good at every one of 'em the same:   And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand and the breaker, And a thousand wives and mothers bless his name. He's an angel dressed in oilskins, he's a saint in a "sou'wester", He's as plucky as they make, or ever can; He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head, And he's jest the U.S. Gov'ment's hired man.  

 

     "THE EVENIN' HYMN" 

  When the hot summer daylight is dyin', And the mist through the valley has rolled, And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard Are purple with trimmings of gold,—   Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky, The crickets chirp out from each nook, And the frogs with their voices so husky Jine in from the marsh and the brook. The chorus grows louder and deeper, An owl sends a hoot from the hill, The leaves on the elm-trees are rustling A whippoorwill calls by the mill. Where swamp honeysuckles are bloomin'     The breeze scatters sweets on the night, Like incense the evenin' perfumin', With fireflies fer candles alight. And the noise of the frogs and the crickets And the birds and the breeze are ter me Lots better than high-toned supraners, Although they don't get to "high C"; And the church, with its grand painted skylight, Seems cramped and forbiddin' and grim   'Side of my old front porch in the twilight When God's choir sings its "Evenin' Hymn."  

 

     THE MEADOW ROAD 

  Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road Leading down beside the ocean's pebbly shore, Where a pair of patient oxen slowly drag their heavy load, And a barefoot urchin trudges on before:   Yet I'm dreaming o'er it, smiling, and my thoughts are far away     'Mid the glorious summer sunshine long ago, And once more a happy, careless boy, in memory I stray Down a little country road I used to know. I hear the voice of "Father" as he drives the lumbering steers, And the pigeons coo and flutter on the shed, While all the simple, homelike sounds come whispering to my ears, And the cloudless sky of June is overhead; And again the yoke is creaking as the oxen swing and sway, The old cart rattles loudly as it jars, Then we pass beneath the elm trees where the robin's song is gay, And go out beyond the garden through the bars; Down the lane, behind the orchard where the wild rose blushes sweet, Through the pasture, past the spring beside the brook Where the clover blossoms press 

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