to the golden hills of boyhood once again.

John S. McGroarty [1862-

ON THE QUAY

I've never traveled for more'n a day,
I never was one to roam,
But I likes to sit on the busy quay,
Watchin' the ships that says to me--
"Always somebody goin' away,
Somebody gettin' home."

I likes to think that the world's so wide--
'Tis grand to be livin' there,
Takin' a part in its goin's on....
Ah, now ye're laughin' at poor old John,
Talkin' o' works o' the world wi' pride
As if he was doin' his share!

But laugh if ye will! When ye're old as me
Ye'll find 'tis a rare good plan
To look at the world--an' love it too!--
Though never a job are ye fit to do....
Oh! 'tisn't all sorrow an' pain to see
The work o' another man.

'Tis good when the heart grows big at last,
Too big for trouble to fill--
Wi' room for the things that was only stuff
When workin' an' winnin' seemed more'n enough--
Room for the world, the world so vast,
Wi' its peoples an' all their skill.

That's what I'm thinkin' on all the days
I'm loafin' an' smokin' here,
An' the ships do make me think the most
(Of readin' in books 'tis little I'd boast),--
But the ships, they carries me long, long ways,
An' draws far places near.

I sees the things that a sailor brings,
I hears the stories he tells....
'Tis surely a wonderful world, indeed!
'Tis more'n the peoples can ever need!
An' I praises the Lord--to myself I sings--
For the world in which I dwells.

An' I loves the ships more every day
Though I never was one to roam.
Oh! the ships is comfortin' sights to see,
An' they means a lot when they says to me--
"Always somebody goin' away,
Somebody gettin' home."

John Joy Bell [1871-1934]

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now--
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's brow,
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare,
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains--the black mold heaves below;
And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe.
It rises, roars, rends all outright--O Vulcan, what a glow!
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show!
The roof-ribs swart