the butcher with that knowing look,
      "I reckon I've done the job, and there's the and on't."
Then from the stake-holder the money took,
      And with an air quite "saucy independent,"
Five dollars richer, started for the door,
      While all the crowd saluted with a roar.

"Say, Dobson, don't got mad at this," he said,
      "The Lord you know loveth a cheerful giver,
I know you have smart crotchets in your head,
      And in the use of words you're mighty clever,
But when you offered me this job, you laid
      A little too much emphasis on never.
I never laid it down, and never will, –
I hung it up! and there 'tis hanging still!"

Out in the Atlantic so far from the coast,
      Our island almost like a prison is,
In winter, when we're ice-olated, the most,
      There's dearth of amusement and business,
And something we must do to keep us employed,
      And give the long evening's variety,
So among our resources to fill up this void,
      We have formed a Debating Society.

The Sherburne Lyceum 'tis called, and at first,
      The project seemed rather chimerical,
We could hardly expect any eloquent burst,
      Either forensic, legal or clerical;
But we've started the ball, and it's still rolling on,
      Our success has been full, to satiety,
And new members are coming in weekly to join,
      Our Sherburne Debating Society.

Here many grave questions are freely discussed,
      Historical, moral, political,
And much sport enjoyed, but the auditors must
      Not be too exacting or critical.
Two champions lead off, and then others express
      Opinions in great contrariety,
And discussion takes much latitude, we confess,
      In our Sherburne Debating Society.

The subject for talk the first regular night
      Was the question of right and expediency.
And the next in the course – if my memory's right,
      Was that of man's free moral agency.
At nine, P. M., sharp, the discussion must close,
      Later hours shock our sense of propriety,
There are so many elderly folks among those
      Who make up our Debating Society.

No visitors to the debates are allowed,
      This rule tantalizes the curious,
Our third question greatly delighted the crowd,
      "Is the reading of novels injurious?"
Luck or pluck? Circumstances or personal strength?
      Was argued with zeal and sobriety,
And, indeed, the debate was extended in length
      By special vote of the Society.

Woman Suffrage made up the next scene in the play,
      (Poor woman: poor down-trodden prisoners!)
But a stormy night kept many members away,
      So the champions had but few listeners.
Shall women turn out at elections? It shocks
      The old-fashioned sense of propriety.
O yes! she may go to the great ballot-box –
      So votes our Debating Society.

Is man to be swayed by the hope of reward?
      Or does his great moral obliquity
Demand that we bring in the strong arm of law,
      To punish him for his iniquity?
Is talent or wealth of more value to man,
      To attain a high place in society?
Why talent, of course, controvert it who can,
      In the teeth of our all-wise Society.

Must he who is honest forever be poor?
      Can man only get rich by rascality?
Have I named all the questions? Why no, I am sure
      We argued the soul's immortality,
A subject that furnished some rare food for thought,
      And a good chance to show off our piety,
And much talent to the discussion was brought
      Before our Debating Society.

But instead of the old interrogative form,
      Our questions are mostly declarative,
'Tween Nature and Art, the dispute will wax warm,
      Concerning their merits comparative.
For this will come off two weeks hence, and meanwhile
      To give to our sessions variety,
We have some miscellaneous matters on file,
      To be read up before the Society.

Though sharp and incisive our arguments be,
      The feeling is over harmonious;
"Give and take" is our motto, discussion is free,
      And thus we may say with Polonius,
Discussion is good, it elicits the truth,
      To the mind it gives scope and variety,
So come into our ranks, sober age and bright youth,
      Come and join our Debating Society.

The poet and the satirist have sung
How venomous may be the gossip's tongue,
How it may stab and wound, nay even kill
Its victim not intending any ill
'Tis even true, yet so much may depend
Upon the victim's self, we apprehend,
The tell tales may themselves be most surprised
That all the venom may be neutralized
We all love gossip, all must guilty plead,
For 'tis the spice of which we stand in need,
In every year a trumpery mouth is found
Though some like trumpery the whole year round,
And in their conversation plainly wish
That spice should make up nearly the whole dish.
After discussing our own cares and labors,
'Tis natural to talk about our neighbors,
A little crooked poet in his verse,
Gave us this line, for better or for worse, –
We wrote it in our copy book, it ran,
"The proper study of mankind is man"
Thus man must surely talk about his brother,
And all the race make gossip of each other,
None can escape, 'tis useless then to scold,
For people will repeat what they hear told,
You can't escape what scandal puts afloat,
But then – you can apply the antidote.
The wisest course is not to scold or frown,
Not hunt the story up, but live it down.

Our neighbor Brown, – we've known him thirty years, –
This morning with a troubled face appears,
Because he bas been seen, so is told,
Entering a place where rum and gin are sold,
Now Brown knows very well, – and so do I,
His errand there was such as might defy
The breath of scandal, were the whole truth known,
Even seat him higher on his moral throne.
For there were good sufficient causes why
He didn't tell the whole; – neither will I,
Though by the virtuous gossips he's been caught,
His long, fair record must not go for naught,
Conscious of rectitude, as you are Brown,
Don't hunt the story up, but live it down.

The little maiden who perchance may feel
Her heart inspired with philanthropic zeal,
To act a part deserving of all praise,
Leading the erring back to better ways,
Must she too be a victim for the sting
Of idle scandal, ever on the wing?
Its vigilance untiring, never sleeps,
We judge her by the company she keeps
The gossips say, "Why not? Of course we must."
But is this maxim always right and just?
'Tis partly true, but carried out in full,
'Twould all our noblest efforts backward pull,
'Twould check the heart's impulses, pure and warm,
Set brakes upon the car wheels of reform
'Twould strike at all the bravest and the best,
Jesus himself would fall under this test,
Publicans and sinners, now as of old,
Furnish a field for efforts strong and bold,
Go on then, maiden, nobly bear your part
Cased in the armor of your own pure heart,
Should idle words assail your fair renown,
Don't hunt the stories up, but live it down.

No man or woman can expect to be
Safe at all times, from scandals archery
Let each so live that acting as a charm,
His life the hurtless arrow may disarm,
Let each live justly, strong in good intent,
Mens conscia recti on true purpose bent,
So shall we bear our cross and earn our crown,
Don't hunt up gossip, then, but live it down.

Anniversary numbers one hundred and two!
Very well, and what then? Is there anything new?
Can we say or do anything under the sun
That some one else has not before said and done?
No, of course we cannot, so we'll e'en be content
With spending the day as of yore it was spent.
Don our holiday clothes, and go out pleasure-hunting,
While high aloft over us floats the proud bunting.
We list to the words of the grand "Declaration',"
(Political gospel for all this great nation)
Tom Jefferson gave them the true ring of Freedom
And ever since it is the fashion to read 'em,
On public occasions our souls to lift higher,
And with love of country our youth to inspire.
We meet all our friends with a holiday greeting,
Join in singing and dancing, in drinking and eating,
Endure with due patience the "able oration"
To give us keen appetites for the collation;
Submit to each rhymster's infliction in verse,
(Throw them into the hopper, for better or worse.)
Three cheers for the flag, and a blast of gunpowder,
Rammed home that the sound may be clearer and louder,
Affording a world of delight to the boys
Who rival each ether in making loud noise.
Each feels his heart thrill at the deafening sound,
And wishes 'Twas Forth of July – the year round,
But we greet the old story, so many times told,
Like the story of love, ever new though 'tis old.
There is something in barbecues, balls and picnics
Helps to keep up the spirit of "seventy-six;"
There is something in cheering and firing of guns
That stirs the young blood in the veins of our sons;
There is something in flaunting the rod, white and blue;
There is something in fish borns and fire crackers, too;
Young America's feelings find vent in this way,
For the Fourth of July is a jubilee day!

We would strive to retain all the spirit of old
Except ardent spirits; the man must be bold
Who in olden times dared to protest against drinking.
Each swallowed his brandy or wine without winking.
"A health to our country!" required deep libations,
As had been the practice in all older nations.
Post-prandial speeches 'twas thought would be better
If the speaker took something his tongue to unfetter.
The old-fashioned gentleman made it his boast
That with a full bumper he honored each toast,
And no one, not even the learned divine,
Saw any bad spirit in spirits of wine.
But a change of opinion has risen since then,
A new influence reaches all grave thinking men.
The Temperance Society sends invitation
With them to unite in the day's celebration.
With a Temperance banner to-day floating o'er us,
And the cold water song as a part of our chorus,
We may prove that America's great jubilee
Can be honored without going out on a "spree."
That we need sober heads for our country's defence,
That Freedom when used in its best, truest sense,
Means freedom from all that can hurt or oppress,
Submission to all that will lift up and bless,
Independence of shame, degradation and sin,
And safety from foes, both without and within;
In the family lies the true strength of our nation,
Let each family, then, have its own "Declaration."
Keep the protest of old and the new temperance oath,
And the Fourth of July may be sacred to both.

The review of our doings was so well received
      When written and read here last season.
That, spoiled by your plaudits, the writer believed
      That this fact would afford a good reason
For trying again to make sketches in rhyme,
      And not let his nearest friends ace 'em,
But to have them on hand at the advertised time,
      To be read at the Sherburne Lyceum.

Our second year rather improved on the first,
      If we judge from the interest taken,
Though the weather on Mondays has been of the worst,
      We have ne'er had our confidence shaken.
In our sung cozy room we can seat a small crowd,
      They're not lost in a great coliseum;
And our speakers need not vociferate loud
      In debate at the Sherburne Lyceum.

We've had many a good intellectual feast
      And conflict of wits to remember;
To over a hundred our ranks have increased
      At the close of the year in December.
And now, if much larger our numbers shall grow,
      We must meet in the old Atheneum;
For one after another is tempted to go
      And join with the Sherburne Lyceum.

The first subject that we this season discussed
      Was the co-education of Boxes;
'T was thought such a thing would be proper and just,
      And then, one of our social defects is
That woman's no right, though she work e'er so late
      And burn the midnight petroleum,
To enter a college sustained by the State, –
      Yet can enter the Sherburne Lyceum.

Cremate 'em or burn 'em? Which shall we do?
      A grave subject to some of our members,
Though it treats of the dead, 'tis a live question, too;
      And, whether dust, ashes, or embers,
One may just as well be condensed into an urn
      As spread out in a big mausoleum;
And it is equally proper to bury or burn,
      So voted the Sherburne Lyceum.

On the spelling reform then our champions took ground,
      And some for phonetics contended,
That is, to spell all English words by their sound,
      While some the old language defended.
If we have the new system, its advocates say,
      You'll pronounce words as quick as you see 'em.
We've decided to keep jogging on the old way,
      By desire of the Sherburne Lyceum.

Are we thoroughly selfish in heart and in mind?
      Can we overcome that which we're born to?
Do we make sacrifices for love of our kind?
      Do we always do just as we want to?
This and similar questions of man's moral strength,
      Nice distinctions of tuum and meum
Were considered, debated, and argued at length
      A whole evening before the Lyceum.

Next, the question of war – can it be justified?
      Must nation rise up against nation?
Why cannot their quarrels be peaceably tried,
      And for war substitute arbitration?
No; go on and fight, when you have a just cause,
      Then for victory chant your Te Deum.
All this is in keeping with natural laws,
      For so votes the Sherburne Lyceum.

Free trade or high tariff? the question's not new,
      As you'll see by a glance retrospective.
Some favor a tariff to raise revenue;
      Some only a tariff protective;
While others would open our ports to all wares,
      From custom-house duties would free 'em,
No inspectors to trouble our private affairs,
      And thus votes the Sherburne Lyceum.

"The press or the pulpit?" 'Tis well understood
      That each is a great reform organ;
But which of the two is most potent for good,
      And how about Talmage and Morgan?
"Have pictures of sin any great saving power?"
      Can we heal moral sores and not see 'em?
Many questions like these we debate by the hour
      At the meetings of Sherburne Lyceum.

Both the press and the pulpit bravo champions found;
      Each fought for his chosen side stoutly;
And the clergy so valiantly stood their own ground
      And for victory prayed so devoutly,
That the press-gang wore into a tight corner driven,
      Whence valor and skill could not free 'em.
And the vote for the pulpit stood eighteen to 'leven,
      As the voice of the Sherburne Lyceum.

Our programme we trust will be pleasing to all;
      'Twas thought such a change would be pleasant;
So to-night for the first time we take Wendell's Hall,
      And invite a few friends to be present.
Should our numbers still grow and more space be required,
      We must meet in the old Atheneum.
Now let us wish – since of this jingle you're tired –
      Success to the Sherburne Lyceum.

Uncle Peleg stood on the sea-beach, at going down of sun,
Eighty years had bleached his scanty locks, his race is almost run;
But his fine old eye yet kindles, as he dons o'er memory's page,
And his words were even eloquent, though tremulous from age.

One scarce would think that in his prime he stood full six feet four,
That form so bent with weight of years, yet so erect of yore.
The point of his old wooden cane sank deep into the sand,
As he leaned upon it, stretching forth his gaunt and wrinkled hand.

"So a watering place, they call it! O that I should live to see
Such a paradise for idlers! Old Nantucket! can it be
That thy sons who were of old so famed for pluck and enterprise,
Are given o'er to laziness, like sloths and butterflies.

Actively idle for three months, torpid the other nine,
Inviting summer visitors to help us kill the time,
Idleness, which in my young days received the scorn of men,
Is now the business of life, even as work was then.

Young people have no idea now of how things used to be,
When, with a hundred ships afloat our keels ploughed every sea,
There was work for all who sought it, industry was in the air,
And the clang and hum of business resounded everywhere.

Then no grass grew in our highways; our busy wharves and piers
Were loaded down on either side with casks rolled up in tiers,
For every ocean, far and near, was made to yield its spoil,
To reward the skill and daring of our sturdy sons of toil.

T'was three-and-sixty years ago, when peace was at its dawn,
Just after the old British war, I first went round Cape Horn,
I'd made eleven voyages before I reached my prime,
But that was nothing wonderful – t'was common at that time.

Nine thousand was our census once, and emigrants were few,
As soon as boys were strong enough, we'd work for them to do,
But now to seek employment they must go to foreign lands,
For a boy is but an elephant upon his parents' hands.

And now with girls 'tis much the same, for if our daughters fair
Get married, they must go abroad to make new homes elsewhere,
While many pine in maidenhood, still waiting for the wooer,
For there's no young men to marry them, – 'tis not their fault I'm sure.

The pleasant hum of business has ceased to greet my ears,
The sounds of axe and hammer have been silent now for years,
Our wharves! there's little left of them but slimy, rotting piles,
Showing their heads at times from out the mud, – like crocodiles.

And as to shipping – now there's nothin left but pleasure yachts,
And little dories one may lift and carry across lots;
And a double-barrelled racer comes to show what she can do,
Rigged and modeled very nearly like a Fiji war canoe.

There's one old wharf built up anew, and cost its weight in gold,
Owned by a railroad company (at least so I've been told)
And there's talk of running steam-cars to a place they call Surf-side.
Which is nothing but the old South Shore – only a two-mile ride.

We used to think 'twas exercise, good for both limb and lung,
To walk there before breakfast in the days when I was young;
But the present generation have learned laziness by heart;
They've reduced it to a system, and made it a fine art.

There's a ferry to Wauwinet, – I never heard the name
Until within a year or two, – "Up harbor's" all the same;
There's hotels there, and crowds go up to the Haulover shore.
What would Abram Quady say to see 'em pass his wigwam door?

There's a city, too, at Madaket, if it ever gets a start;
You'd think 'twas big as London to see it on the chart.
But the city's all a humbug, for the charts don't tell the truth.
And there aren't so many houses there as when I was a youth.

There's Sherburne Bluffs and Sunset Heights – find names to catch the ear,
With a few new houses, shut and locked up ten months in the year;
While stout old homesteads in the town have fallen to decay,
And some, for want of occupants, been sold and carried away.

We've gas for burning, but the stock will never pay a cent:
And hotels going begging now for landlords at low rents;
Great churches, where ministers must preach at empty pews,
Two weekly journals, filled with local gossip that's called "news."

We've a costly soldier's monument, to remind us of the wars,
And now we hear of water-works, and pipes, and reservoirs,
And because of sounding Indian names, the strangers are so fond.
We must call it Wannacomet, 'stead of western Washing pond.

And still our population keeps on dwindling day by day,
For we old folks must die, of course; time young must move away,
Till scarcely fifteen hundred the next census will disclose.
And how these few will find employment Heaven only knows!

0, tempora! O, mores! That's talk for the marines;
And I'm no Latin scholar, but I found out what it means;
My high School grandson taught me this and other classic lines,
Such as Tempora mutantur et mutamus cum – the times.

But I'm too old for change. I think the old times were the best;
And in due course, this worn-out frame must soon be laid to rest."
Uncle Peleg trudged away; his step was wavering and slow,
And his eyes were dimmed with tear-drops; the old man didn't know

That I had been a listener! but here I may confess,
As ubiquitous reporter for the local, weekly press,
All's fish that comes into my net, so all may take the hint,
"A chiel's amang ye takin' notes," and he'll put them into print.

When the old man had spoken and was gone,
I still sat musing", feeling quite forlorn.
"Indeed," said I, "here's sad work for my pen;
Old Peleg is the very ghost of then.

His words are true. But who comes here? I vow,
Two living representatives of Now!
I'll sit aside. behind the sand-hill here,
And catch what's not intended for my ear."

The twain approached. I knew young Mr. Dash,
With faultless toilet and well-trained moustache.
A fragrant weed he's smoking, – more's the pity;
He holds a genteel clerkship in the city,

And spends his little money, and less wit,
Not for his own or other's benefit.
Strange! that a man who might find happiness
With a true, loving wife his home to bless,

Should be so silly as to look with pride
On her who's promenading at his side.
That's Mrs. Fast, wife of a millionaire.
At least, he's called so; but she does not care

For him for his own sake; his money pays
Her bills, and seems to gild her crooked ways,
Such as might cast a shade on her fair fame
If her best wealth lay in her own good name.

So bright and sparkling is young Mrs. Fast,
The foolish youth on whom her looks are cast,
Becoming spooney through her fascination,
Soon finds himself quite deep in a flirtation,

And is quite sure, before he ends the game,
To singe his wings a little in the flame.
Each thinks he is the favored one, O, dunce!
She's playing on a dozen strings at once;

Each goose is cast aside when she has picked him: –
So with young Henry Dash, her latest victim.
"Now, really, do you think dear Mrs. Fast,
This season is as lively as the last?"

"They're not to be compared at all," said she;
"Indeed, I'm almost dead with ennui."
She looked so beautiful while thus she spoke,
Her words must either be a fib or joke.

"Last summer, both at Newport and Long Branch,"
Said Dash, "I met a perfect avalanche
Or stylish people; but so few this season
That I'm quite bothered to assign a reason."

"The reason's plain enough," she said with grace;
"The very nature of this awful place
Makes it unsuitable fur summer sport,
"It never can be a first-class resort."

"And why?" said Dash. "Don't ask me why," she, cried.
To come here is a kind of suicide;
The island lies quite too far out at sea,
Instead of being where it ought to be.

Then the facilities are all so slow, –
"Ah, the facilities!" said Dash. "Just so.
For three hours of' sea sickness, more or less,
Does sorely try one's patience, I confess."

"Of course it does," the lady quick replied.
And then the dingy steamboat! and the tide
Falling away to leave her hard ashore,
And thus detaining us full two hours more.

It's all so stupid!" Then with long-drawn breath,
"I do declare! I'm almost bored to death!"
(If this were true, surely no words could tell
How beautiful she'd look if she were well.)

"I trust I do not bore you Mrs. Fast?"
She giggled, and a sly glance at him cast
That riveted his chains. "I think," said she,
"That sea air's nice; but here is too much sea.

The rough, salt wind makes one's complexion florid;
The days are dull, and the cold nights are horrid!"
"Ah! so they are." echoed the love-sick youth.
"The nights are chilly, and, to tell the truth,

I packed my trunk to leave a week ago,
But, as you see, lingered and did not go."
"But why?" she asked. "The cause is soon explained.
Meanwhile I met with you, and so remained."

The lady smiled; her lovely head was bent
As if acknowledging the compliment.
"I'm tired of boating, Had one hateful drive,
From which I'm thankful to escape alive.

Talk about riding here! The roads are awful."
(Such uses of this word should be unlawful.)
"'Sconset they call the place to which we went.
Without a rival or a precedent.

That village ought to be. It's heathenish!
A dozen shanties, and a scent of fish;
A few amphibious natives there we found, –
Half sailor and half farmer, – staring 'round;

A new hotel, an old one run to seed,
Were all I saw there. Picturesque indeed!"
"'Tis as you say." returned her cavalier;
"Those 'Sconset fishermen are rather queer.

One of them told me stories of his youth
Too marvellous for belief, as if 't were truth.
He read it off as though 't were all in type,
And all the time smoking his beastly pipe."

The sneer upon his moustache lingered yet,
While lighting a fresh, dainty cigarette.
"But did you not drive around to view the wreck?"
"Oh, yes; of course. We climbed up to her deck

And walked upon our ankles for a change.
A wreck, of course, is something wild and strange,
And seems sent for our especial benefit.
Some mariners were drowned, two, out of it,

Which gives it romance. Still it is a bore.
I've seen it once, and don't care for it more.
I like to view the boats far eut at sea –
I mean the pleasure-yachts – which seem to me,

Like sea birds' wings; but I can't bear to hear
This dreadful talk of these rude natives here,
About the days before the great decrease
When this was numbered 'mong the isles of grease,

When dirty oil ships anchored off the Bar,
And every other young man was a tar."
"Dis-gusting!" cried the echo, quite aghast
At what so shocked the charming Mrs. Fast,

Who thus continued in satiric vein:
"The fact is, everything's so rude and plain;
Some call it quaintness, some think it is nice.
It's quite insipid; everything wants spice.

It's such a tedious born to hear these people
Prate of the foreign bell in that old steeple,
And tell of Quaker merchants and old salts,
To young folks who're just dying for a waltz.

No brilliant hops, such as one finds elsewhere,
No dashing turn-outs, each with spanking pair
Of proud, two-forty racers, gray or sorrel,
But all so innocent, so staid and moral;

No illuminations like those at the Bluffs,
No pickpockets, no advertising puffs,
With women just like Eve before the fall, –
Why even young ladies have no style at all!"

"Indeed, they have not much," said Dash. "'Tis true,
I thought some of them had – till I saw you."
Who says, to govern, women need to vote?
"I leave Nantucket by next Monday's boat,"

She said. And the young spooney, Henry Dash,
By this time in a helpless state of smash,
Answered, "Wherever you the summer spend
I needs must follow, if to the world's end."

"Dear sir, you flatter me; I scarcely know
When I shall leave this place, which way to go
To get the temper of my mind restored.
The more I change about, the more I'm bored.

Oak Bluffs is stylish, but the air is torrid:
Nantucket is too cold, – and both are horrid!"

They passed on out of hearing. I arose
With new food for reflection, for who knows
What's to become of our dear, native town,
If thus between two stools she must go down?

Old Uncle Peleg chants his Iliam fuit,
Tells us how he and others used to do it;
How brave men sought for wealth on distant seas,
And brave wives waited like Penelopes.

While Mrs. Fast, who ought to be a judge.
Turns up her pretty nose, and cries, "O, Fudge!"
Considers every one a bore who thinks,
And with the past wants no connecting links;

And says, with scorn depicted in her face,
"This is a failure – as a watering, place."
Two characters, quite opposite I've sketched,
Neither, I think, unnatural or far-fetched;

And trust I have no angry feeling stirred
By thus repeating what I've overheard.
The subject thus suggested may be food for
Reflective minds. What is Nantucket good for?

Proud of our "Then" we are: doubtful of "Now."
'Ere the New Zealander, with tattooed brow,
Shall stand – as grim Macaulay has foretold –
Where the red Indian sachem stood of old,

Gazing on relics of a by-gone age,
What will have filled our last historic page?

The world's before you, fair and bright,
Young life is full of keen delight,
To-day the record says that you
Have reached the age of twenty-two.

With youth, strong health, and hopes so high,
The future's like a radiant sky,
Where scarce a cloud o'ercasts the view
Of happiness at twenty-two.

But ere that number may be doubled,
Your sky with storms will oft be troubled;
All will not be serenely blue
When you have reached twice twenty-two.

If through the storms you safely ride,
Soon, then, you'll feel life's ebbing tide;
Do calmly what remains to do,
When you are three times twenty-two;

When power and nerve are gone at last,
And life exists but in the past,
'Twill be but little worth to you
Whose years are four times twenty-two.

Though life thus flickers toward its close,
As old the mortal body grows,
Yet with a conscience clear and true,
The heart may still be twenty-two.

So live that when the angel rings
The call to leave all earthly things,
Your spirit pure may live anew,
Even as now at twenty-two.

Our Syphax, Brown and noisy Zip
      Resorted to famed "Quarter Mile,"
And on Brown's pointed double rip.
      Coasted-in true Indian file.

'Twas a change from copy and type,
And their faces with pleasure gleamed;
But mischief caused the impish snipe
      To drop his heel – the sled careened,
            And through the air
            With cuss and swear
Three comps went send over send.

'Twas ever thus since childhood's hour,
      When quiet pleasures 'round us glide,
Some heedless imp seems bound to pour
      His spite on us, and spoil our slide.

Let's look back on the work that we've done the past season,
      Exchanging our congratulations anew,
For all must agree to be proud there's good reason,
      When hero we present our third annual review.

In the year we have prospered and grown so in numbers
      That we've had to move down street and take Wendell's Hall;
Those at first apathetic now shake off their slumbers,
      And contribute their share for the pleasure of all.

Some can talk by the half-hour, and some can write essays:
      Some have musical talent, to play or to sing;
Thus our public displays may be made great successes,
      If such his or her contributions will bring.

We've the great sea of knowledge and culture to swim in,
      The way of improvement is open to all;
Once 'twas thought all these things wore not proper for women,
      Now they don't care a fig for the words of St. Paul.

We've discussed many questions on themes multifarious, –
      Such as history, politics, morals and law,
Theology and other subjects so various,
      Getting many good thoughts, and a great deal of jaw.

The questions present a variety so checkered, –
      Some as old as the hills, and yet others quite new, –
'Twill be quite amusing to look o'er the record
      And comment on each as they pass in review.

"Is it well to use anodynes and anaesthetics?"
      We decided by a rather large vote that 'tis right;
We don't punish ourselves like the old-time ascetics;
      In such contests 'tis better to run than to fight,

Nevertheless, by some speakers 'twas stoutly debated
      That that subtle drug which we get from the Turk,
Might as well on the whole have been never created, –
      We should make Nature's vital force do its own work.

The next case considered was more metaphysical:
      "Is there any standard of absolute truth?"
Some speakers were heavy, and some gay and. quizzical,
      But the wisdom of age and the vigor of youth

Were alike quite unequal to solving this question,
      And if through two evenings, it had been spun out,
(As to do so we think someone made a suggestion,)
      We should scarce have known what we were talking about.

"Is capital punishment wrong and pernicious?"
      Of course it is, this we decided by vote;
No criminal howe'er so wicked and vicious
      Should be swung in the air with a rope 'round 'his throat.

'Twas gravely discussed one night, whether Mahomet,
      Who built up a new faith among millions of men,
And o'er ran the East like the flash of a comet,
      Was or was not a humbug! Sure not one in ten

Could doubt that he was, yet so stoutly defended
      Was the negative side, that we came very near
Stultifying ourselves, though we might have amended
      The record next week when our heads were clear.

'Twould have been rather strange had the Sherburne Lyceum
      Submitted to kiss the great conqueror's rod;
To put Allah! il Allah! in place of Te Deum,
      And write down Mahomet the prophet of God.

With the usury laws many members got muddled,
      Sat still and kept mum, their confusion to hide,
And the few who dared shew hands at all were so fuddled
      That most of them voted upon the wrong side.

Does the cause of improvement and free education
      Find a foe and a check in the great church of Rome?
Shall the church be appraised and assessed for taxation,
      And pay its full share like the farm and the home?

These last two great questions were freely debated
      By those who had something to write or to say,
And the whole subject having been well ventilated,
      On both the majority's verdict was yea.

Then we talked pro and con on Chinese immigration,
      And discussed its effects, both for good and for ill,
Two evenings we spent, and with deliberation
      Decided to let them come freely at will.

Competitive trials found sturdy opposers.
      Likewise the whole system of marking in schools,
But as long experience no better plan shows us,
      We must still make the best of old systems and rules.

We declared it the duty of all legislators
      To obey the constituents they represent;
Judge not for themselves the political status,
      But just do the service for which they are sent.

Punishment it was said should be merely protective,
      While some argued that it should be something more,
But as no one maintained that it should be vindictive,
      Instead of two strong sides we had three or four.

'Twas asked "Is this wicked world morally better
      Today, than it was a full century ago,
When the law gave the right to imprison the debtor,
      And all nations held slaves in bondage, you know?"

Though 'twould seem at first glance that the world is improving,
      We'd a vote nearly equal from the two sides,
We are constrained to admit that our morals are moving.
      But slowly and painfully, not with great strides.

As se few women helped to elect School Committee,
      The question was asked, "What does this fact denote?"
Some argued that they were afraid, more's the pity!
      While some thought it proof that they don't want to vote.

The ladles themselves did not say much about it,
      As to whether they wanted the ballot or not,
And if most of them feel that they are well off without.it,
      They cannot be made to bewail their sad lot.

Between Music and Poetry – which is the greater?
      Two ladies fought each for her favorite art,
Each claiming that hers was the great elevator,
      To enlighten mankind and ennoble the heart.

And Music won, having more votes than her neighbor,
      Although as twin sisters they seem to belong;
But still harder it was to divorce Thought and Labor,
For the bond that unites them is subtle and strong.

Indeed the whole matter appeared so one-sided,
      Although the defence was conducted with skill,
The house in opinion could not be divided,
      And its members stood firm in support of the bill.

Is the theatre's influence vile and pernicious,
      Do its evil surroundings outweigh all the good?
Does it tend to make man dissipated and vicious?
      To battle this, two lady champions stood.

We talked of Miss Cushman and dear Fanny Kemble,
      David Garrick; and other great stars of the stage.
Who could make every listener laugh, weep, or tremble, –
      We waked up the history of every past age,

We talked about dramas, the true and the spurious,
      From Shakespeare's great tragedies down to "Black Crook," –
And declared that the theatre is not injurious,
      For thus is recorded the vote that we took.

Our meetings thus far have been ever harmonious.
      While opinions are freely and boldly expressed,
Their expression, though earnest, is not acrimonious,
      And all meet again with good feeling and zest.

The keen retorts often provoke us to laughter,
      When smart mental friction brings out the bright thought;
And proud of the past we'll do better hereafter,
      For new speakers of late the infection have caught.

Sometimes we've thought best for the sake of variety,
      To have a mixed programme to break the routine,
For we've singers and players, too, in our society, –
      That we've talent enough, is quite plain to be seen.

As for three winters past we're been pleased and delighted,
      There are yet possibilities for us in store,
Lapse of time has but made us more strong and united,
      And resolved that next winter we'll do even more.

Dost know some pastoral vale,
Some fragrant, flowery dale,
Some quiet, lovely spot,
O'er which the vines do creep,
Where they'll board a fellow cheap?

Can any one describe to me
Some cool, green island in the sea
Where I can revel on the deep,
And eat, and drink, and smoke and sleep,
And while the summer months away
And have no monstrous bill to pay?

"Fill up, fill up!" the diggers said;
      "The 'Goose Pond' needs attention!"
When lo, an accident occurred
      We certainly must mention.

A looker-on, demure, we ween,
      With witty words was clucking;
Slipped, went down, like a "sub-marine"
      In our Goose Pond, a-ducking.

He walks our streets like any man,
      Thrice-honored as survivor;
The hero of the "Goose Pond" raid, –
      An amateur diver!

We saw from our window a minstrel with harp,
      And fiddles were played by two others;
Then spoke up our imp who's so preciously sharp,
      "See the great firm of Harper and Brothers!"

We listened to learn what the music might be,
      Our attention wound up to the sharpest,
But we found 'twas two-thirds of it fiddle-de-dee,
      And could scarce catch the sound of the harpist.

Slowly and sadly we turned to our work
      And went on "setting up" a ghost story,
Soon the harp and the fiddles wound off with a jerk
      And left us, – alone in our glory.

From Uncle Sam you'll have a call,
      The matter's grave and weighty,
He's counting up our noses all,
      In eighteen hundred-eighty.

Chorus – Yankee Doodle's a famous man,
                  The census man's a greater,
                He's bound to plague you all he can,
                  The great Enumerator.

He walks into our home and scares
      The modest wife and daughter;
Notes down our business affairs,
      Like saucy news reporters.

The minister who saves our souls,
      The soldier who defends us,
Must all be counted on his rolls –
      The man that takes the census.

Chorus – Yankee Doodle's a famous man, &c.

"How many children yet alive?
      And what are all their ages?
How does your husband's business thrive?"
      Or, "What's his rate of wages?"

Chorus – Yankee Doodle's a famous man, &c.

"How many cows upon your farm?
      How many sheep in pasture?"
You'd answer if you dared to, ma'am,
      "None o' your business, blast you!"

Chorus – Yankee Doodle's a famous man, &c.

The questions really are too bad,
      They raise our Ebenezor;
But what's the use of getting mad?
      He's cool as Julius Caesar.

Chorus – Yankee Doodle's a famous man, &c.

He goes so calmly on his round,
      A smiling face presents us,
His equal nowhere can be found,
      This man that lakes the census.

Chorus – Yankee Doodle's a famous man, &c.

Soon will Araminta
      Down at the sea-side chat,
The white cerulean ribbons
      Blow on her airy hat;
And as the frosty breakers
      Grow musically louder,
She say, "O George, let's hie away
      And have some bivalve chowder."

This item's for you, careless reader,
Who won't bother your head with our leader,
But will rend all that's said
Of the great railroad bed
O'er the Goose Pond, away to Weeweeder.

An old salt who has spent his life whaling,
And works both at pumping and bailing,
Says the toughest part now
Is 'cross Nobadeer Slough,
And the rest will be pretty plain sailing.

Stranger, have you seen Nantucket?
That historic little island,
Ocean rolling all around it;
Just the place for summer tourists;
Cooling breezes from the ocean;
Ocean gives us cooling breezes,
Cooling breezes, cooling breezes;
Come, enjoy the cooling breezes,
Let our muse go as she pleases, –
Bring her back now to the subject.

Town in olden time was Sherburne;
Name was changed and called Nantucket;
Once it had nine thousand people,
Scarcely now a third as many,
Save when pleasure-hunting tourists
Come to swell the population
For a few weeks in the summer.
Once we'd ships in ovary ocean,
Skimmed the waves for oily treasure;
Now of late years we've learned better,
Stay at home and mind our business.
Entertaining curious strangers.

Come and stay all night among us;
If you can't stay any longer,
Take the steamer off next morning, –
Island Home or Martha's Vineyard;
Write a letter to the papers;
Write a history of our island,
Never mind queer dates and blunders;
Make up all your own statistics;
Some one else will write another,
Read 'em both and split, the difference;
Come and see our great improvements –
Railroad, Water works and Jetty;
Call us enterprising people;
Don't kill whales now as we used to,
Getting into better business.
Won't write any more at present;
Could fill five columns If we wished to,
Verses just as good as these are,
Run on like a very Touchstone,
"Rhyme you so eight years together,
Dinner and sleeping hours excepted."
Here's enough for one occasion;
Give you more as good as this is,
When our muse is in the humor.
Stranger, come and see Nantucket!
Come and make a flying visit!
Stay all summer, if you wish to;
Stay all winter – if you dare to;
Stay forever, – folks don't die hero!
Advertise us! Advertise us!

Now raise your shouts and hoist the flag, we'll have a celebration,
The President has signed the bill for that appropriation;
The Waterworks and Railroad, too, are matters small and petty, –
We've something better now to do, we're going to have a – jetty!
                  Jetty! Jetty!
                  We're going to have a jetty!

They talked of this in days lang syne, and called it a "Breakwater,"
But now to us 'tis plain, they didn't call It what they oughter;
They dragged their big ships o'er the bar to hunt for spermaceti,
But now that business is all gone, we're going to have a – jetty!
                  Jetty! Jetty!
                  We're going to have a jetty!

For many years the job has been a standing butt for jokers,
But now, since Hayes has signed the bill, we'll have it spite of croakers;
A few there are to grumble yet, with tempers soured and fretty,
And still to say, "I don't believe we'll ever have a jetty!
                  Jetty! Jelly!
                  We'll never have a jetty!

Time and money wasted on the bar in vain attempts to dig it,
But the jetty'll cut a channel deep enough to float a frigate.
Two ladies Just went past our door, they both were young and pretty,
We heard one to the other say, "We're going to have a jetty,
                  Jetty! Jetty!
                  We're going to have a jetty!

There are workmen waiting now to earn that fifty thousand dollars,
Clark grows enthusiastic as through the street he hollers;
Girls, too, are interested, and Susy calls to Betty,
"There's a fancy ball this evening – we're going to have a jetty!
                  Jetty! Jetty!
                  We're going to have a jetty!

Come all you summer travellers, seeking rest and recreation,
Run down to old Nantucket and enjoy a long vacation;
Leave the cities where the atmosphere is close, and hot, and sweaty,
Come take part in our rejoicing, for we're going to have a – jetty!
                  Jetty! Jetty!
                  We're going to have a jetty!

Say, girls, what do you think?
They're going to fit up a Skating Rink!
O'er a hard pine floor as smooth as zinc,
We'll roll on wheels in the Skating Rink!
O, for a thousand feet to clink
Across the floor of the Skating Rink!
O, for a thousand souls to drink
In all the joys of the Skating Rink!
O, for paper and pen and ink
To write the song of the Skating Rink!
Say, girl's, I've never slept a wink
Since first I heard of the Skating Rink!
All night I just lie awake and think
What fun we'll have in the Skating Rink!
Augustus now must haul out his chink
And pay for a treat at the Skating Rink!
I'll be good to him now, and I'll wink and blink
'Till he takes me into the Skating Rink!
He doesn't dance, nor smoke, nor drink,
But he'll have to go to the Skating Rink!
From that expense he must not shrink,
For I'm dying for sport in the Skating Rink!
I'll be cross and blue, and my heart will sink,
If I don't get into the Skating Rink!
But Augustus can't resist, I think,
And he'd go with me to the Skating Rink!
Say, girls, I believe we are on the brink
Of some great results from the Skating Rink!
For there'll be another connecting link
'Tween us and the beaux in the Skating Rink!
To exercise till your cheeks are pink,
The nicest place is the Skating Rink!
O, to skate till your spine is all in a kink,
And then retire from the Skating Rink!
Bobolink! Bobolink!
Old Nantucket will never sink,
If we can support a Skating Rink!

Says Zip, "At our great celebration
We'll have an immense immigration,
      For two boats will run,
      Spreading news of the fun.
Folks will come from all over creation!

"Now look here," says Syphax. "By thunder!
Your estimate, Zip, is a blunder,
      For why should they care
      When there's fun, too, elsewhere.
Why should they come down here, I wonder?"

"Do you think you'll prevail upon strangers
To rush through sickness and dangers,
      Down to this heap of sand
      Just to see a brass band
And some Antiques and Horrible Rangers

"But Nantucket," says Zip, "is a nation,
And it once was a great whaling station,
      And I don't care a dot
      Whether folks come or not,
For we'll just have our own celebration.

The yachtmen came on a Saturday night,
      And they spread themselves, up and down,
And silly young heads were turned with delight,
As they flaunted their uniforms, gay and bright,
      In the streets of our lively town.

A mariner's daughter tripped down Main street;
      A cute, merry damsel was she,
And a yachtman bold the maiden did greet,
And vowed he would cast his heart at her feet,
      If she'd follow his fortunes at sea.

Quoth the maiden, "I've been on the seas before,
      And the life hath no charms for me,
I've heard the winds blow and the great waves roar,
And I think the great ocean's a terrible bore,
      O son of the salt, green sea!"

The yachtman was stricken with great surprise,
      At this speech of the lady fair,
"These sea-nymphs," he said, "are so wondrous wise,
There's no chance here of taking a prize
      As a bride for a bold corsair."

Now when in mid-watch he boarded his craft,
      The yarn to his mates he told,
How Cupid, the archer, had sent home his shaft,
How the maiden's glances had raked fore-and-aft
      The heart of this yachtman bold!

But the mariner e'er muet be true to his ship,
      Other loves are all idle and vain,
His mates wrung his hand in their tarry grip,
As their yacht with her anchor once more atrip
      Danced buoyantly over the main.

"Where are you going, my pretty maid?"
"I'm going a-rowing, sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, and "Sir," she said,
"I'm going a-rowing, sir," she said.

"How far are you going, my pretty maid?"
"O'er the deep, kind sir," she said;
"To oar the deep, to oar the deep,
To oar the deep, kind sir," she said.

"Let me go with you, my pretty maid?"
"No, I don't want you, sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, and "Sir,' she said;
"No, I don't want you, sir," she said.

"I won't go with you, my pretty maid;"
"Nobody asked you to, sir," she said;
"Sir," she said, and "Sir,' she said,
"Nobody asked you to, sir," she said.

As Clark, while yet the sun was low,
From lofty tower his blast did blow,
The startled sleeper cried, "Hullo!"
      And raised his tired head languidly.

Then on the street was heard the shout,
And grumbling sleepers all turned out,
To learn what is was all about,
      And solve the dreadful mystery.

The cry that did their slumbers mar,
Resounding now from near and far,
"The railroad sleepers at the bar,
      Approaching Brant Point rapidly!"

Says Mr. Simpkins, with a yawn,
(You should have seen that look of scorn)
"Confound the crier's infernal horn:
      Is this a race of savages?"

Some back to downy beds did creep,
With mutterings not loud but deep,
That Clark should thus have murdered sleep,
      Breaking sweet dreams so stupidly.

They saw it in another light,
When the horn blew again at night,
Telling the steamer was in sight,
      With mails from the metropolis.

Now well-dressed people on the street,
Each other's smiling faces greet,
And comment, with expression sweet,
      On "institutions primitive."

And as the blast rings loud and strong,
As William does the note prolong,
This is the burden of their song, –
      "What a delightful novelty!"

Thy cause is just; On, William, on!
Give us the news both night and morn
Inflate thy checks, and fill thy horn,
      And blow with all thy energy!

Through winter's frost and summer's heat,
Thou dost thy duty on the street;
Each cobble-stone beneath thy feet,
      Should rise up in thy eulogy!

And now comes the great Dr. Tanner,
And flings out the starvation banner;
The test he has stood, –
Forty days without food, –
And he argues his case in this manner:

Man eats a deal more than he oughter;
He can live 'bout as well on water;
Keep his mind well employed,
Though his stomach be void,
His life will scarce be any shorter.

If a man walks or rides, reads or whittles,
With a light game of billiards or skittles,
And has water to drink,
Doctor Tanner don't think
He has need to consume any victuals.

It has always been thought since creation,
That man needs a certain grub ration;
Are bread and beefsteak
An expensive mistake?
And can one get used to starvation?

Now don't emulate Dr. Tanner,
And starve forty days in that manner;
'Tisn't worth while to try,
For fear you might die,
For ten chances to one you won't stan' her.

My song, now I am going to begin it:
There's a place of resort called Wauwinet,
      Where the clams are so sweet,
      You are tempted to eat,
Till there's something ridiculous in it.

My song, now I have got to the middle,
Is fol de rol high diddle diddle;
      No more clams we can eat,
      But will jump to our feet,
And dance to the squeak of the fiddle.

My song, now I'm going to end it,
And then to the printer I'll send it;
      If it troubles his conscience,
      To publish such nonsense,
And he don't like this verse – he may mend it.

Says Grace to Jane,
"'Tis all in vain
We go to balls and dances,
For though 'tis clear
This is leap year,
We girls can't make advances."

"I went to the Rink,
And what d'ye think?
I met a youth from Brockton;
He drooped his head,
And sweetly said,
He loved the floor I walked on."

Just then Kate Rand
Caught hold his hand,
And off the track she switched him.
Says Jane to Grace,
"Your lovely face
Had for the time bewitched him."

"But that was true
That he told you
About the floor you walked on,
For he loved to skate
At a fearful rate,
This gay young man from Brockton."

"Not you, but the floor
Does he adore
Dear Grace, excuse my laughter,
What he told you
He told me, too,
Not fifteen minutes after!"

Soon comes October, now,
Hie home, each rover, now,
Season's all over, now,
      Over and past.
Autumn has come again,
Strangers go home again,
Next summer roam again,
      Just like the last.

Summer sports ended now,
Health much amended, now,
Wasn't it splendid, now,
      Coming down here?
Old folks grow young again,
Sick are made strong again,
Time won't be long again –
      Early next year.

Come down in May or June,
'Twon't be a day too soon,
Boat comes each day at noon,
      Don't lose the chance.
Don't make a fuss and stew,
Come on by dozens, too,
Bring down your cousins, too,
      Sisters and aunts!

The strangers now are leaving quick,
And scarcely stop for valedic-
            tory words;
This week would quiet be and dull,
If 'twasn't for the Agricul-
            tural Fair.

But our September skies are blue,
We still enjoy a mild salu-
            brious climate;
Though well we know what soon must come,
Rude, boisterous winds and cold Autum-
            nal showers.

Now see what we have gone and done.
We thought we'd say some things in fun-
            ny couplets;
But change or turn it as we will,
Some lines will have to many syl-
            lables in them.

If we could write rhymes pretty well,
We'd write some for the Coffin cel-
            ebration;
But as 'tis plain we never shall,
They're good enough for comic Val-
            entine doggerels.

Joy's pipes from Wannacomet!
Joy's pipes from Wannacomet!
Naught to do but turn a screw,
And draw the gushing water from it!

      O! water is a jolly drink!
            It's better far than gin or brandy;
      And then on washing days you'll think
            It's nice to have the water handy.

Joy's pipes from Wannacomet!
Joy's pipes from Wannacomet!
Just turn the tap, and right off slap
You'll see the water rushing from it.

      Moses struck water with his wand,
            (The ancient chronicles endorse it;)
      Our Moses tapped the Washing Pond
            And sent it streaming through the faucet!

Joy's pipes from Wannacomet!
Joy's pipes from Wannacomet!
The water's cool, but yet, you fool,
It's not so cold you'll want to warm it!

      Water at hand in full supply
            Makes easy work for Jane and Hannah!
      Here's drink for every one that's dry!
            Both drink and food for Doctor Tanner!

Joy's pipes from Wannacomet!
Joy's pipes –

Mrs. Addlepate thinks that if woman's to vote,
      She would be in a troublesome fix,
Unless names of parties and men she can quote,
      So her sisters must know Polly Tix.

Polly Tix was the mother of free suffrage laws,
      A woman, it seems, led the van;
And with Polly still ready to blow for our cause,
      We'll defy the dictation of man.

For Hancock we'll vote if we feel so inclined,
      But an English man we can't enduro,
We claim woman's privilege of changing her mind,
      And thus keeping Polly Tix pure.

James Chesterfield on the Republican side,
      Is appointed to carry the flag;
And about Arthur Garter we can't yet decide,
      But we'll shake his name up in the bag.

We'll see whether Winfield or Hanfield comes first,
      And if Chesterfield don't come at all
We'll rally on Garcock; the nation won't burst
      If we women should vote for them all.

Come, sisters, and stand by the good ship of state
      Don't let the men burn her or scuttle her;
Poor Polly Tix! think of her terrible fate
      If caught in the grip of Ben Buttle-er!

Great Jetty! 'tis of thee,
Great structure in the sea!
      Of thee we sing,
The summer's past and gone,
Rough winter's coming on,
No labor can be done
      Till opening spring.

Our grandsires talked of thee,
Great stone wall in the sea,
      In days of yore.
Wise men have said their say,
Ages have passed away,
And still we talk today,
      But can't do more.

When Uncle Sam comes down,
Let Clark uprouse the town
      In thundering tones.
Put down some granite blocks,
To stand the billows' shocks,
Fill in with broken rooks
      And cobblestones.

And as the great heap swells,
Ring forth the joyful bells –
      Ding dong! Dong ding!
Proclaim it wide and far:
Deep water on the bar!
All hail the Jetty star!
      God save the thing!

Farewell to the dear Sherburne News!
We're sorry its visits to lose;
      For we used once a week.
      In its columns to seek,
Finding something to please or amuse.

We were glad in our list to embrace it,
And among our exchanges to place it;
      But its life was so brief,
      We are soon brought to grief.
And now we must write its Hic jacet.

Mrs. Addlepate said as we met her,
"I wish its support had been better.
      New the paper's defunct,
      Though the boys never flunked,

But filled out their programmes to the letter!"
But the good lady's conscience misgave her,
For the truth was not in her favor;
      When the facts all appeared,
      It was just as we feared,
She had borrowed the News of her neighbor!

And now the merry husking days are here,
The golden harvest period of the year,
The Harvest Moon greets our delighted gaze.
And pumpkin-lantern adds its genial rays,
Old Boreas begins his piping blast –
Foretelling winter colder than the last.
Horse-chestnuts 'mong the juveniles abound,
And fallen leaves profusely strew the ground.
Between the cranberry pickers and Jack Frost
The race is close, for fear the crop be lost;
And stacks of wood and coal are now laid in,
Before the Arctic weather shall begin.
The feature of this week that pleases all
Is the steamboat arrangement for the fail;
For now the trumpet-blast, blown from the tower,
Is heard at a more seasonable hour;
Mails are distributed before 'tis dark,
And night's no more made hideous by Clark!