SCARECROW
by Abbie Farwell Brown

Rags and tags of what he was,
Topped with straw and stuffed with hay;
Balanced tipsily askew,
It grins to scare the crows away.

I saw Him first in that old hat —
It seemed the crown of a king to me.
I liked his careless swagger then;
Lord! He was straight and fine to see.

He courted me in that same coat —
He could n't meet it now, I guess.
That gay vest was the one he wore
When I walked bride in my silver dress.

He seemed as proud as I, those days.
I never dreamed, when we were wed,
I'd think the Scarecrow a better man,
With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head.

Rags and tags of what he seemed,
Mocking me in the field all day.
What can I make a scarecrow of,
To drive the hungry thoughts away?

THE FRIGHTENED PATH
by Abbie Farwell Brown

The wood grew very quiet

As the road made a sudden turn;

Then a wavering, furtive path crept out

From the tangled briar and fern.

"Where does it lead?" I asked the child;

She shivered and shook her head.

"It does n't lead to any place,

It is running away!" she said.

"It is running away on tiptoe

Through the untrodden grass,

To join the cheerful highroad,

Where real, live people pass.

"It runs from a heap of ruins

Where a home stood in old days;

But nothing living goes there now,

And — Nothing Living stays!"

WEBS
by Abbie Farwell Brown

Oh, they spread out their silver webs
Upon the moonlit grass,
Their wee bright webs of faerie,
To catch the Dreams that pass.

The wistful dream that stole from me
And crept away to you,
They tangled it in glistering knots
Of witchery and dew.

And whisht! Your bashful little thought,
So innocent and bright,
Got trapped in that same silver web
And kept with mine all night.

Then ah! Whatever shall we do
Upon to-morrow day,
Our dreams are snared together so
And cannot slip away?

THE HAUNTED HOUSE
by Abbie Farwell Brown

Upon a little rise it stands alone,
Dark and forbidding, where three crossroads meet;
The dim, fierce windows frown upon the street
From walls with mould and mosses overgrown.

Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door,
And bend above the latch with prying eyes,
Or shake their heads and whisper, gossip-wise,
Secrets that trouble living hearts no more.

The rusty hinges give a warning scream;
The jealous panels shudder as they swing.
About my face the dusty cobwebs cling,
Soft as the shadow-fingers of a dream.

There is a window looking to the sea;
The small, cracked panes are blurred as if with tears.
Here long ago a young bride felt the fears
That even now creep coldly over me.

Here trembling still she sat, yet made no moan,
But felt an unseen presence fill the door,
And heard a light step steal across the floor,
And shrank beneath a touch that chilled her own.

Once more I pass the hall, the dim oak stair.
A sudden gust breathes down, a tremulous sigh;
A silken rustle lightly whispers by;
A fragrance as of roses fills the air.