fifty Sears PAgo. .

~H, the battles we fought in
the olden times,
The snow-balls and bloody
noses,
As worthyto be rehearsed
in rhymes
Asthe Britishers’ “Wars of the Roses!”

  
 
 

How the weird, white, whizzing missiles flew,
Like shot from a Gatling gun;

As the battle fierce and fiercer grew—
Wa'n’t it fun!

At mornings, our baskets with ample supply
Of goodies, a plentiful store;

Doughnuts and sausage and pie—pumpkin

pie!

And when empty we all wanted more.

Then hurrah! for the sport and the glee;
The wrestle ring, tripping with heel and
with toe—
Now doubling, now twisting, now pinioned,
now free;
Now all in a heap in the snow,
Rough and tumble we go!

_ And do you remember the spelling school
bees, :
And Marshall’s old speller, our pride,
When “phthisic” and “heifer” and “victuals”
and “frieze”
Were the stunners so few could abide?
And so we went down on each side!

Then the bragging and betting and boasting,
Over sleds, in those old bygone days;

And the marvelous speed of the coasting
That would stir up a clamor or craze?

Down “iilside dashing,
Through snow spray flashing,

Into deep hollows crashing,

Midst the mealy snow banks splashing——
Gracious! how we sped!

A dozen on a sled.

The lusty shouting of the boys;
The half scared daring of the girls;
The grand, tumultuous, healthful joys,
The flash and flutter of wanton curls—
O,’twas fun! wa’n’t it,boys—wa’'n’t it, girls?
When plump into snowdrifts like lightning
we flew,
With a thug and a whirl;
And for three glorious minutes we none of
us knew
Which was boy; which was girl!
Aye, wa’n't it fun! .

But the “girls” are to grandmothers grown,
And we “boys” are grandfathers, too;
We bow to the marvel and own
The incredible true.

But there is something that never grows old
In the man who has acted his part;

In the woman who lives to unfold

The blossom God plants in her heart.

Full fifty years, and can it be!
Five rounded decades told;
Ploughed with the deeds of history,
And sown with seeds—-a hundredfold
Of glorious harvest yet to reap,
In coming decades, when
From graves where our great martyrs sleep
Shall grow a race of men
Whose lives shall make the state
And nation great,
From Plymouth Rock to Golden Gate.
Purging the land!