Advertising poster by Fredric C. Madan, c1925
Image courtesy of the Library of Congress
All my plans were made for summer ;
For vacation trips and parties,
Pleasant drives into the country,
Feasting on the young, spring chicken,
Golden maize with milky kernels,
Luscious berries, harvest apples,
New potatoes, peas, and lettuce,
Tender onions, sliced cucumber,
Home-made bread and freshest butter.
‘Mong the trips the most desirous,
Was to be to grand Niagara,
With its ever-flowing water.
Grandest spectacle of nature !
Bringing awe and praise and wonder
From the creature to Creator.
But the maiden of the household,
Happy maid, sweet Violet,
Made a visit to her grandma’s.
There the scarlet fever caught her ;
Touched her throat with horrid soreness ;
Stretched her on a bed of sickness ;
Covered all her flesh with redness ;
Filled her veins with surging fury ;
Touched her ears with pain and deafness ;
Left her pale and thin and helpless.
When the direful news came to us
Of her sickness in the country,
Quickly, then, we hastened to her ;
Watched her couch by night, by day time ;
Soothed her with our words of comfort ;
Cheered her with the brightest flowers ;
Cooled the fevered lips and temples ;
Coaxed the cheeks again to blooming ;
Won her back to health and sunshine.
But the fever, wretched fever,
Stole away the gentle summer
And the early part of autumn ;
Till vacation days were ended ;
Parties, drives, and trips suspended.
But I’ve promised, oh, I’ve promised
The New Era a narration
Of Niagara’s far-famed beauty.
Time to go is not my choosing.
Excursion rates departing, scorn me.
Pocket-book groans not with fatness,
For its failing is a flatness.
Whither shall I flee for succor ?
I will sit me down and ponder
On my sad condition, scheming
Some way out this painful darkness.
True I visited Niagara
Twenty years ago, depending
On excursion rates befriending.
It was in the time of wooing.
So I wrote my love a letter
Telling of the charming water,
Of Niagara’s power and thunder.
And I married that same lover,
And my letters he did treasure.
Treasured for the love they bore him.
Treasured for the thoughts they scored him.
I will turn that barrel over.
I will ferret out that letter.
I will doctor it and dress it.
I will give it to New Era.
Now at last I am in clover.
(The Letter.)
Late in June, the month of roses,
Eighteen hundred, five and seventy,
In the dawning of the morning,
Stood a group of youths and maidens.
On a Cleveland street-car crossing,
With umbrellas spreading o’er them,
Sheltering from the copious showers.
Electric cars were not in vogue then.
Pokey horse-cars, long delaying,
Took us in at last, conveying
Us to depot, where we boarded
Train to take us to Niagara.
Jolly crowd was no misnomer,
Though the rain the trip did cover.
Strangers, none among the number
To molest, affright, or hinder.
Long before the time for dinner
We were hungry all as beavers,
And we seized the luncheon baskets
With a most unusual ardor.
And the roasted chicken vanished
In a most surprising manner.
Mattered not if breast or drum-stick,
Second joint or wing or gizzard,
All alike were soon disposed of ;
As were also fruits and dainties.
Pocket stoves did heat our coffee.
Limited the cups and spoons were.
So about a half a dozen
Were allowed but one small chalice ;
And one spoon for each six people.
When at home, the thought of using
Cups and spoons in common thusly,
Would be rather disagreeable.
But this restless, moving picnic
Banished all such notions quickly.
There’s a picture represents us,
In a book by rare Charles Dickens.
You have surely looked upon it.
There’s a row of half-starved scholars,
Lean and lank and wishful, looking
At a bowl containing supper,
Bread and milk for all the laddies.
The old beadle sits before them.
At his signal first boy swallows
All he can before the signal
For the second boy to taste it.
Thus the bowl and spoon keep moving.
Now I do not mean to tell you
We presented the same tableau,
For we looked not lean and hungry.
But I took a cup and numbered :
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Number one, I called ; and open
Flew the mouth of the first maiden.
I administered a spoonful
Of delicious, smoking coffee.
Number two was called as promptly.
Never youth more eager answered
As his lips he quickly parted
To imbibe the steaming coffee.
And so on till all were served ;
And the coffee all exhausted.
Still the rain did pour in torrents.
And some people seemed downhearted ;
So we sang the tunes our mothers
Sang to us in childhood golden,
Conjuring words to suit the occasion.
Thus we raised the drooping spirits.
And at last our journey ended,
Sunshine burst through clouds and darkness ;
Filling all our hearts with gladness.
Passing through the town, Niagara,
On our way to view the torrent,
Many shops enticed our glances.
Pretty trinkets carved from feld-spar,
Shining feld-spar from the boulders,
Where the mighty river floweth,
Souvenirs for gracious tourists.
But our footsteps hastened onward.
Onward, till we reached Goat Island
With its rocks and trees and river
Which divides the two great segments,
The American and Horseshoe.
Down the Inclined Plane we glided,
Breathless with the hurried speeding.
Thought we would not try the rapids
With a birch canoe for passage.
Prospect Park ! Oh, glorious station
To behold the wondrous beauty.
Grandeur most sublime and lofty.
Expectations all surpassing,
All imaginations drowning.
Wrapt in wonder and amazement
Stood we gazing on this splendor.
Magnificent, does not express it.
Words seem dumb to speak its praises.
Glorious sunshine bringing sparkles
To the sheets of foam unbroken.
Mists and vapors rising ever
Arched with an eternal rainbow.
Horse-shoe Falls ! The broad St. Lawrence
Concave precipice descending
Makes a picture soul-inspiring.
Graceful curving, rapid flowing,
Ocean tumbling from the cloud-land,
Thunder, fury, foam, and beauty
Tangling all together deftly.
Bridge suspended like a ribbon,
Spanning river makes a crossing
For pedestrian and carriage
O’er this wayward stream of water.
On this bridge we often halted
‘Fore we reached Canadian borders.
Then descended lengthy staircase,
A hundred steps both rude and rustic.
Table Rock ! how many tourists’
Feet have pressed thy surface rugged,
Overhanging foam and river.
Cave of the Winds ! Behind the torrent
Braving gale and mist and spraying
Donned in gossamers and creeping
Close behind the guide believing
We could do what others venture.
Faces dripping, courage slipping,
Water roaring like the thunder,
Filled our souls with awe and wonder.
Long we did not pause to ponder
For our thoughts were fraught with danger.
And we hastened, quickly hastened.
Back to sunlight, friends, and safety.
Are there any of our number
Who have never seen Niagara ?
Then I bid you hasten thither
While your life is spared for pleasure.
It will make your spirit purer.
It will make your God the dearer.
It will bring your heaven nearer.
Source: Lucy Yeend Culler. A Retrospect and Other Poems. Dayton, Ohio: The Otterbein Press, 1914