Potatoes
An old lady sat in her old arm-chair
With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair
And hunger worn features:
For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old armchair,
Had been potatoes.
But now they were gone; of bad or good
Not one was left for the old lady’s food
Of the potatoes.
And she sighed and she said,
“What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go
For more potatoes?”
And the thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,
Whose cellar was full of potatoes;
And she said,
“I will send for the deacon to come;
He’ll not mind much to give me some of such a store
of potatoes.”
And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,
But never thought once of potatoes:
He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
immediately answered, “Potatoes.”
But the deacon’s religion wasn’t that way:
He was more accustomed to preach and to pray,
Then to give of his hoarded potatoes:
So not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head,
But she thought only of potatoes.
He prayed for patience, wisdom, and grace,
But when he prayed “Lord give her peace,”
She audibly sighed
“Give potatoes.”
And at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought he heard in its stead
The same request for potatoes.
The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;
’Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About “those carnal potatoes.”
So ending his prayer, he started for home;
But, as the door closed behind him he heard a deep groan,
“O, give to the hungry, potatoes!”
And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room-
“O, give to the hungry, potatoes!”
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed,
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.
Again he went to the widow’s lone hut:
Her sleepless eyes were not yet shut;
But there she sat in that old armchair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air.
And entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.
The widow’s heart leaped for joy;
Her face was haggard and wan no more.
“Now,” said the deacon, “shall we pray?”
“Yes” said the widow, “now you may.”
And he knelt down on the sanded floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store,
And such a prayer the deacon prayed
As never before his lips essayed;
No longer embarrassed, but free and full,
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,
And the widow responded aloud, “Amen!”
And said no more of potatoes.
And would you, who hear this simple tale,
Pray for the poor, and praying “prevail,”
Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds:
Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;
Prayer for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,
For wisdom and guidance - for all these are good,
But don’t forget the potatoes.
-J. T. Pettee
John Tyler Pettee was born on 5 September 1822 in Sharon, Massachusetts, United States of America. In 1843, he graduated from Wesleyan University. On 26 October 1843, he married Mariette Roxanne Clark. Mr. Pettee became a minister with the title Reverend, an amateur astronomer, a Meriden School superintendent, a teacher, a principal, a poet, a judge of probate, and a town selectman. John Tyler Pettee passed on at 84 years of age on 7 February 1907 in Meriden, Connecticut, United States of America. To visit his online memorial click on the link https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=17001404.
An old lady sat in her old arm-chair
With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair
And hunger worn features:
For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old armchair,
Had been potatoes.
But now they were gone; of bad or good
Not one was left for the old lady’s food
Of the potatoes.
And she sighed and she said,
“What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go
For more potatoes?”
And the thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,
Whose cellar was full of potatoes;
And she said,
“I will send for the deacon to come;
He’ll not mind much to give me some of such a store
of potatoes.”
And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,
But never thought once of potatoes:
He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
immediately answered, “Potatoes.”
But the deacon’s religion wasn’t that way:
He was more accustomed to preach and to pray,
Then to give of his hoarded potatoes:
So not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head,
But she thought only of potatoes.
He prayed for patience, wisdom, and grace,
But when he prayed “Lord give her peace,”
She audibly sighed
“Give potatoes.”
And at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought he heard in its stead
The same request for potatoes.
The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;
’Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About “those carnal potatoes.”
So ending his prayer, he started for home;
But, as the door closed behind him he heard a deep groan,
“O, give to the hungry, potatoes!”
And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room-
“O, give to the hungry, potatoes!”
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed,
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.
Again he went to the widow’s lone hut:
Her sleepless eyes were not yet shut;
But there she sat in that old armchair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air.
And entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.
The widow’s heart leaped for joy;
Her face was haggard and wan no more.
“Now,” said the deacon, “shall we pray?”
“Yes” said the widow, “now you may.”
And he knelt down on the sanded floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store,
And such a prayer the deacon prayed
As never before his lips essayed;
No longer embarrassed, but free and full,
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,
And the widow responded aloud, “Amen!”
And said no more of potatoes.
And would you, who hear this simple tale,
Pray for the poor, and praying “prevail,”
Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds:
Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;
Prayer for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,
For wisdom and guidance - for all these are good,
But don’t forget the potatoes.
-J. T. Pettee
John Tyler Pettee was born on 5 September 1822 in Sharon, Massachusetts, United States of America. In 1843, he graduated from Wesleyan University. On 26 October 1843, he married Mariette Roxanne Clark. Mr. Pettee became a minister with the title Reverend, an amateur astronomer, a Meriden School superintendent, a teacher, a principal, a poet, a judge of probate, and a town selectman. John Tyler Pettee passed on at 84 years of age on 7 February 1907 in Meriden, Connecticut, United States of America. To visit his online memorial click on the link https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=17001404.
Around the Corner
Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friends face,
For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.
And he rang mine but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.
“Tomorrow” I say! “I will call on Jim
Just to show that I’m thinking of him,”
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner, yet miles away,
“Here’s a telegram sir.” . . . “Jim died today.”
And that’s what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.
-Charles Hanson Towne
Charles Hanson Towne was born in 1877 in Louisville, Kentucky, United States of America. At three years of age, he moved with his family to New York. At eleven years of age, he published the “Unique Monthly,” a magazine by and for children. Over the span of his career, he was an editor for several magazines, including “Cosmopolitan,” “Smart Set,” and “Harper’s Bazaar.” He was also a novelist, a dramatist (playwright), an essayist, a songwriter, and a poet. His autobiography is “So Far, So Good” (1945). Charles Hanson Towne passed on in 1949.
Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friends face,
For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.
And he rang mine but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.
“Tomorrow” I say! “I will call on Jim
Just to show that I’m thinking of him,”
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner, yet miles away,
“Here’s a telegram sir.” . . . “Jim died today.”
And that’s what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.
-Charles Hanson Towne
Charles Hanson Towne was born in 1877 in Louisville, Kentucky, United States of America. At three years of age, he moved with his family to New York. At eleven years of age, he published the “Unique Monthly,” a magazine by and for children. Over the span of his career, he was an editor for several magazines, including “Cosmopolitan,” “Smart Set,” and “Harper’s Bazaar.” He was also a novelist, a dramatist (playwright), an essayist, a songwriter, and a poet. His autobiography is “So Far, So Good” (1945). Charles Hanson Towne passed on in 1949.
The Violet
Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its color bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see,
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.
By Jane Taylor
Jane Taylor was born on 23 September 1783 in London, England, as one among an extensive literary family. She was a novelist and a poet, best remembered for the song “The Star” (also known as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”) (1806) and the poem “The Violet.” Jane Taylor passed on at 40 years of age on 13 April 1824.
Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its color bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see,
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.
By Jane Taylor
Jane Taylor was born on 23 September 1783 in London, England, as one among an extensive literary family. She was a novelist and a poet, best remembered for the song “The Star” (also known as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”) (1806) and the poem “The Violet.” Jane Taylor passed on at 40 years of age on 13 April 1824.
The Philosopher
I saw him sitting in his door,
Trembling as old men do;
His house was old; his barn was old,
And yet his eyes seemed new.
His eyes had seen three times my years
And kept a twinkle still,
Though they had looked at birth and death
And three graves on a hill.
“I will sit down with you,” I said,
“And you will make me wise;
Tell me how you have kept the joy
Still burning in your eyes.”
Then like an old-time orator
Impressively he rose;
“I make the most of all that comes,
And the least of all that goes.”
The jingling rhythm of his words
Echoes as old songs do,
Yet this had kept his eyes alight
Till he was ninety-two.
-Sara Teasdale: “Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale” (1937)
Sara Teasdale Filsinger was born as Sara Trevor Teasdale on 8 August 1884 in Saint Louis, Missouri, United States of America. She was a lyrical poet. Sara Teasdale Filsinger passed on at 48 years of age on 29 January 1933 in New York City, New York, United States of America.
I saw him sitting in his door,
Trembling as old men do;
His house was old; his barn was old,
And yet his eyes seemed new.
His eyes had seen three times my years
And kept a twinkle still,
Though they had looked at birth and death
And three graves on a hill.
“I will sit down with you,” I said,
“And you will make me wise;
Tell me how you have kept the joy
Still burning in your eyes.”
Then like an old-time orator
Impressively he rose;
“I make the most of all that comes,
And the least of all that goes.”
The jingling rhythm of his words
Echoes as old songs do,
Yet this had kept his eyes alight
Till he was ninety-two.
-Sara Teasdale: “Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale” (1937)
Sara Teasdale Filsinger was born as Sara Trevor Teasdale on 8 August 1884 in Saint Louis, Missouri, United States of America. She was a lyrical poet. Sara Teasdale Filsinger passed on at 48 years of age on 29 January 1933 in New York City, New York, United States of America.
To Everything There Is a Season
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.
-Author Unknown: ‘Ecclesiastes,’ chapter 3, verses 1 through 8, in “The Bible”
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.
-Author Unknown: ‘Ecclesiastes,’ chapter 3, verses 1 through 8, in “The Bible”
The Serenity Prayer
God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things
I cannot change,
Courage to change the
things I can, and the
wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardship as the
pathway to peace.
Taking, as He did, this
sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it.
Trusting that He will make
all things right if I
surrender to His will;
That I may be reasonably happy
in this life, and supremely
happy with Him forever in
the next. Amen
-Reinhold Niebuhr (1926)
Shown above is one of several versions of “The Serenity Prayer” known to exist, the work having been revised by its author more than once.
Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr was born on 21 June 1892 in Wright City, Missouri, United States of America. He was a Christian Protestant minister (1915 - 1928), a professor at Union Theological Seminary (1928 - 1960), and an editor of the magazine “Christianity and Crisis” (1941 - 1966). Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr passed on at 78 years of age on 1 June 1971 in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, United States of America.
God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things
I cannot change,
Courage to change the
things I can, and the
wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardship as the
pathway to peace.
Taking, as He did, this
sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it.
Trusting that He will make
all things right if I
surrender to His will;
That I may be reasonably happy
in this life, and supremely
happy with Him forever in
the next. Amen
-Reinhold Niebuhr (1926)
Shown above is one of several versions of “The Serenity Prayer” known to exist, the work having been revised by its author more than once.
Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr was born on 21 June 1892 in Wright City, Missouri, United States of America. He was a Christian Protestant minister (1915 - 1928), a professor at Union Theological Seminary (1928 - 1960), and an editor of the magazine “Christianity and Crisis” (1941 - 1966). Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr passed on at 78 years of age on 1 June 1971 in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, United States of America.
All Things Bright and Beautiful
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures, great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings;
The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high and lowly,
And ordered their estate.
The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning,
That brightens up the sky;
The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden -
He made them every one.
The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water
We gather every day, -
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell,
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well!
-Cecil Frances Alexander: “Hymns for Little Children” (1848)
Cecil Francis Alexander was born in April 1818 in Dublin, Ireland. She was a poet and a hymn writer. Cecil Francis Alexander passed on at 77 years of age on 12 October 1895.
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures, great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings;
The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high and lowly,
And ordered their estate.
The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning,
That brightens up the sky;
The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden -
He made them every one.
The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water
We gather every day, -
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell,
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well!
-Cecil Frances Alexander: “Hymns for Little Children” (1848)
Cecil Francis Alexander was born in April 1818 in Dublin, Ireland. She was a poet and a hymn writer. Cecil Francis Alexander passed on at 77 years of age on 12 October 1895.
