John B. Colwell

Little, shining, piece of glass, Here you come plumb full of "sass"! Chuck'ling, chort'ling, grinning, smug, Where'd you get your license, lug?

Safe beneath the nurse's thumb Who can speak his thoughts — by gum! When she slides you 'neath your tongue? "Settle down old boy, you're stung!"

Don't you ever get enough Of that sleuth, detective stuff? What you huntin' in my mouth? Think I'm balmy? Goin' South?

I may fail to grade "elect" But I keep my self-respect, While you steep in alcohol Winter, summer, springtime, fall!

Gone are the bees, That roam the field, When summer's blooms are sweet; Bare are the trees, Whose cool shades yield Relief, from mid-day heat. Hushed are the birds We love to hear, The robin, and the lark ; Nor can these words Describe how dear Their song, as falls the dark ! Gray is the sky, And overcast; The purling brook is still; The brown leaves lie, (Their time is past,) The wind is bleak and chill.

Gone are the joys Of summer days, Portrayed in fire-place ember; Now, come the toys, And Christmas lays, 'Tis late in cold December!

Give ear, good people, to my tale, Forget your present strait — We'll take a winding gravel trail Back to the Buckeye State. And there, atop the highest hill We'll view the scene outspread — The valley fair, the stream, the mill, The school house painted red. A wood that mounts the hillside rise — With trees now gaunt and bare, Yet, beautiful to knowing eyes, To homesick eyes, how fair! Beyond the wood, in pasture brown, The gentle sheep repose Upon the ground that slopes adown — They close their eyes and doze. A squirrel barks as we sit mute, A partridge drums — not far, A flicker tunes his noisy flute, But, soon will come the evening star. For, shadows lengthen on the lea, The day dies as it must, The sun dips to the western sea, A sea of golden dust!

This is the end of Buckeye Trail. The homing heart has seen The scene kept green in childhood's vale With all those mem'ries keen. And thus, within each hidden heart Its Buckeye Trail is found, That leads the homesick soul apart And back to childhood ground.

Before the window of a shop With fishing tackle on display, I stop To view the rods, hooks, lines and reels; The painted lures ; the canvas creels ; And landing net As yet unwet; To me each shining article appeals.

But, as I gaze, these disappear. Within the window, showing clear, I see some pines — a rocky shore — A little baylet I adore — A fishing boat E'en now afloat, While wavelets rock it aft and fore!

Why should I care though wind be chill? My heart within, is warm with thrill. I see no more the slush and snow Wherein I stand : but mem'ry's glow Brings summer day With me away Beside the lake where big ones grow.

Have you passed a night on the shore of a lake In that northern country, afar? Where fish abound, and the jack pines lift Their sage-green plumes to the evening star? Where the lap, lap, lap, of the restless wave, And the dank, moss-scented air, With incense sweet from the balsam boughs, Ascend with your evening prayer?

'Tis there you may learn the song of the loon, The strange Great Northern Loon; And some may hear, and call it queer, This twisting, haunting, eerie tune. It sounds somewhat like a rusty hinge, Or the creak of an unoiled cart, An old fashioned, time worn, wooden pump; But it strikes a chord in my primal heart.

All day these queer birds swim, and dive, And feed, and sport in the lake. With a wary eye for a foe near by, They know which path 'neath the waves to take. Behold they fade, are gone for a while! There is naught but the rippling wave— Then, off to the right some half a mile, A black head wearing a large bird-smile Escapes from a watery grave.

As the sun sinks low in the gilded west, And the moon comes forth to ride, The bed time call of the loon sounds best; Its cog-wheel, eerie strains abide. When high in the air he wings his way Over camp, and cabin, shore, and bay, His plaintive, pleading, good night call Is a priest's benediction voiced for all.

Behold the village grocer's cat! That's who I am; (Named Sam) Not sleek — not fat — But foe, and woe, to sneaking rat.

I wander out and in 'Twixt box and bin With feline grin, And many a tender mouse I eat Because of silent feet, Well armed and fleet. Sometimes I park myself

On crowded shelf; Or in the window built for show — For that's a place I love to go To doze, and purr in the sun's warm glow And watch the circling flies below.

At night, when men and dogs are still I roam as dictates my sweet will. On many a cat date I intrude Without intending to be rude, When lo, an old feud is renewed! 'Tis thus I gather many a thrill.

My ears are slit ; and cocked one eye ;

And I well know the reason why. But what of that? I'm just the grocer's cat, Named Sam, That's who I am ! !

Last fall when chill winds swept the fields, And swirled the dead leaves in the wood, It filled our flue with eerie squeals — I knew spring fishin' time was good, So I just took my fishin' poles And stowed 'em on the proper nails, To wait 'til spring should stir our souls And make us yearn for well loved trails.

Today, those fish poles spoke to me, From where they hung on garage wall ; And strong desire awoke in me — Desire that had been dead since fall. The flicker yammers from his tree, A soft breeze keeps the willows swishin'— My office would a prison be: I'm digging worms to go a fishin' !

I went to fish, at a place I know, Where the stream winds languidly to and fro; There a red-bud stood adorned in pink, And greening willows fringed the brink.

The soothing 'plaint of the mourning dove Coalesced with jubilant notes from above That came from a thrasher's active throat. (Such a ribald air has the thrasher's note!)

In the quiet pools I cast my lure And breathed in the perfumed air so pure, That softly fanned my careworn brow. The PAST slipped by and I lived in the NOW.

Thus, ever, the NOW has a joy to give As spice for the hum-drum life we live If we but heed the proffered gift Our cares dissolve and are set adrift.

Did I catch the fish I went to get? Not a one did I snare. All are swimming yet. But the Unknown spoke His soothing words To my open heart, through the mouths of birds.