The Republican journal., 1912-05-02
Children CRY
FOR FLETcHER'S
CA ST0R
The Wooded Hills of Maine

Read before the State of Maine Association of
California
We have gathered here to celebrate
The days of long ago;
To talk of happy childhood,
And the friends we used to know.
A vision comes before me,
can scarce the tears restrain
AS see the fragrant verdure
OF the wooded hills of Maine.
l can see the old, red farm house.
The fiag-stone at the door.
Worn down by youthful footsteps,
In the good, old days of yore.
And yonder in the background,
l can see their lines plain,
And can almost smell the perfume
OF the wooded hills of Maine.
l can see the morning glories,
That climbed about the door,
The peoples and the liacs.
And the holly hooks galore!
A gentle breeze is stirring
The fields of corn and grain,
And countless shades of leafy green
Of the wooded hills of Maine.
can hear the scythes a-swishing,
Through the herds grass, wet with dew;
l can see the boy that spread it,
With a wooden pitch-fork, too;
l Call ASdt Luc OlOs Iii uluLcI uOAA
Give listened long in vain.)
No sweeter sound was ever heard
By hungry boys in Maine.
can see the brook a-wnding,
Where the alder bushes grow
Sinking deeply through the meadow,
With dark and sluggish flow:
Would rather clean the pig-pen,
Or, go fishing in the rain?
What foolish thing to ask
A boy brought up in Maine
can see the sun low, shining,
Ger the crest of old Mount Blue;
can see the shadows lengthen,
Where the shady naples grew;
can hear the cows a-looing,
At the bottom of the lane;
can hear the bullfrogs croaking
'Mong the lily pads in Maine.
can see the little school house,
Where patriots were made.
The corner stone of liberty,
Our brave forefathers laid;
l can see the starry banner
And not single stain
Has dimmed that flag on land or sea,
By heroes born in Maine.
Snow white marble headstones,
By the meeting house see;
One narrow mound, most sacred spot
In ali the world to me.
What would give, could / recall
The acts that caused her pain?
All! boys, you all see such spot
Away down East in Maine.
The early frost is turning
The leaves to red and gold;
The summer time is closing,
Like story that is told;
feel the cold wind blowing
Through the trees with sad refrain,
And l shovel up the banking
To the WindoW-SillS in Maine.
I can see old Grandma knitting
In the chimney corner there;
l can see the old cat doing
Meath her basket bottomed chair;
| see the gingerbread got
For holding up the skein
She knit our socks and mittens with
To keep us warm in Maine.
can see the bright rag carpet
Braided rugs upon the floor,
Made of odds and ends collected
For half century, or more;
l can see the pot hooks hanging,
On the swinging iron crane;
Twas warm in front, but cold behind,
Those winter nights in Maine.
l can smell the winter apples
Through the open cellar door,
And light tallow candle,
And bring up painful more;
would give case of sauterne,
Or of extra dry champagne,
For pitcher full of cider,
From that cellar down in Maine.
can hear the sleigh bells jingle,
The sound is drawing nigh,
scratch the frost from window glass,
To see who passes by;
can hear the curl-toe ringing,
When the moon is on the wane,
Bon-fres light the skaters flight
Along the frozen streams of Maine.
How kind it is of Nature
To cover up the bad
And keep our memory clearest
OF the pleasures we have had!
For see the summer sunshine
And smell the flowers again,
And the birds are sweetly singing
Through the wooded hills of Maine.
There is sulphur and molasses
In the striped yellow bowl;
And we had to take spoonful,
When our mother called the roll;
can taste the pink and SIENNA,
Gold thread and elecampane,
The camomile andstansy
We were doctored with in Maine.
Now see the vision dimly,
1t is fading fast away,
Like the one who stands before you,
But little while to stay;
But know I'd sleep the sounder,
If my mortal form were lain,
Where my spirit often wanders,
Among the wooded hills of Maine.
E. H. BLACK