The Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1865-1903, 1896-04-18

He writes for the people with as
buoyant a delight as the birds carol
their songs to the maiden morning.
His songs, though commonly quick
one upon another, are never forced.
They are there to be written, and the
ease of doing them Is lighter than
singers task OF taking q ballad from
portfolio. Those critics who can
cavil Justly at nothing else, make the
old cry that he writes too much. what
Infinite nonsense put upon spontaneous
music! The flowers in u garden may
not be all to your fancy but they are
flowers just the same; and though
hundred may bloom from one honest
handful of soil, one would not deem
natures gifts too nunlhcent.
/ always think of Stanton this way
as natures best, most wholesome poet
gift to the south Of this centurys latter
end. / think Of him too as that rare
creation, an artist without pose. HIS
honesty and simplicity is no pose, since
he confesses he best loves another
STYLE of verse and shows that he can
master It without putting n Burne
Jones gown upon his Muse. He does
not tread the corn and cotton fields
in nankeen trousers and brogan boots
either. No. besis honest natures hon
est gfft-a man with q singing, sun
bright SOUL
He is creeping close to the hearts OF
children of late. With songs that bid
fair to enchaln them us closely as the
verses otc9ngel Eel *. III.
About his own childhood lyon woulu
like to know Of that?
Well, some forty years ago he opened
his eyes on the coastN country of GeOr-'
gia-thatlland. lmmortaliZed by Lanier,
in his Songs Of the Marshes" His
father was a journeyman printer, and
the family lived in Savannah during
Stanton's early childhood and carly
boyhood. His fathers mother was a
full-blooded Spaniard, so the boy had
two strong southern strains to foster
the fires of his genius.
Pretty hard days" he says, after
my father died and we-my mother,
younger brother and myself-went to
the northern part OF Georgia. have
split rails in those woods up there for
ten cents Il day, many time. II
hadn't seen the beauty of the sky and
the trees 1t would have been rather
hard work, but then had mother
every fellow wOrships his mother. be-
lIeVe she deserved It, We didn't know
much about my books but the Bible
and the Methodist hymnal. That was
how / started to rhymlng-I took the
metres and justification OF different
hymns and put my own words to them;
always singing OF love to some little
sweetheart, because Il poet has them,
you know, from the time he can re-
member"
What would those days have been to
him without his art? All, we'll! with
out his art he would have been Ike any
ordinary pRck-horse, working for the
midday meal and the sleep God gives
to tired mortals at the setting OF the
sun. Hating manual labor with the
fine scorn OF the BRAKEMAN, what kept
his feet from stumbling as he followed
the pillow, what made the hand steady
for the stroke into the heart OF scented
cedar and pine? Art fused through and
through the soul of nature.
can see the young ploughman in the
rose and pearl and argent OF early day,
his eyes turned toward the rising sun,
his ears attuned, like silver-stringed
instrument, to each twittering bird
natc that makes up the prelude to the
vibrant, thrilling majesty of summer
morn.
pered and married-or married and
prospered, should say. He came to
Atlanta, where he now holds one OF the
best editorial positions on. that great
daily, the Atlanta Constitution.
He never throws his verses at editors.
They seek him and pay him well, but
that is of small moment-the people
love him-the people high and low,
great and small because they all have
human hearts and he has played upon
these hearts-found the golden string
In them all.
But it is morning now. let us leave
him; let US think Of him following the
plow with young head urlifted and
eyes aglow. A crooked, sightless, ard
uous row it may be, but 1t is taking the
man and his stubborn little mule and
the graceless implement right straight
into the garden Of Arcndia.-Maude
Andrews in the New bohemian.