In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far away, I know that the winter is bleak there to-day— No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees— Wher’ the buds ust to bloom, now the icicles freeze.— That the grass is all hid ’long the side of the road Wher’ the deep snow has drifted and shifted and blowed— And I feel in my life the same changes is there,— The frost in my heart, and the snow in my hair. But, Muskingum Valley! my memory sees Not the white on the ground, but the green in the trees— Not the froze’-over gorge, but the current, as clear And warm as the drop that has jes trickled here; Not the choked-up ravine, and the hills topped with snow, But the grass and the blossoms I knowed long ago When my little bare feet wundered down wher’ the stream In the Muskingum Valley flowed on like a dream. FOR THIS CHRISTMAS Ye old-time stave that pealeth out To Christmas revellers all, At tavern-tap and wassail-bout, And in ye banquet-hall.— Whiles ye old burden rings again, Add yet ye verse, as due: “_God bless you, merry gentlemen_”— _And gentlewomen, too!_ A POOR MAN’S WEALTH A poor man? Yes, I must confess— No wealth of gold do I possess; No pastures fine, with grazing kine, Nor fields of waving grain are mine; No foot of fat or fallow land Where rightfully my feet may stand The while I claim it as my own— By deed and title, mine alone. Ah, poor indeed! perhaps you say— But spare me your compassion, pray!— When I ride not—with you—I walk In Nature’s company, and talk With one who will not slight or slur The child forever dear to her— And one who answers back, be sure, With smile for smile, though I am poor. And while communing thus, I count An inner wealth of large amount,— The wealth of honest purpose blent With Penury’s environment,— The wealth of owing naught to-day But debts that I would gladly pay, With wealth of thanks still unexpressed With cumulative interest.— A wealth of patience and content— For all my ways improvident; A faith still fondly exercised— For all my plans unrealized; A wealth of promises that still, Howe’er I fail, I hope to fill; A wealth of charity for those Who pity me my ragged clothes. A poor man? Yes, I must confess— No wealth of gold do I possess; No pastures fine, with grazing kine, Nor fields of waving grain are mine; But ah, my friend! I’ve wealth, no end! For millionaires might condescend To bend the knee and envy me This opulence of poverty. THE LITTLE RED RIBBON The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! The summer-time comes, and the summer-time goes— And never a blossom in all of the land As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand! The long winter months, and the glare of the snows; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! And never a glimmer of sun in the skies As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!