October 11, 1937

The New Sketch Book was published when Ella Fisher was 76 years old.

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poem from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

I figured out that I can do this, rather than transcribe:

 

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

NOVEMBER

Dark clouds are driven across the sky

As the mournful winds go fitfully by;

They whisper and wail thru the branches bare,

They fret and sting in the frosty air,

And secrets they tell as the searching pass

Where the leaves lie thick on the sodden grass.

 

In some vast amphitheatre, some awful height,

The forces of air have gathered in might;

Adown the wild November sky

In solid phalanx their horsemen fly,

They have blotted the sun in the murk of night;

I hear their carousal of mad delight,

Their hoofbeats against the window pane,

As they drench the earth with sheets of rain.

 

 

OCTOBER

The white and winding roadway

Lies beckoning in the sun,

With all the glowing hillsides

In intricate patterns done,

Designed in gold and cardinal,

Embossed with shades of green . . .

Among the year’s deft artists

You reign a lavish queen.

 

You have thrown around the maples

A robe of dazzling weaves

And garlanded the ledges

With crimson sumac leaves.

You have twined the meadow fences

With clinging bittersweet,

Your many garnered treasures

Are lying at our feet.

In thrift and rich accomplishment

With harvest stored away,

Homes along the countryside

Your refining touch betray.

It shines in other faces

And eyes that look at me

Along the winding roadway

From sea to pulsing sea.

 

O regal-clad October! 

Already rude winds blow

To spread your lovely foliage

A carpet for the snow.

Already dark clouds hover

Against your skies of blue

And the day is drawing nearer

When we must part with you.

 

 

ABSENCE

It was but yesterday

You went from us away;

The skies were blue,

But we only knew

That the winding road

To your abode

Had passed

Into silence vast!

 

We knew that you had gone

Into distance on and on

And Loneliness was standing there

As one of grieves,

While sad winds were whispering

Among the falling leaves.

 

 

AN EMPTY NEST

“the robin is calling for rain!”

I hear you say it again,

But how do you know

And what authority tells you so?

It cannot be the bird

For that would be absurd.

You may as well confess

That your statment is a guess.

 

“The robin is calling for rain!”

The truth may give you pain . . . 

Your pampered cat made free

to climb the apple tree

Where now is an empty nest,

The hurt in the bird’s small breat

Is filling her tiny throat

With a plaintive mourning note!

 

 

A PICTURE

An Indian standing straight and tall

In the sunlight gilding my western wall,

His hands outstretched to the setting sun,

His rapt face raised, with gold-thread spun.

To the unknown God, Great Spirit of love

Who watches His children from somewhere above,

Who answers the cry of the Red Man’s soul . . 

His appeal for mercy has reached its goal!

 

The sun went down in a flaming sky,

The Indian worshipped, even as I . . . 

Slowly the picture faded from sight,

Lost in the shadows of deepening night.

 

 

AS THE PENDULUM SWINGS

Somewhere in the past

Our forefathers taught

That each idle moment

With danger was fraught,

That time was too precious

To fritter away . . . 

An account we must render

When it came to Judgment Day.

 

But now we are busy

With a number of things

And time pauses not

As the pendulum swings.

 

Our thought so intent

On the problems we find

That we grow automatic

And worldly inclined.

There is no time to listen

To a voice so small

On our dull ears grown fainter

Till it ceases to call.

 

Comes an hour in the silence

With none to molest,

Our busy hands folded

In quiet and rest;

We relax in the sitllness,

Immune and thought free,

Where impressions are waiting

For you and for me.

 

There is safety in silence,

a reshaping of things

And vistas of beauty

As the pendulum swings.

 

 

BLUE AND GOLD

Another golden day

Into the past has gone,

It carried a dream of mine away,

The one I held in pawn.

The color of the skies,

A bit of the flawless blue

Was left in the steady eyes

That lighted the soul of you.

 

A scintillating gleam,

A bit of the sun’s bright gold,

The last of the vanishing dream

I may no longer hold,

And purple shadows hide

The bit of blue and gold . . .

Alone in the silence I bide

And the night is growing old.

 

 

BREAKING OF THE DROUTH

The sweltering sun looked steadily down

From a brazen sky on field and town,

It dwarfed each shrub, it wilted each flower

And shone and shone in its unchecked power;

It looked on the meadows; the grass turned brown;

It traversed the pasture slopes adown

On the bitten roots of the trodden grass

Where hungry herds must daily pass.

 

The waters that coursed the river bed

Became a shriveled, shrunken thread;

On the wooded steeps a smouldering spark

crept silently thru the sulphurous dark;

It gathered force and soon because

A million tongues of devouring flame.

The winds took up the mad refrain

And swept the smoke across the plain;

It enveloped the valley that lay below

Where lines of traffic come and go;

It drifted in at the open door

Of a little church. On the chancel floor

An old man knelt in earnest prayer,

And this is the plea he uttered there,

“Carest Thou not that we perish?” he cried,

“Carest Thou not that our streams are dried

Our cattle stand spineless with nothing to eat,

The earth shrieks in protest under our feet,

A foodless winter is drawing nigh  . . .

Carest Thou not that Thy children die?”

 

As the regretful sun went down

The dark crept swifly on field and town,

But darker still enmassed on high

Storm clouds climbed the midnight sky.

A battle raged in the upper air,

Heaven’s artillery crashing there . . . 

Thru earth and sky from end to end

In one awful blinding lurid blend!

 

Over the parched and wilted plain,

Over the valley poured the rain!

It quenched the fires on the mountain side,

It raised the streams to a raging tide;

Trees and bridges and homes it bore,

Silt and water lay on the church floor;

Out in the fields the cattle lay dead

And dark rolled the storm clouds overhead!

On a hillside the rescued gathered to gaze

On the scene of ruinh in silent amaze. . . 

An old man broke the spell to say

“The Lord has washed our sins away!”

 

 

BUT YESTERDAY

It may be far and far away

But it really seems but yesterday

That I 

Turned the pans and pails

On a bench to dry,

Waiting the time

When the morning sun

Would climb the sky.

The light work done

I could hasten away

In the cool of the day.

For I knew

Of a spot

In the east-meadow lot

Where the strawberries grew.

I could hear the whetstones ringing,

The scythes would soon be swinging,

Coming down that way

In the cool of the day.

The acme of delight

Was the meal at night.

As the men took their places

Smiles wreathed their faces . . . 

The table helpd a tempting spread,

Farmer’s men must be well fed,

But the crowning joy

In their esteem

Was two big shortcakes

Rich with cream!

It may be far and far away

But it really seems but yesterday!

 

And now that all is past, I sit alone

And revel in the thoughts of what has been.”

 

 

THE CHRISTMAS LILY

A small child raised an eager face,

Her finger held tight to keep the place,

I’ll send some flowers and a litle line

To the man who made this paper so fine.”

She saw from the window not one was there,

The wind-swept earth was bleak and bare,

But the day before on the window seat

A lily had opened its petals sweet.

 

“Mama!” she cried, “Let me have it, I pray,

He’ll be sure to get it on Christmas Day!”

The flower was cu and some vines of green

Packed and posted with the line between.

 

A weary editor sat late in his chair,

His brow was knit with worry and care,

With hasty scissors he clipped a string . . .

“Who sent me, I wonder, so light a thing?”

Gently he lifted the snowy bloom,

Its fragrance filled his littered room!

 

The little line fluttered and fell at his feet

Bearing a message of gratitude sweet.

A tear stole slowly down his face

As he cast about to find a vase.

In a little shop just over the way

He purchased the best in the window’s display,

He tidied his desk, the flower to leave,

A sweet reminder of Christmas eve.

 

The lily faded. It ssweetness was gone,

But the vine of green lived on and on;

He sometimes added a hothouse flower,

It cheered his heart thru the busy hour;

When days were dark he looked and smiled

At the loving gift of a grateful child.

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

LOST

Could I with Dawn along the skies

All earth’s fair valleys span

And quest each spot with argus eyes

Among the tents of man . . . 

 

Could I but scan the ocean wide

Before the set of sun,

Ere darkness hide its restless tide

With questing never done . . . 

 

Could I survey each shining star

And sift the heavens thru

With never offending cloud to bar

My vision’s visaed view . . . 

 

Would I be able to obtain

Of you a single trace . . . ?

For just one moment look again

Uupon your dear lost face?

 

 

METRE

When thought runs in metre

The whole day is sweeter,

Its tasks are lighter,

Its skies are brighter,

And if the sun

Refuses to shine

May sunshine enter

That heart of thine.

 

 

MOCKING BIRD

A lone mocking-bird

Outside my door

Feeds from a saucer

On the south porch floor.

He preens his feathers

When the meal is done

And basks in the rays

Of the morning sun.

 

From whence he came

And how he knew

That I would feed him

The winter throught,

Are among the things

That we think about

With never a way

Of finding out.

 

On the topmost branch

Of the old pear tree

He perches to watch

For spring and me . . . 

This dear lost bird

From some sunnier clime

Sent to brighten the days

Of my winter time.

 

On some sunlit morning

When spring grows warm

And the North shakes off

Her mantle of storm,

My bird will forsake

His favorite limb

And a bit of my heart

Will go with him.

 

 

MY LOST WOODS

I am looking

For a piece of woods

As once I knew it,

A luring piece of woods

With paths running through it.

One path to me appealed;

Flower-decked it led

To a pool of water

By the moonlight revealed,

As it sifted thru the branches overhead.

 

This path forbidden. . . !

The mandate disobeyed!

Along its luring way

Sometimes I strayed,

Stopping to see

The face looking at me

Among the shadows of the pool.

Beyond the woods were dark

And cool. . . .

I never ventured ‘round it

But stole away

And left it as I found it . . . 

Quiet beauty spot of rest

With the shadows moving,

Slowly moving on its breast!

 

I am looking for

A luring piece of woods

With paths running thru it!

“Far to northward lies a land

Where the trees together stand.”

 

 

MY NEIGHBOR’S BARN

My neighbor’s barn is painted red,

And so, I am sure, is his shed.

I thought some other color more

In accord with the green

That Nature wore.

That the builder faced the gables east

Should make no difference to any beast.

 

But the first faint beam

From the eastern skies

Caught the gables agleam

In the bright sunrise.

From my window’s vista

Haloed in light

My neighbor’s red barn

Is a dream of delight.

And turning it over

In my mnind,

A reason I find

For painting it red . . . 

Even the shed!

 

 

 

 

    “All that tread the globe

Are but a handful to the tribes

That sleep within its bosom.”

NOTHING MORE

We stood on the rim of the world

Where all the graves are made

And watched the slow unheeding men

Fashion them with a spade.

 

And one yawned at your feet . . . 

On its cold and empty floor

I spread your worn out garment . . . 

You gave me nothing more!

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

MY LESSON

I

It was summer, I stood again

Out under the lofty trees,

Their bright leaves whispered together

In a gently moving breeze.

Long days had passed

Since last

their graceful branches spread

Protecting shade

Above my bowed and reverent head.

Their fronded fingers lifted high,

Their marvelous beauty drawn

From a lowly bending sky.

 

The earth was parched and dry,

God seemed so very near,

The leaves, I knew, were pleading . . .

I thought that He would hear

And so I pleaded with them,

That He would not forget

The garden He had planted,

The trees that he had set!

 

II
Under the deeps of the wintry sky,

Their bright leaves fallen long ago,

Their graceful branches lifted high,

My trees are banked with fullered snow.

 

But far and far below

The questing roots drank deep

Of God’s remembering overflow

Before their winter sleep.

 

          l’envoi

 

And now, before we part,

If god cares for a tree. . . 

The lesson graved upon my heart. . . 

He will surely care for me!

 

 

JACK FROST

Thru the lace work

He has painted

Diamond studded on the pane,

From across the

Eastern mountains

Morning sunlight falls again.

 

He has painted

Gorgeous forests

From some far-off land

And the outlines

Of a river

By fret-work bridges spanned.

 

And I think,

As I look closer,

Castle turrets frowing rise

On the summit 

Of a hill-top

Out beneath the winter skies.

 

 

JUNE THIRTIETH

Morning

In the east the sunlight

All golden is falling

And fragrance of roses

Is luring and calling.

Green vines are clinging

And warblers are singing,

White clouds are racing

And branches are lacing

To shut out the view.

 

Evening

In the west the raindrops

At sunset are glistening

And trees standing silen

Are listening. . . listening,

While June lingers resting

Before she goes questiong.

. . . Out of her sorrow

She gathers some shrouds

And paints a bright rainbow

High in the clouds.

(1932)

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

WINTER

 

WINTER ON THE FARM

In discussing farm life

pro and con,

it all depends on

the glasses you have on.

It may be that years

Have enhanced its charm

As I look backward

To life on the farm.

Work was a pleasure

And idleness was sink

We were up in the morning

Ready to begin.

 

Our work was planned ahead,

We carded and we spun,

And then, in the evenings

When the short day was done,

We knit the socks and stockings

That all the family wore,

We sewed the rags for weaving

A carpet for the floort.

 

We pieced the blocks for quilting

And often made a Bee

When the neighbors came to help us

And the men-folks came to Tea,

And as for the men-folks

Who stamped in after dark

With faces wreathed in smiles,

They thought it was a lark!

 

It wasn’t any hardship

To take a girl to ride,

To groom and harness up

And get in at her side.

Warm robes tucked them in

Their cheeks with health aglow,

Right merrily the sleigh bells ran!

How the runners crunched the snow!

 

Buckwheat cakes for breakfast,

Raised from the night before,

And maple sugar melted

From our larder’s ample store,

Sausage and twisted doughnuts

That Mother fried in lard!

We ate and worked and sang,

No food was then debarred.

 

The out-door work was waiting

The winter days to fill,

The woodpile to be drawn,

The logs to take to mill,

Harnesses to wash an dmend,

Indoor work for stormy weather,

Blankets from the stalls to patch . . .

How we loved the hours together.

 

A day for dipping candles,

In moulds we ran a few

to fit the polished candlesticks,

Our mantel’s ormolu.

O, yes, misfortune came to us

As it comes to people now!

Illness, death and sorrow,

To these we had to bow.

 

Those days were never dreary;

Though shut in by the storm,

We kept the fires burning,

Cosy, snug and warm.

The luxuries of the present

To us were all unknown,

But the luxury of contentment

We could always call our own.

(About 1860)  Ella was  7 years old in 1860.

 

AN OLD HOUSE

The old house groans in the storm,

Its joists and timbers once firm

May be shrunken now with years.

Somewhere a capboard loose

Or a weather-beaten window sash

May rattle with the wind . . . 

The cold creeps vainly to get in . . . 

The old house holds its own.

 

The storm whirls dense and white,

It hides the world without,

The wind knocks at the door

In steady rythnic beat . . .

On some wild sea tonight

It’s rocking me to sleep!

 

SUNDAY MORNING

Snow white are the roofs of the town

And the trees are wreathed in feathery down.

 

Like smoke in a garden I’ve known,

They were silently planted and sown.

 

They are gleaming and glistening white . . . 

I must have slept too sound last night.

 

A haze shuts the mountains away,

It casts enchantment about the day . . .

 

O, to walk in the silvered air

The glory of sunshine everywhere!

 

Each bush and shrub is sparkling white,

Diamond coated . . . with beauty alight!

 

The church bells are calling and calling,

Thru the stilll haze the cadence is falling.

 

No earthly music was ever so sweet

As the bells that echo along the street . . . 

 

To walk once more in the soft light snow

To the old church door I used to know!

 

NIGHT SKIES

When all the world’s asleep

Just take a peep

At the glorious guise

Of the winter skies,

Oft hung with drapes

In strange cloud shapes

With here and there

A glittering star.

Sometimes the changing drift

Displays a rift

Of moon dust shining far.

 

But nights, like days,

Have different ways;

Sometimes the moon

In silver radiance tries

to drown the countless stars

The gem the skies

And on the fields so still and white

She pours a clear and cloudless light.

And on rare nights

The Northern Lights

A mighty arch have thrown

From some far and awesome place

Where Nature dwells alone.

Their soundless fingers reach and dash,

On Heaven’s keyboard glace and flash,

With a rhythm all their own.

 

And after all is said and done,

The God of the skies

And the God of my heart

Are one!

 

AT EVENING

So quietly falls the evening,

My couch is soft and warm,

There’s a blur of white outside

But I do not fear the storm.

Life is so full of beauty

And earthly ties so dearm

But our loves across the River . . .

Their voices I can hear . . . 

Every day at evening

Their voices I can hear.

 

As once I used to hear them

In the evenings long ago

When we gathered at the fireside—

Outside the falling snow—

So now they come at evening

In the haunting silence sweet . . . 

They will come today at evening

With life and love replete.

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

HOME

The old house was dear to me,

Haloed with memories bright. . . .

Could I transported be

To its weather-worn door tonight?

Though far afied we roam

And many lands we see

There is no place like home,

And that was home to me.

 

I loved the vista from the door,

The meadow’s velvet spread,

With farmers driving up and down

Where the country roadway led.

At a window on the east

Along the casement dun

The morning glories climbed,

A riot in the sun.

 

The old house was dear to me,

I have learned the reason why . . . 

The companionship of loved ones

Whose memory cannot die.

I can see so plain again

The halo on its wall,

As I used to see it then,

Where departing sunsets fall.

 

But the loved I knew so well,

I search for them in vain . . .

Could I but find the old house

Would I see them once again?

For memory growing clearer

While passing years are slow . . .

Would I be a little nearer 

To the loves of long ago?

“Remembering yet”

 

 

THE HOUSE OF MEMORY

My house of memory stands alone,

It is built of neither wood nor stone,

When nightfall folds the world in sleep

A tryst within its halls I keep.

Soft and dim as moonlit skies

Upon its walls a radiance lies. . . 

A dear old house I see once more,

A house the years cannot restore.

 

A feeble man whose hair is white

Awaits my coming there to-night;

A misted halo about him lies,

A sadness in his questioning eyes.

A mother we one day laid to rest,

A bunch of violets on her breast. . . 

Her loving smile again I see,

She’s keeping memory’s house for me.

 

A group of children are gathered there,

One has long and shining hair. . . 

They come again to be tucked in bed,

They are living chidlren; they are not dead! 

Somewhere a noiseless door swings free

And I catch a haunting melody,

A sweet old song I used to know

That we sang together in the long-ago.

 

My house is built of a golden strand,

It stands on the border of Slumberland,

And vistas of woodland trails I see

That lure and call and beckon me.

A tryst to-night I will surely keep

When nightfall folds the world in sleep,

And if you chance to lonely be

Come in, my friend, and watch with me.

 

“To dream again the dreams that grew

More beautiful as they came true.”

 

TRANSFORMATION

On the spur of the hill

Thru the years it stood,

On the brink of the hill

Where it borders a wood,

An empty house

Standing . . . alone!

Alluring perhaps,

When the sunlight shone,

But dark and grim

When it gathered the dew

And great trees whispered

The long night through,

A part of the gloom

In the great dell

Where deeper evening

Shadows fell.

 

And over the roadway

As it drifted down

On its winding way

To Weybridge town,

A belated traveler might have heard

The echoling cry of some night bird

And imagined a lost

And wandering soul

Was lamenting its exile

And seeking a goal . . .

And there was the old house

On the spur of the hill,

Stark in its loneliness,

Dark and still . . .!

What memories clung 

To its faded walls,

Its dust-strewn floors

And its empty halls, 

Its shuttered windows holding fast

Some mystery of a shrouded past!

 

From an age of sleep

Should a house awaken

While its old-time dwellers

In graves forsaken

Are still asleep?

 

Like some dream castle

Arising from mist,

the sunrise of morning

Its windows have kissed,

Its cosy rooms drawing

The sunlight within,

Its wide doors inviting

The traveler in.

 

The old house now

To the hungry calls,

There is cheer and comfort

Within its walls.

It smiles in welcome

As the road drifts down

On its winding way

To Weybridge town.

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Poems from “Homeland in the North”

I’ve posted poems from this book (Ella’s last–published in 1936) several times throughout this blog. Beginning today, I’ll post the rest of them.

 

HOMELAND IN THE NORTH

THE DRIFTWIND PRESS

WALTER John COATES

No. Montpelier, Vermont

1936

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY

OF

COLONEL SETH WARNER

WHOSE BRAVERY AND UNSELFISH DEVOTION

HELPED TO MAKE

A

HOMELAND IN THE NORTH

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

The writer wishes to thank the editors of Driftwind, The Vermonter, Rutland Herald, The Enterprise, VerseCraft, Bozart and Blue Moon for their kind permission to reprint the following verses.

 

HILLS OF HOME

There are grander hills to see

Beneat the sky’s round dome,

But none are half so dear to me

As the beautiful hills of home.

 

Dedication:

VERMONT

Deep in the forest it lay,

Only a wedge of land

Watered bymountain streams,

By mountain ranges spanned.

Crossed by winding trails

Where a race of savage men

Built their smouldering fires

Deep in some hidden glen.

In secret cabe and coppice

Thru uncharted hours of day

Into the night’s wild dark

Crept hungry beasts of prey.

 

OUR FOREFATHERS

The spirit of the courageous men

Who cleared this northern land,

The dangers they encountered

We scarce can understand.

They braved the untamed wilderness,

Their swinging axes broke

The silence of the centuries

With every sturdy stroke.

Thru untrod deeps they blazed the trails,

Then followed ox-team roads

And women sang and children played

In snugly built abodes.

Of logs the walls were builded,

Of bark the roof was made,

And over the awakened earth

A punchen floor was laid.

Their clearings grew to acres

With mills beside the streams,

And men dared hope that this would be

The fruition of their dreams.

 

But across the western border

Ambitious agents came

To take these farms for England

And tax them in her name.

Objectors were branded rebels,

To be captured alive or dead

And each rebellious leader

Bore a price upon his head.

The clouds of war rolled darkly

Above the freighted years.

the thunder of th eBritish guns

Reached to the settlers’ ears.

 

COLONEL SETH WARNER

Of tall commanding presence,

A silent man and grave,

His life’s entire devotion

To the cause he freely gave.

NOr threat of death nor prison

His fearless soul could daunt,

A safe and prudent leader

In the making of Vermont.

 

When Francis fell at Hubbardton

And Warner’s forces fled . . . 

“Take to the woods an dmeet me

At Manchester,” he said

He stood with Stark at Bennington

And again at Richelieu,

He held Carlton’s imposing forces

Against a Waterloo!

News of Burgoyne’s advancing hosts

Sent forth its wild alarms

And Warner siezed (sic) the live stock

On all the settlers’ farms.

With consummate tact and patience

He achieved this trying feat

And Burgoyne’s baffled forces

Were starved into retreat.

At Wooster’s call he rallied

A regiment to aid

Our wounded troops in Canada,

By defeat and death repaid.

On snow shoes pushing onward

Thru winter’s biting cold,

The hardships of that fatal march

Were never fully told.

The ill and wounded coming home

Were his especial care,

Of sacrifice and suffering

He bore the greater share.

 

With Allen he plead at Albany

For the harried pioneers. . .

Results of their united work

All down the vistaed (sic) years

Have left an imprint on our State

And along our white highway,

Where homes and churches stand secure

In Freedom’s light today.

The hills that marked the winding trails

Our fathers used to tread

Still guard the quiet sunny vales

Where first their footsteps led.

Still guard the priceless legacy

For their descendants planned,

When first they cleared the wilderness. . . 

This rugged wedge of land!

Posted in Homeland in the North, Poems | Leave a comment

September 19, 1937

Sun., 19  Rainy day. Poor preacher on the air.

 

 

This is the last entry in Ella Fisher’s diaries.

Ella Warner Fisher died October 11 at the age of 84.

 

I’ll be posting the rest of the poems from Homeland in the North in the days to come.

 

 

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September 18, 1937

Sat., 18  Dr. Phelps calls in p.m.  Sarah Cotey sews for Grace in p.m. She lifts me. Helen reads to me in p.m.

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September 17, 1937

Fri., 17  Sarah Cotey comes in p.m. to stay with me while my nurse sleeps. She reads “The Story of the Bible” to me.

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September 16, 1937–no entry

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September 15, 1937–no entry

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September 14, 1937

Tues., 14  Letter from Anna. Henrietta comes. Cold rain.

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September 13, 1937

Mon., 13   Devotions. Rain.

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September 12, 1937

Sun., 12  The doctor comes.  Serious(?)

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September 11, 1937

Sat., 11  Letter from Hattie.

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September 10, 1937

Fri., 10   Devotions

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September 9, 1937

Thurs., 9   Devotions. A letter from Gertrude. Mrs. Bingham & Annie call in the p.m. & I am asleep.

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September 8, 1937

Wed., 8   Devotions. Mr. Hagar calls on me in the p.m. He say (sic) that I have nothing to worry about that I have been a good soldier. Grace & Helen go to Burlington & meet Mrs. Bingham.

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September 7, 1937

Tues., 7   Devotions. Henriettta starts Warner in Bristol High School. She stops to see me on her way home.

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September 6, 1937–no entry

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September 5, 1937–no entry

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September 4, 1937–no entry

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September 3, 1937–no entry

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September 2, 1937–no entry

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September 1, 1937

Wed., 1   Devotions. Henrietta comes & we have a nice visit in the a.m. Toosie calls on me in the eve.

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August 31, 1937

Tues., 31   Devotions. Grace & Helen both read to me. Henrietta comes for a visit in the a.m. I sit up for a short time in my chair.

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August 30, 1937

Mon., 30   Devotions.

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August 29, 1937

Sun., 29   A good service.  Mary Ross comes in the pm. The girls call at Otis ? (sic) in the evening.

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August 28, 1937

Sat., 28   Anna sends a lovely chair cushion—to set up against the bed.

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August 27, 1937

Fri., 27   Devotions. A good day and a good nurse. Letter from Anna.

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August 26, 1937

Thurs., 26   Devotions. Mrs. Rogers goes home at night. Miss Dodd comes from Burlington a trained nurse recommended by Dr. Ben Adams. Henrietta comes in the p.m. 

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August 25, 1937–no entry

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August 24, 1937

Tues., 24   Sarah Cotey spends the p.m. with me. A letter from Gertrude.

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August 23, 1937

Mon., 23   A good night. Helen takes Anna as far as North Bennington. Henrietta stays with me. Sarah Cotey spends the p.m. with me. It is cooler.

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August 22, 1937

Sun., 22 Ben & family come for dinner & to spend the day. Anna & Helen get a chicken dinner & go black berrrying for me. Henrietta comes. I have black berries for supper.

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August 21, 1937

Sat., 21   Anna here. Sarah Cotey calls to see me.

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August 20, 1937

Fri., 20   Anna here. Mr. Tuttle all in flower show (sic) at which the Governor speaks. Grace has an herb exhibit. Grace, Anna & Karl take prizes.

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August 19, 1937

Thurs., 19   Anna here. Anna & Helen drive to Burlington to get apples for baking(?) for me.

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