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I've joined the orders that came our way,
— Been sort of a "jiner," as one would say, —
And I've bucked the goat, and trudged the sands,
And taken the oaths in most secret bands,
Till now at last I seldom slip
On test or password, sign or grip.
And every day when I walk the street
I give the signs to the men I meet.
There's the S. of T. and the K. of P.
And the League of the Order of Liberty;
Masons and Odd Fellows string along,
Thicker than flies in the moving throng.
Till it seems that every fellow could
Give you a sign of a brotherhood.
Oh, I like to meet them, every one,
From the Daughter of Peace to the Son of a Gun.
But I can't quite feel the same delight
As I used to when, some summer night,
I'd take a few of the high degrees
In the O.K.K.B.W.P's.

We had not lodge-room with locks and bar —
Our hall was the dome 'neath the winking stars;
No lofty dias and tufted throne,
No crown or symbol or altar stone,
No velvet carpets or flashing lights
Were needed there in those old-time rites;
There was only the light from some honest eyes
Up-raised to the velvet evening skies;
And the only crown was the flower wreath
Set light on the curling locks beneath,
And the mystic grip was the tender squeeze
Of our hands as we roamed past the orchard trees;
And the head of the lodge was an elfin chap
With roses heaped in his dimpled lap.
With wings a-spread and his locks a-blow,
And the wand of his office a silver bow.
He welcomed the timid neophytes.
And into the hearts of his pure delights
He led each happy candidate
Who breathed Love's password at the gate,
And happy he who sought degrees
In the O.K.K.B.W.P's.

'Tis just a page from the dear conceit
That makes the volume of school life sweet;
A bit of lust from the callow days
When we bashfully trudged the self-same ways
As the girls from the evening meeting took,
And we carried their capes and the singing-book. —
Sauntered along the dim old lanes
With chirrup and chatter and gay refrains,
Shouting "Good-nights" as here and there,
Pausing by gate or stile, a pair
Loitered a bit on the threshold's stone
For a sweet and fond good-night of their own.
It irks me, my friend, that I must profane
The oath of the order and voice that chain
Of mystic letters: yet 'twere not kind
To take you thus far and leave you blind.
And I'll whisper, you know, just heart to heart,
'Twas "One Kind Kiss Before We Part,"
The mystic grip was a warm hand-press,
The sign and the test a swift caress,
And the dearest and sweetest of Used-to-be's
Were the O.K.K.B.W.P.'s.

The clash and the clatter of mowing-machines
Float up where the old man stands and leans
His trembling hands on the worn old snath,
As he looks afar in the broadening path,
Where the shivering grasses melt beneath
A seven-foot bar and its chattering teeth.

"When a man gits old," says he,
"When a man gits old,
He is mighty small pettaters
As I've just been told."

"I used to mow at the head of the crew,
And I cut a swath that was wide as two.
— Covered a yard, sah, at every sweep;
The man that follered me had to leap.
I made the best of the critters squeal,
And nary a feller could nick my heel.
The crowd that follered, they took my road
As I walked away from the best that mowed.

"But I can't keep up with the boys no more,
My arms are stiff and my cords are sore:
And they've given this rusty scythe to me —
It has hung two years in an apple-tree —
And told me to trim along the edge
Where the mowing-machine has skipped the ledge.

"It seems, sah, skurcely a year ago
That I was a-showin' 'em how to mow,
A-showin' 'em how, with the tanglin' grass
Topplin' and fallin' to let me pass;
A-showing 'em how, with a five-foot steel,
And never a man who could nick my heel.

"But now it's the day of the hot young blood,
And I'm doin' the job of the fuddy-dud'
Hacking the sides of the dusty road
And the corner clumps where the men ain't mowed

"And that's the way
A man gits told,
He's smaller pettaters
When he grows old."

Holman Francis Day (1865-1935)

Born in Vassalboro and an 1887 graduate of Colby, Holman Day was a poet, a novelist, and a filmmaker, as well as a correspondent for the "Lewiston Sun" for years. He may not have been a Mason, but he was a Past District Deputy for the Elks Lodge, so he at least has some fraternal connections.

Here is link to a lengthy bibliography of his poems, short stories, and novels.