Saturday, March 31, 2007


If time would turn back for a season,
For a year in the past that are gone,
I would romp once again in my boyhood,
And the days would speed merrily along.

When the catkins are blowing in springtime,
And the robin comes bobbin' along,
As the song sparrow sings in the tree top
With nothing to mar it's sweet song.

I'd hear once again the waves murmur,
And sniff the salt tang of the sea,
I'd watch the white sails in the sunset
And the sea gulls so graceful and free.

There would be the cool breezes at even,
I would hear the loon's cry in the night,
As it calls to it's mate o'er the water
Lit up by the moon's silvery light.

I'd wade once again in sea water,
And dig my bare toes in the sand,
And hunt the nest of the sand piper,
Where I'd gather sea shells in the strand.

These days they are gone past forever,
But a mem'rie they ever will be,
There a youngster with never a worry,
Once dwelt by the side of the sea.


Creator of the starry heights,
And ocean depth's below,
How mighty are Thy wondrous works
As all creation know.

Thy lofty snow-capped mountains stand
Like sentinels in their might,
They glistens in the morning sun,
And sun sets glow at night.

Ten thousand times ten thousand stars
Lights up the Milky Way,
The sun and moon their course pursues
As night replaces day.

Vast ocean's restless rolling seas
Harrass the ocean's shore,
And vivid lightnings pierce the skies
As thunders loudly roar.

The rainbow's arch across the sky
Sets forth Thy covenant plain,
Summer and winter, day and night
Shall be while earth remain.

February, 1949


The snow flakes from the ether world
Comes whirling down in flight,
And soon the bosom of the earth
Lies clothed in spotless white.

King Winter with his magic wand
O'er earth a mantle throws,
And seats upon a crystal throne
The Lady of the Snows.

The borealis in the night
Lights up the northern sky,
And blazing sunsets shine and glint
On snow clad mountains high.

When winter nights are cold and clear
The stars like candles glow,
Moonbeams and shadows skip and dance
O'er fields of drifted snow.

A snow man on the corner lot,
Show shovel's grating sound,
And sparrows feeding 'round the door
Mean, winter's come to town.

January, 1949


Through all our days while life shall last
We'll have our expectations,
However noble be our task.
Or lowly be our stations;
Whatever talent we possess
Sometimes we'll fail to meet success
In all our life's vocations.

We often fail to do our best,
Despite our best endeavour,
While others always pass the test,
Although they seem less clever;
Then in discouragement may say,
"Why is it that I toil each day,
And meet with failure ever?"

It's then we need more courage, and
Stedfast determination,
To carry on, to work and plan
To reach our estimation;
And having done our very best,
Our work may be crowned with success
Beyond our expectation.

So let us strive and never shirk
To do what is worth trying,
We'll find more pleasure in our work,
Less time for mournful sighing,
And when our call will come to rest,
Then having done our very best,
'Twill comfort us in dying.


Old Bruin awoke, and fumed awhile,
Then lumbered from his lair,
He looked all-round both up and down,
And growled and sniffed the air.

Again midwinter had arrived,
The temperature was low,
His shadow he could plainly see
Upon the crusted snow.

Growled he "The winter will be long,
It's just about half o'er,
Snow's in the air I greatly fear
So I'll retire once more."

The ground hog too was sitting by
The door of his domain,
Quoth he "It's cold and I am old,
I'll go to bed again."

Again these two went back to sleep
The ground hog and the bear,
To dream and snore six weeks or more,
And spring will then be near.


Bean Town is just a village small
With just one street it's thoroughfare,
But if you chance to pass that way
You'll always find a welcome there.

Joe Banks who keeps the general store
Sells everything from soup to shoes,
And men folk after chores are done,
Keeps 'droppin' in to hear the news.

They sit around the heated stove,
Plays checkers and discuss the crop,
And always there's an atmosphere
Of friendliness in that old shop.

They are good neighbours young and old,
And each know how his neighbour 'stand',
If some misfortune comes his way,
They'll try and help him to a man.

Beantown may seem a sleepy place,
But if you walk along it's street,
You'll find it has a goodly store
Of friendliness that's hard to beat.

November, 1948

Friday, March 30, 2007


A little girl sat deep in thought,
Paper and pencil in each hand;
At last in serious mood she wrote,
"Dear Santa Claus" her note began.

"I'm writing you to say that if
You haven't dolls enough to share
With every little girl, then please
Don't bring a doll to me this year."

"Just down our street ten doors away
Where the big elm tree grows so tall,
There is a little orphan girl
Who haven't any doll at all."

"So if you please dear Santa Claus,
Bring her a doll, one that will cry,
And go to sleep when lying down,
When on our street you're passing by."

And when her father read the note
Scrawled by a little hand so small,
Said he, "I'll tell old Santa Claus
To bring that little girl a doll."

And in that house on Christmas morn
Where the big elm tree grows so tall,
A little girl was thrilled with joy,
Because she owned a sleeping doll.

Christmas, 1944


Old Jeff he was a quiet man,
And never heard to 'cuss',
He never argued with his wife
When she would start a fuss.

He'd sit around the house at night
With leg crossed o'er his knee,
and smoke his pipe with sweet content;
A happy man was he.

He was an easy going soul,
Folks said he had no pride,
But Jeff took everything in fun,
And never seemed annoyed.

Old Jeff he was an honest man,
He seemed too slow to rob,
But when he had his work to do
He did an honest job.

He went each Sunday to his church,
And sat in the same pew;
He'd listen to the parson preach
The things he ought to do.

Until one day old Jeff passed on
Into a better land,
And 'though he leaved no wealth behind,
He died an honest man.

April, 1944

GUY FAWKE'S DAY - November 5th

I always loved his time of year
When I was just a lad,
When Guy awke's day would rol around
What fun we youngsters had.

Guy Fawkes was no concern of ours,
Or the plot he did conspire,
But this we knew, November fifth
Was the night for our bonfire.

Right after school each day we'd work
With ardour you'd admire,
We'd chop small spruce and balsam fir,
And pile them higher and higher.

And when at last the evening came
With weather fair and dry,
Both boys and girls would gather 'round
To watch the sparks fly high.

That ight on many a knoll and hill
In really grand display,
Bonfires would flare and youngsters cheer
That's how we kept Fawke's day.

November, 1948

Thursday, March 29, 2007


Watch your step, it is a warning,
And advice to one and all,
For it's when you're not expecting
You may have your greatest fall.

Watch your step when on life's highway,
And each stage of life unfold,
Loiter not in any by-way
But press on towards your goal.

Watch your step and set then firmly
In the way that's planned for you,
And the signposts pointing onward
They will safely guide you through.

Watch your step in your vocation
Use precaution it is best,
Many are the broken bodies
Laid aside though carelessness.


Great Pilot of the restless sea
By Thee were all our fathers led,
Grant me success from day to day,
That I may earn my daily bread.

'Twas in a little fishing boat
Close by the shores of Galilee,
Where Thou once sat and taught the folk,
And humble fishermen like me.

And on the Galilean sea
When winds blew strong and waves raged high,
Thou hear Thy faint disciples call,
And answered "Fear not, it is I."

Protect me through the gloomy night
When skies above are overcast,
My little boat it seems so small
Upon Thine ocean wide and vast.

Strengthen my will when toil seems vain,
Uphold me when my courage fail,
And may I hear they still small voice
Both in the calm and raging gale.

And when at last my voyage is done,
When my last fishing trip is o'er,
Then master as I hear the strand
May I behold thee on the shore.

Then pilot me safe home at last
Into that Port of quiet rest,
Where I shall find safe anchorage
From every storm that cause unrest.

September, 1945


"Bow wow wow" barked the old watch dog,
"I guard this place at night,
When prowling thieves comes snooping 'round
I puts them all to flight."

"Meow, meow" purred the tabby cat,
"I'm the most important one,
I chase the thieving mice away,
And keeps them on the run."

"Cock a doodle doo" crowed the rooster,
"Hear what I have to say;
I awake you all in the early morn,
And you don't sleep in all day."

"Cluck, cluck" clucked the little white hen
As she pecked at a grain of corn,
"My master has a nice fresh egg
For his breakfast every morn."

The farmer then came on the scene,
He listened to each one,
He gave the cat a dish of milk,
To the dog he threw a bone.

To the chickens all he threw some corn,
And then they heard him say,
"You all are useful around this place,
Each in a different way."


The careless man is quick to plan,
But put things off from day to day,
And as time flies he seldom tries
To do his chores without delay.

As time goes by you'll hear him cry,
"Some day when I'll have less to do,
I'll mend that chair that need repair,
And make it almost good as new."

Until one day that chair gives way
Beneath his heavy avoirdupois,
It's only good for firewood
As on the floor a wreck it lies.

A stitch in time saves eight or nine.
Time never waits for anyone,
Let's never shirk our daily work
And take delight in jobs well done.

Time that's well spent oft' brings content
To him who plys his daily toil,
and little things so often brings
Delight to know it was worth while.

January, 1948

Wednesday, March 28, 2007


It was a bright cold winter's day
When snow lay on the ground,
And the earth lay 'neath it's mantle
For many miles around.

A little flock of sparrows
Came fluttering through the air;
And soon they all were busy
Pecking bread crumbs scattered near.

And then one little fellow
More braver than the rest,
Came hopping up towards me,
And this was his address.

"I am only a little sparrow,
A bird of low degree;
And my food is sometimes scanty,
But there's One who cares for me."

"He gave me a coat of feathers,
They are very fine I know,
For they keeps me warm in winter
When the wintry winds do blow."

"He sees each fallen sparrow,
And hears their plaintive cry;
He counts us all each evening
When night is drawing nigh."

"Our earthly friends show kindness,
And strew bread crumbs around;
They pity us poor sparrows
When snow lies on the ground."

"My little heart is grateful
For food that's given free,
I know my feathered cousins
All think the same as me."

"Although I'm not a songster
I'll do the best I can,
To cheer you up each morning
When spring smiles on the land."

And when their meal was ended
Back to the eave they flew;
They all were filled and happy,
And it made me happy too.

January, 1946


The master artist plans His work with care,
And blends bright colours in each landscape fair;
He tints the blushing rose and daffodil,
And beautifies each fragrant lily bell.

No earthly artist can with brush display
A glowing sunset at the close of day,
As he who paints each cloud with magic wand,
And radiates it's charm o'er sea and land.

Behold the rainbow in the evening sky,
Such radiant beauty meets the human eye,
It's arch is tinted with bright colours rare,
That spreads a halo o'er our earthly sphere.

The starry firmament a winter's night,
Shines like a million diamonds, sparkling bright;
The panorama of the Milky Way
Shows forth His handiwork in grand display.

When oak and maple dons their autumn dress,
We seek His work in nature at it's best,
A blaze of colour spreads o'er the woodland
In grandeur unsurpassed by human hand.

It fills us with new hope whene'er we see
The beauty of a flower or maple tree,
Then with our faith renewed we onward plod,
And challenge those who say there is no God.


Hail Canada; They name is manifest,
Thy vast Dominion of the west
Behooves us all with thankfulness
To laud this land of freedom.

In bygone years brave pioneers
Transformed this land by sweat and tears,
And left to us as rightful heirs
This land of hope and freedom.

Truly a favoured people we
That dwells within they boundary,
And shares a nation's liberty
In this our land of freedom.

From ocean unto ocean's strand,
Both east and west through all the land,
Nature bestows with bounteous hand
A fruitful land of freedom.

Rich mineral in thy bosom lies,
Broad prairies yield their vast supplies,
No other nation dare despise
This land of wealth and freedom.

With freedom for our guiding light,
May we for freedom's cause unite,
Let no-one dare dispute our right
To love our land of freedom.

May, 1950


Be kind to your mother
You'll ne'er have another,
So cherish her while she is near;
Let no ill will or shame
Ever blight your good name,
That may bring silver threads in her hair.

In days long gone by
When you were but knee high,
On her you could always rely;
She were your best friend,
And on her would depend,
For she shared both your troubles and joy.

As the years they unfold,
And your mother grows old,
Then respect those gray locks in her hair;
Never let it be said
When her spirit has fled
That you caused her remorse or despair.

You'll ne'er find another
To replace your mother,
One who will prove true to the end;
May her old vacant chair
Never cause you a tear,
But instead, happy memories may blend.

July, 1946


Past memories are like souvenirs
That has been store away,
And what we prize and treasure most
Are our friends of yesterday.

The friends that always were sincere,
And share our company,
They are real keepsakes of the past
In all sincerity.

'Though some are in the Great Beyond,
And are no longer here,
Yet still their memory will remain
To us a souvenir.

At every stage of life we find,
Whatever role we play,
The thoughts that's foremost in our mind
Are the friends of yesterday.

And as we count our souvenirs
We think of days long past,
And know they'll ever with us stay
As long as mem'ries last.

March, 1949

Tuesday, March 27, 2007


The pale full moon was sinking very low
As the weary traveller halted with a sigh,
He gazed on the old home he used to know
That stood silhouetted 'gainst the starry sky.

No barking watch dog met him at the gate
With wagging tail to show it's keen delight,
He knew too well he'd tarried far too late,
For there was none to welcome him tonight.

The old house stood deserted and forlorn,
The winds played hide and seek around the eaves;
A shutter lay by wind from hinges torn,
And all around tall grass and fallen leaves.

He heard no eager footsteps in the hall,
No loving voice to bid him welcome home,
There was none there to answer at his call,
The old house was as silent as a tomb.

The echo of his footsteps like a knell
Resounded as he climbed the musty stair
And entering every room he knew so well
Was met by haunting memories lurking there.

Thick dust lay on the mantel where the clock
Had stood for years and ticked the hours away,
But now this silence only seemed to mock
These mem'ries of the past when life was gay.

Then out into the night he turned once more
And gazed on the old homestead so forlorn,
Moonbeams and shadows played around the door
Where he once played, and where high hopes were born.

January, 1947


When old man Winter from the north
Comes sweeping down from Arctic lands,
He show no favors as he grips
All nature with his icy hands.

All life is dead in frozen soil
That lies beneath earth's mantle white;
And sturdy oaks stand stripped and nude
Like specters in the starlit night.

The snow flakes whirl around our door,
As biting winds go rushing past,
And when we venture out our ears
And fingers tingle in the blast.

Though winter may act rough and rude,
And boisterous winds may howl and whine;
Yet there's sweet comfort in the thought
That Spring is not so far behind.

Then old man Winter will depart,
And Spring again will smile on earth
With budding trees and springing flowers,
And nature shall regain new birth.

January, 1947


The mantel clock sits on the shelf,
It's pedestal for many a day,
From morn 'til eve, and through the night
It ticks the passing hours away.

When all the house is hushed and still,
And midnight hour is past and gone,
The mantel clock it slumbers not,
And through the silent night ticks on.

And as the silent hours drags on
Towards the dawn of a new day,
I listens to that mantel clock,
And this is what it seems to say.

"My hands are moving 'round and 'round,
They never rests by day or night;
Each minute I have to be on time
So that each hour will come just right."

"I'm always faithful to my trust,
And on the hour I sound my gong,
Reminding you the whole day through
That time is always marching on."

And when at last through weariness
My tired eyelids gently steep,
All through the night the faithful clock
Will keep it's vigil while I sleep.

February, 1947


There is peace beside still waters,
And the Psalmist sang it's praise,
Where the young lambs skip and frolic,
And the lowing cattle graze.

Where the sunlit silent river
Gently flows toward the sea.
And the song birds in the willows
Sing their notes of melody.

There is peace in many a valley,
Where the farmer tills the sod,
And the rustling waving wheat fields
Speaks of nature and of God.

There is peace where sons and daughters
Live their lives in harmony,
When no discord or commotion
Mar their homes and unity.

There is peace in many a bosom
Though dull cares may press them sore;
Peace that passeth understanding;
Peace of God that shall endure.

October, 1947


It was a dark and stormy night,
The rolling waves beat on the shore;
A cottage stood beside the sea,
And salt sea spray swept by the door.

A light shone in the window bright,
'Though long had passed the hour for sleep,
A fisher's wife her vigil kept
While he were on the stormy deep.

And in his cot her baby lay
Asleep, a chubby little lad,
He were too young to know the cares
And anxious hours his mother had.

The mother kept her vigil when
The storms blew wild and waves ran high,
And prayed that God would keep him safe,
The father of her darling boy.

In many a home down by the sea
Are anxious wives and mothers too,
Great pilot of the restless deep,
Protect their kin, and bring them through.

October, 1947


What funny folk we humans are
With all our different moods and ways,
Some likes the weather when it's cold,
While others like nice summer days.
And some they like the city life,
Others prefer a one horse town,
Some love to travel 'round the world
While others like to settle down.

In winter time it gets too cold,
Oftimes we shiver and complain,
In summer time we wipe our brow,
And wish that it was cold again.
Some people try to put on weight,
And others diet to keep it down;
Some like to live in peace at home
While others like to travel 'round.

Some always has a lot to tell,
But others haven't much to say,
Some find real pleasure in their work,
While others watch the clock all day.
And so it goes from day to day,
I guess it is as it should be,
If everyone were just alike,
Think how monotonous life would be.


The old elm towers above the lawn
With it's ranches drooping down,
And one by one it's withered leaves
Falls fluttering to the ground.

Long years a landmark it has been,
This sentinel of the street,
Have defied many a raging storm,
And winter's snow and sleet.

In spring this elm admired by all
Displays it's leaves so green,
And stands so stately and so tall
Dress in a coat of sheen.

Now it's a nuisance neighbours say
When all it's falling leaves
Are cluttering up the walks and lawn,
And choking up the eaves.

So now this tree stands mute and sad,
And wonders at it all,
Why it should be admired in spring,
And frowned at in the fall.

October, 1947


For the beauty of the earth,
For our land that gave us birth,
And for friends, our home and hearth;
Dear Lord we give Thee thanks.

For past sunshine and the rain,
Ripened fruit, and garnered grain,
May we all each day exclaim
Dear Lord, we give Thee thanks.

Thou has given us eyes to see
Nature's beauty, flower and tree;
All earth's blessings come from Thee;
Dear Lord we give Thee thanks.

For our strength to carry on
When life's way seems hard and long
Through our weakness make us strong;
Dear Lord we give thee thanks.

For this vast Dominion's store,
Mountain, prairie, ocean's shore,
And henceforth for evermore,
May thanks dear Lord to Thee be given.

October, 1947


Sometimes as evening shadows fall,
And the evening star appears,
We sit in silent reverie
And think of bygone years.

Far down the road of yesterday,
Our thoughts then take their flight;
Old scenes, old friends we meet again
That long have passed from sight.

The old homestead we see again,
The family circle too,
All gathered 'round the family board
Just as they used to do.

Our past is like a book that's read,
A tale that has been told,
Our memories are life's diaries, and
Each day a page unfold.

And as we journey on through life
Sometimes we rest awhile,
And gaze far back to bygone days
When we were just a child.


Sometimes I fain would sit awhile
Beside still waters deep,
And there in silent solitude
A tryst I would keep.

So far are moved from factory's din,
And city's noisy street,
I'd dwell with nature for awhile
In quiet safe retreat.

And in the silence of the night
I'd count the stars on high,
And listen to a waterfall,
Or hear the night hawks cry.

Maybe I'd hear that still small voice
While in that quiet zone,
Reminding me in simple trust
That I am not alone.

And when my stay would terminate,
Then homeward I'd repair,
Firmly resolved with strength renewed
To meet tomorrow's care.


Let us go on our vacation,
And enjoy a relaxation
Far from the busy city's noisy throng,
Out among the open spaces
Where we'll see no worried faces,
And be happy as the summer days are long.

By some foaming whirling eddy,
Or a purling brook or steadie
We'll fish for trout in running brook or stream,
As we land the speckled beauties,
We'll forget our cares and duties,
And wonder if it isn't all a dream.

Lying 'neath the leafy bowers
We will bask in sunlight hours,
Gazing up where fleecy clouds drifts on,
Or at night when stars are gleaming
If we're not asleep or dreaming,
We may hear the noisy bullfrog in the pond.

We may scan some sunlit mountain
Or bathe in a cooling fountain,
And hear the passing storm in tree tops roar,
And by watching nature's teachers
Different birds and living creatures,
We may learn something we never knew before.

In the early morning hours
If it threatens rain or showers,
We will just relax and fall asleep again,
And if rain drops loudly patter
On the roof it will not matter,
We'll forget about our troubles and the rain.

It will be a grand vacation
For a man of any station
To enjoy the passing moments of each day,
And when winter gales are whining,
When at home he's safe reclining,
He'll be telling how the big one got away.

March, 1944


When the melting snow of winter
Rushes down the mountain steep,
Old man river starts a rampage
Like a giant 'roused from sleep.

Soon it's whirling, seething swirling,
Swollen by the spring tide rain,
Bearing debris on it's bosom,
Gathering speed none can retain.

O'er a cataract it crashes
With a roar heard far and wide,
Winds it's way through hills and valleys
With momentum in it's stride.

Through the canyon steep it races,
Heeding not the echo's roar,
Down the gorge and through the woodland,
On towards the ocean's shore.

When at last it's race is ended,
And the sea impedes it's pace,
It is swallowed up forever
In the ocean's vast embrace.

November, 1947


The Sabbath day was made for man
To pause, and rest awhile,
This day well spent oft brings content
To men of honest toil.

Each Sabbath morn church bells ring out
Their message o'er the air,
Come one come all, they seem to call,
And join in praise and prayer.

Old folks with slow uncertain steps,
And youth with buoyant spring,
All wend their way, their vows to pay,
And psalms and hymns to sing.

They've kept the faith their fathers knew
And in their steps have trod,
A heritage from age to age
Freedom to worship God.

It matters not your race or creed,
Or if you're dark or fair,
There's One who'll met, and waits to greet
You in His house of prayer.

November, 1947


Ring out ye bells across the sky,
Peal forth your message loud and clear;
The Yuletide season's drawing nigh,
A season of goodwill and cheer.

It's nigh two thousand years ago,
Since humble shepherds in the glen
Heard seraphs from the starlight glow
Sing "Peace on earth, goodwill to men."

"I bring good tidings of great joy;"
This message thrilled the shepherds ears,
From herald angels hovering night,
And it was echoed through the years.

And soon throughout all Christendom,
The story will again be told,
How wise men guided by a star,
Brought gifts with incense, myrrh and gold.

So may we all our homage pay
With one accord glad tributes bring;
May young and old on Christmas day,
Proclaim the birthday of their King.

December, 1947


I do not wish
To know what waits around the bend
Of this life's road on which I wearily wend,
There'll be safe lodgings at its farther end
When day is done.

I do not ask
Or yearn to know what lies before,
Or what each day in future have in store;
But when at last this pilgrimage is o'er
I'll understand.

I would not choose
To journey through this world again,
Amidst discomfort, weariness and pain;
But life is sweet, and here I shall remain
Until life's end.

I dare not choose
My path I tread from day to day,
'Though oft I fain would choose some smoother way;
But trusting to a greater Strength I'll say
Thy will be done.

I'll ask no favours when at last my score
Is added up, but this I will implore,
For just a humble place, just 'round the door
Of God's great love.

May 9, 1951


Dear Lord and Saviour, hear our humble prayer,
We seek They guidance through a world of sin;
Be Thou our strength, and shield from every snare,
From foes without, and lurking fears within.

No goodness of our own have we to please,
We are not worthy of they mercies, Lord;
But Thou will hear the prayers of those in need,
As Thou has promised in They faithful Word.

We pray for those in trouble, and distress,
And weary souls all longing to be free;
May they at last repose in peaceful rest,
And find their consummation, Lord in thee.

For those we pray who falter on life's way,
And find their daily cross so hard to bear;
O keep, and guide them to a better day,
And grant them rest and peace from toil, and care.

We pray for faith to chase all gloom, and doubt,
And hope to trust Thee through all earthly life;
For perfect love that will all fears cast out,
A threefold strength to shield us in the strife.

And when at last our course on earth is run,
Dear Father may we find our rest in Thee;
And dwell forever with they blessed Son,
And Holy Spirit through eternity.

January, 1943


I sat by my window when the morning was bright,
As I watched my wife hanging out washing so white,
And she was so busy with work and with care,
While I sat so helpless here in my wheel-chair.

I sat by my window, when the sun it shone high,
As the wife began taking her clothes in so dry,
And as she was ironing her laundry so fair
I felt so despondent, sitting in my wheel-chair.

I sat by my window, watched my neighbour next door
Attending his garden and doing his chore,
And I thought of the day when I was busy too,
But now I seemed useless with nothing to do.

These thoughts then came to me, and I started this poem.
"Sure I should be thankful with family, and home;
With so many blessings, why should I despair,
I should feel so lucky, to have a wheel-chair."

When we are down-hearted, and feeling so blue,
Let us count our blessings, although they be few;
And think of the sufferers, the pain they all bear
That would feel so thankful to sit in a chair.

Photo: L to R - Sons, Eric & Ches; George Frampton; wife, Ethel; daughter, Betty; Son, Roy; daughter-in-law, Eleanor


Dear Sister - here's a little poem
I dedicate to you,
And may it find you in the pink
And not be feeling blue.
I hope your family all are well
And hubby feeling fine,
And when sometime you think of me
I hope you drop a line.

I never shall forget the past
When we were young and free,
I still can hear your laugh and shout
You were so full of glee.
And when I played a trick on you
Or teased your cat, then run,
Oh you were a good natured kid
You took it all in fun.

So many years has passed since then
And changes there has been,
And we are living far apart
With many miles between.
But maybe at some future date
If what you say is true,
A year or two, and then perhaps
I will be seeing you.

Photo: Helen (Frampton) Stone, sister of George Frampton


One morning I heard my wife say,
This will be my shopping day;
There's some pretty cotton on
I must get before it's gone.

Later on I heard her say;
I must start my quilt today;
I have got a pattern new,
And some pretty cotton too.

Soon I heard her scissors snip
As she shaped each little bit;
Then she sorted it so true,
A bit of red, and a bit of blue.

Oh, what patience she has got,
And I know she needs a lot,
As she sewed each little bit
To the piece that it should fit.

Then one day some ladies came
When she had it in the frame,
And 'twas plain as A, B, C,
We would have a quilting bee.

Soon they stitched, and as they sat,
Talked of this, and talked of that;
All was happy as could be
When we had that quilting bee.

When the job it was well done,
My wife thanked them everyone;
Then she made us all some tea,
And that ended the quilting bee.


Come, let us join in songs of praise,
With one accord our voices raise,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice,
And let all thankful hearts rejoice.

O may we all on this glad day,
With grateful hearts our homage pay
Unto our God who rules on high,
For all the blessings we enjoy.

We thank Thee for past mercies, Lord;
For strength renewed, and health restored,
And for all gifts Thyself bestow
On us They creatures here below.

We thank Thee for Thy love and care,
And all the earthly joys we share;
O make us worthy of that love,
And fit us for Thy home above.

There with that great triumphant throng,
We too, may learn the heavenly song,
And join with angels as they sing
Glad songs of praise to Christ our King.

Sung in St. Chad's Anglican Church, Toronto, on July 27, 1941


Did you ever stop to ponder
What a housewife has to do?
Many are her household duties,
And I'll try to name a few.

She is up betimes each morning
And the breakfast she prepare,
Ready for her daily routine,
And another day of care.

Washing, ironing, knitting, sewing,
Bringing groceries from the store.
Baking, scrubbing, sweeping, dusting,
Shaking rugs 'til arms are sore.

Answering phone calls, and the door bell
Keeps her running to and fro,
Breadman, milkman, boy with paper
All comes looking for their 'dough'.

Chasing dust with vacuum cleaner,
Sweeping up the basement floor,
Brushing leaves from off the pavement,
Cleaning brasswork on the door.

Nursing Junior through his illness
Making up the family beds,
Cleaning paintwork, washing dishes,
Listening when the postman treads.

Getting ready for some social,
Or Red Cross work she may do,
Working for the church's needy
Helping with the faithful few.

When at last she seeks her pillow
And beside her bed she pray,
She may breathe a prayer in silence
For some loved one far away.

Yes, the housewives that are thrifty
All who toil each day so hard,
In this world or in the next, they
All deserve a just reward.


When we see our Mom get ready,
And she says she's going to bake;
Then we know just by her actions
She is going to bake a cake.

First she gets the flour ready,
And whatever else it takes;
Then she sings a little ditty
While she's mixing up her cake.

Then she mixes all together,
Stirs until her arms do ache;
And we all keep off a distance
While Mom's mixing up her cake.

Then she sets it in the oven,
When it is prepared to bake;
Soon we sniff the rich aroma
Coming from her flavoured cake.

Then when it is baked and ready,
From the oven she will take;
And we all have such a longing
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When it is cooled off so nicely,
Then the icing she will make,
And she lays it on so even
All around her dainty cake.

When she sets the dinner table,
And we all our places take;
We are sure to leave an opening
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When she serves us all a helping,
We are very much awake;
And it pays her for her labour,
When we praise her tempting cake.

You may talk about your tid bits
That gives you the 'tummy' ache;
But there's nothing half as tasty
As a piece of Mother's cake.

Monday, March 26, 2007


How sweet the memories of the past
When we were young and free,
And every day was just the same,
The time passed merrily.

How sweet is sleep when tired limbs,
And brain repose to rest;
Some from their hard and honest toil,
And some from care and stress.

How sweet the sunshine, and the air
After the summer rain,
So we ourselves finds sweet relief
In pleasure after pain.

How sweet is health, and strength each day
To do our daily task,
A quiet mind, a peaceful home,
What more have we to ask.

How sweet to live in a peaceful land
Secure from war's alarms,
And lay us down in peace each night
With neither fear, or harm.

How sweet to have a hearth and home
Though poor our lot may be;
And share each others joys and griefs,
Dwelling in harmony.

How sweet to have a steadfast faith
In a better world to come,
And live each day in simple trust
Until our course is run.

How sweet if we live to grow old
Though memory's not the best,
To have a sane and quiet mind,
And later, peaceful rest.

August, 1943


These early gifts I ask, from day to day;
To dwell in peace, to have a home, and hearth,
A will to live, and free to tread this earth,
And help my fellow man in some small way.

These early gifts I ask; good neighbours, and
True friends, who will not shun me if I fail,
A quiet street, with homes where love prevail;
All speaking in the tongue I understand.

These earthly gifts I ask; a garden plot
Behind my cottage, where in leisure hours,
I'll hoe the weeds, and cultivate fair flowers,
And live in peace, contented with my lot.

These earthly gifts I ask; a rod, and line,
And casting for the trout in stream, or brook,
And landing speckled beauties with my hook;
Is this too much to ask, this wish of mine?

These earthly gifts I ask; each day to be
A little wiser than the day before;
To take a page each day from wisdom's lore,
And learn something worth while; be this my plea.

These earthly gifts I ask; a conscience clear
That will not mar my peace of mind each day,
To live in honest life, my simple way,
And harm no man; this is my earnest prayer.

May, 1944


In the early hours of morning
When the dew is on the grass,
How the crystal drops they sparkle
In the sunlight as we pass.

All the flowers they drink so deeply
Of the early morning dew,
It's their manna sent from heaven,
Filling them with life anew.


To you and yours this Christmas Tide
We wish both joy and gladness;
May nothing mar this festal day,
And nothing bring you sadness.

And When another New Year dawns
Upon this earth and nation;
May you and yours enjoy each day,
Throughout the year's duration.

Christmas, 1944


Beyond the blue horizon
Where the ocean meets the sky,
To a land of peace and beauty
Oftimes I fain would fly,
Where palm trees wave a welcome,
And bluebirds chant their lay,
And laughing brooks in chorus
Rolls merrily on their way.

Where the sun in all it's glory
Sets in a flaming sky,
An early morning sunlight
Glints on tall mountains high;
Where sloping fields in colour
Reaches the flowing stream,
Where anglers sit in patience
All day and idly dream.

There is heard no note or discord,
No clamor, strife or stress,
Where Sabbath days are holy
And observed as days of rest;
Where is heard no sad lamenting,
No unkind words are said,
and the balm of love's affection
Anoints the weary bed.

I know there is no country
'Neath heaven's high vault as this,
Yet in fancy oft I wander
In a land of earthly bliss.

March, 1949


I know a winsom little girl
Just two years old; not three,
She has the cutest little curl,
Her name is Valerie.

Her birthday comes this time each year,
When signs of spring we see,
It give good cheer when spring is near,
And also Valerie.

As early dew drops in the sun,
Or on a budding tree,
Her eyes they sparkle in her fun
Vivacious Valerie.

She trots around the house at play
As busy as a bee,
And chatters all the livelong day,
The toddler Valerie.

She has a smile for young and old
Including you and me,
I doubt if all her weight in gold
Would buy Miss Valerie.

May she grow up to womanhood,
From every snare kept free,
And like her parents always good,
Young winsome Valerie

March 23, 1949
(Valerie's Birthday)