[1] _Who’s Who in America: A Biographical Dictionary of Notable Living Men and Women_. Vol. 24, 1946–1947, Two Years. Chicago: The A. N. Marquis Co., 1946. p. 780 [2] Lawrence, Alberta, ed. _Who’s Who Among North American Authors_. Vol. 5, 1931–1932. Los Angeles: Golden Syndicate Publishing Co., 1931. p. 1089 [3] _Who’s Who in the East_. Vol. 5. Chicago: The A. N. Marquis Co., 1955. p. 268 POEMS Si Gidders (1902) There’s an old man named Si Gidders lives on Uncle Henry’s place, Jest a common farmer feller, that is all; Tall, an’ lean, an’ lank in figger, with an awful homely face, But as much as you could estimate of gall. Gidders has one wretched failin’, that of wonderin’ at things, An’ it takes most all his time to humor that, For it’s wonder, wonder, wonder till yer ear jest fairly rings, With the how, an’ who, an’ which, an’ where, an’ what. He will wonder why the sun don’t shine by night as well as day, An’ why all the leaves ain’t red instid o’ green; Why them brindled kind o’ chickens air the ones that allers lay, An’ why Johnny Smith ain’t fat instid o’ lean. He will wonder why the sky is blue an’ why it isn’t brown, An’ why twelve o’clock don’t come at early morn; He will wonder why things don’t fall up instid o’ fallin’ down, An’ why Seckel pears don’t grow on stalks of corn. He will wonder why Jim Perry’s hair ain’t black instid o’ red, An’ why summer don’t start in at Christmas time; Why it is that folks can’t never go to heaven till they’re dead, An’ why three times three ain’t ten instid o’ nine; Why don’t daisies bloom in winter, an’ why don’t we have no snow When the temperature’s a hundred in the shade; Why don’t tomcats never whistle, en why does a rooster crow When his mate has just informed him that she’s laid. So Si Gidders’ tongue is runnin’ an’ each new thing he may see Allers sets a wonder workin’ in his head, He will wonder what it is an’ how it ever came to be, An’ why it ain’t painted black instid o’ red. An’ I ’spect that when he dies an’ comes to heaven’s pearly gates That he won’t find time to step inside at all, For he’ll want to stop an’ wonder why they hain’t all made of tin, An’ nailed up with old shoeleather to the wall. Hagar’s Song (1906) Thou God of mercy, Thou who art To Abraham a sword and shield, Must I myself, an infant, yield Unto the desert’s burning heart? Have I been so undutiful That this death be my recompense, That Ishmael in his innocence Should die so young and beautiful? Is he so worthless in Thy sight, Is all that he might do and be So insignificant to Thee Who lovest justice, truth, and right? But though I crave Thy tenderness, No longer will I plead with Thee Whate’er Thy will so let it be. For even death can bring but rest. So not unto the burning sands Do I commend my dearest joy, My innocent, my precious boy, But into Thy most gracious hands.