Now cars hain't a-goin' to kill you Ef you don't drive 'crost the track; Crediters never'll jerk you up Ef you go and pay 'em back; You kin stand all moral and mundane storms Ef you'll on'y jes' behave-- But a' EARTHQUAKE:--Well, ef it wanted you It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave! LEWIS D. HAYES OBIT DECEMBER 28, 1886 In the midmost glee of the Christmas And the mirth of the glad New Year, A guest has turned from the revel, And we sit in silence here. The band chimes on, yet we listen Not to the air's refrain, But over it ever we strive to catch The sound of his voice again;-- For the sound of his voice was music, Dearer than any note Shook from the strands of harp-strings, Or poured from the bugle's throat.-- A voice of such various ranges, His utterance rang from the height Of every rapture, down to the sobs Of every lost delight. Though he knew Man's force and his purpose, As strong as his strongest peers, He knew, as well, the kindly heart, And the tenderness of tears. So is it the face we remember Shall be always as a child's That, grieved some way to the very soul, Looks bravely up and smiles. O brave it shall look, as it looked its last On the little daughter's face-- Pictured only--against the wall, In its old accustomed place-- Where the last gleam of the lamplight Out of the midnight dim Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn Gave it again to him. IN DAYS TO COME In days to come--whatever ache Of age shall rack our bones, or quake Our slackened thews--whatever grip Rheumatic catch us i' the hip,-- We, each one, for the other's sake, Will of our very wailings make Such quips of song as well may shake The spasm'd corners from the lip-- In days to come. Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake The past up!--how our dry eyes slake Their sight upon the dewy drip Of juicy-ripe companionship, And blink stars from the blind opaque-- In days to come. LUTHER A. TODD OBIT JULY 27, 1887, KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI Gifted, and loved, and praised By every friend; Never a murmur raised Against him, to the end! With tireless interest He wrought as he thought best,-- And--lo, we bend Where now he takes his rest! His heart was loyal, to Its latest thrill, To the home-loves he knew-- And now forever will,-- Mother and brother--they The first to pass away,-- And, lingering still, The sister bowed to-day. Pure as a rose might be, And sweet, and white, His father's memory Was with him day and night:-- He spoke of him, as one May now speak of the son,-- Sadly and tenderly,-- Yet as a trump had done.