Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/413

 1840-50.] FRANCES D. GAGE. 397 Mixing play and labor, ever cheerfully ; Learned I life's best lessons — learned I to be free. Conning these best lessons, poring over books, Dreaming of the future, in the quiet nooks, Gleaning, ever gleaning, as the days went by, Thinking, never shrinking, not afraid to try ; Mixing play and labor, ever joyously, Learned I life's great lessons — learned I to be free. MY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY. I USED to think, when I, a child, Played with the pebbles on the shore Of the clear river rippling wild. That rolled before my father's door. How long, how very long 'twould be. Ere I could live out fifty years; To think of it oft checked my glee, And filled my childish heart with fears. I looked at grandma, as she sat, Her forehead decked with silvery rime, And thought, "AVhen I'm as old as that. Must I darn stockings all the time ? Must I sit in an arm-chair so, A white frilled cap around my face, "With dull drab strings, and ne'er a bow, And keep things always in their place ? " The lines of care, the sigh of pain, The "hush!" her lip^' so oft let fall, Made me wish, o'er and o'er again, I never might grow old at all. Yet she was ever cheerful, and Would ofttimes join our sport and mirth ; And many a play by her was planned, Around the winter evenino; hearth. But then she played not by the brook. She did not gather pretty flowers. She did not sing with merry look, Nor make a spring-time of the hours. So, when she said, 'one sunny mom, "You will be old, like me, some day," I wept like one of hope forlorn. And threw my playthings all away. Be old ! like grandma, and not roam The glen in spring, for violets blue. Or bring the bright May blossoms home, Or pick the strawberries 'mong the dew ! Be old ! and, in the summer time. Take weary naps in midday houjrs, And fail the pippin-trees to climb. And shake the ripening fruit in showers ! Be old ! and have no nutting-bees Upon the hill-side, rustling brown, Nor hang upon the vine-clad trees, And shout the rich grape clusters down. Be old ! and sit round wint'ry fires ; Be fifty ! — have no sliding spree. And hush away all wild desii*es! — I thought 'twere better not to be. But two score years have glided by, With summer's heat and winter's cold, With sunny hours and clouded sky. Till now I'm fifty — now I'm old ! The sun-burnt locks are silvery now. That used to dangle in the wind ; And eyes are dim, and feet move slow, That left my playmates all behind. Spectacles lie upon my nose, But no white frill looks prim and cold ; My gray hair curls ; I wear pink bows — I do not feel so very old. I play among the pebbles — I Would love, on that familiar shore. Where once I watched the swallows fly The dancing, rippling waters o'er ;