Give me the old bush-path again Which wandered past my Uncle Tim’s, The dusky dells, the musky smells, That filtered through the sunset glims; The goblins crouching ’neath the trees, The bats and witches by the mill, The foolish talk of all the leaves; And let me hear the whip-poor-will Above the pines, the old new moon Hung high and dry, up there alone, And golden-clear and far and near, A-chanting in an undertone Of something half a-kin to fear, Which only whip-poor-wills can hear. Give me the old bush-path again, The barefoot days, the old-time ways, The old-time ties, the dragon-flies, And childish joys unfit for men. Plympton, Mass., September 17, 1920. A GARLAND. In one aspiring carillon God’s Sabbath-bells a-rhyme, From country-side to country-side Have set the world a-chime. Like jewels dropped from heaven, Ere time or death were known, The arbutus is blooming, Where never dust is blown, For her--the Pilgrim Mother,-- Steadfast and halo-spanned, Where, still, like constellations burn, Her footsteps in the sand. THE UMPAME MUSKETEERS. The musketeers went marching by, Went marching, marching, marching by; On, on with sword and bandoleer, I saw men come and disappear; And no one knew the reason why The musketeers went marching by, Went marching, marching by. But forward swept the caravan, And step by step and man to man, In gold and martial hue and sway, I saw the column march away, And breast to breast, and none knew why The musketeers went marching by, Went marching, marching by. Would that my pen could write in time To glorify this simple rhyme! But why the dead that ever bleed? And why was Standish in the lead? But onward! on! with fife and drum, With clank and rattle, still they come. Who knoweth but the winds in flight, A battle never won a fight? And still the musketeers go by, Go marching, marching by. O Son of Heaven, answer, why Do musketeers go marching by With trumpet-blare, in fringe and gold, And flags that flutter, fold on fold; And rush and rattle, surge and swing, And left to right, all glittering In lordly plumes, that flash and glow, And guns and stretchers, row on row! There’s no one knows the reason why The musketeers go marching by, Go marching, marching, marching by. A MEMORY. Long buried, that Elysian noon When first I saw the wildering waste of sea, And felt the call of rainbow wings a-flutter in my little soul-- That elfin music only childhood hears. O barefoot days, the bickering rains have deluged all the years, But still the wide blue wonder calls to me, And some day I shall answer where the waves run wild, Once more a happy child. 36 Woodland Street, Hartford, Ct., January 17, 1921. NEW ENGLAND.