Is This the Dominion's Only Goose Girl Poem?

Now that National Poetry Month is over, a poem for May by Virna Sheard, pride of Cobourg, Ontario, from Candle Flame (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1926).

It follows verse in which she rightly praises postmen.

ALL ON A MAY MORNING

I saw a lovely lady walk along a leafy lane,

When primroses were blowing and the cuckoo sang again;

She wore a ruffled gown of pink, a hat of rosy hues,

And twinkling silver buckles on her little high-heeled shoes;

     Most daintily she carried a tall tasselled cane,

     While a small beribboned poodle came following in her train.

Then said I to the morning sun: "O do not let her pass!

A more bewitching, beauteous maid ne'er owned a looking-glass!

And if she turns in any gate, and goes I know not where,

It's probable I'll never see another maid as fair!

     Without the faintest knowledge of her charming name, alas!

     I sallied forth to meet her across the young green grass.

My hand upon my fluttering heart, I bowed extremely low,

And said: "A thousand pardons, but my way I do not know,

For since I chanced to see you from yon blossoming orchard tree,

The West is East, the South is North,—and all the same to me!

     And I have not any notion which way the four winds blow,

     Or on what highroad, up or down, t'would be the best to go!

"Of your kindness pray direct me to the left—or to the right;—

(You really should—because 'tis you have put my wits to flight,)

And I'd be quite madly joyful, and grateful this sweet day

If it should hap, by any luck, that your way was my way.

     There surely never was a morn more gay and golden-bright,

     And I have not a thing to do, but walk about till night."

Alack! That shining lady in that green primrosy lane,

Turned first to whitest marble—and then turned back again!

Her cheeks flamed red with fury—and her eyes flamed black with rage,

And she looked at me as might a queen at a good-for-nothing page!

     She tossed her head, and firmly, set down the tasselled cane,

     "I do not know you Sir!" she said,—and walked on with disdain.

"Beauty altogether perfect, cannot possibly be rude,"

Said I, and went the other way—but in a chastened mood;

Nor did I start a-whistling—as on such a day one should—

Till I reached the village common where a little goose-girl stood,

     Egad! The prettiest goose-girl that I have ever viewed!

     (Her flock was one grey gosling, by a frantic dog pursued.)

But tears were falling from her eyes, her eyes of blue-bell blue;

So I said: "Come! Come! Now what's amiss? Why all of this ado?"

And she cried: "O Sir! My darling geese! Of them I am bereft!

Of all the lovely twenty-five, there's only this one left!

     What shall I do! What shall I do! Whatever shall I do!

     The huntsmen came a-riding by—and all my geese just flew!"

I could not bear to see a little maiden so forlorn,

(I noticed that her curls were just the color of ripe corn;)

"Why go along with me!" said I, "tame geese will not fly far, 

And you and I together will discover where they are!"

     So hand in hand we hunted geese that mellow May-day morn,

     And I found that little goose-girl was a rose without a thorn.

Related posts:

May Day and the Promise of May

A Poem for May Day by Gay Page

Happy May Day!

'When April Comes' by Virna Sheard

Now That April's Here, Virna Sheard's 'April'

Virna Sheard Sees November as a Hooded Friar

A Dedication Born of Tragedy

Purchased four years ago, The Miracle and Other Poems set me back two dollars and change. That price says much about contemporary interest in Virna Sheard. I imagine her husband, Dr Charles Sheard, would be pleased. According to the poet, he held a "deeply rooted prejudice" against her literally endeavours. A person of public profile himself – Chief Medical Officer of Toronto, Chairman of Ontario's Board of Health, President of the Canadian Medical Association, and Member of Parliament, amongst other things – Dr Sheard disliked the publicity brought by his wife's writing.

Doctor Sheard reflects his time, as does his wife, as does The Miracle and Other Poems (1913). I've shared several examples of its verse – "April", "When April Comes!", "November", and "When Christmas Comes" – but not one has stayed with me so much as that found in its dedication:

Before reading those four lines, I knew nothing of the link between the poet and the Niagara Ice Bridge Tragedy.

The Globe, 5 February 1912

Accounts of the tragedy are detailed and varying, owing, I think, to the number who witnessed and were traumatized by its horror.

On Sunday, 4 February 1912, approximately three dozen people ventured out on the Niagara Ice Bridge, a natural structure spanning the Canadian and American shores. Walking across, an old and popular pastime, was thought safe until that afternoon when the bridge broke apart. All reached the safety of the shore save Eldridge Stanton, his wife, and a sixteen-year-old American boy named Burrell Hecock. The last could've made land, but turned back to help the couple.

It only gets worse.

The boy became separated from the Stantons, finding himself stranded on another ice floe. As it drifted slowly toward the falls, he managed to grasp a rope dangling from one of the bridges. A crew began pulling him up, but the boy lost his grip, plunged into the river, and disappeared.

Anguished reporting in the following day's Toronto Globe concludes with the fate of the Stantons:

The Globe, 5 February 1912

These words from earlier in the reporting cannot fail to move:

Somewhere deep in the great whirlpool to-night; sleeps the man, partially identified as Mr. Stanton, who twice put side chances of rescue in order to remain with his terror-stricken wife, and who, in the shadow of death, spurned assistance for himself and attempted to bind about the woman's body a rope dangling from the lower steel arch bridge. And the lad, Burrell Heacock, is cast from the same mould. Had he not turned back on the ice to give assistance to the man he, too, might have made the shore.

This is rightly the story of the Stantons and Burrell Hecock (often incorrectly spelled "Heacock"), but the literary historian in me can't help but be interested in its connection to Virna Sheard. The poet is mentioned in newspaper accounts, but never as a poet, and always as an appendage of her husband. This paragraph from from the Globe (6 February 1912) is typical:

Because the Stanton family was in the stationary business, the deaths of Eldridge Stanton and his wife were reported in the March issue of Bookseller & Stationer:

Again, his relationship to the poet Virna Sheard escapes mention. Curiously, and for no perceptible reason, the very same issue of Bookseller & Stationer features this portrait:

I shared the Bookseller & Stationer reporting because it too is a reflection of its time. It is no different than other contemporary reports in referring to the dead woman as "Mrs Stanton" or, more often than not, "his wife." Her husband is described as the Secretary Treasurer of O. B. Stanton & Wilson, stationers and printers, the son of prominent professional photographer Eldridge Stanton, Sr, while she is... well... her husband's wife.

The Globe, 6 February 1912

Some digging finds that she was born in Toronto on 13 June 1882 to Lillian and Nelson Butcher. Her given names were Lillian Clara. She was known by the latter.

I wish I could offer more. This doesn't do her justice.

Related posts:

Dedicated to the One I Love
'When Christmas Comes' by Virna Sheard

'When April Comes!' by Virna Sheard

Now That April's Here, Virna Sheard's 'April'

Virna Sheard Sees November as a Hooded Friar

Virna Sheard Sees November as a Hooded Friar

Bookseller & Stationer, March 1905

Verse for the month by Virna Sheard (née Stanton), daughter of Coburg, Ontario, from The Miracle and Other Poems (Toronto: Dent, 1913).

NOVEMBER

               How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,
               Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray
               Doth sad November pass upon his way. 

               Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low —
               In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,
               Now all day long he paceth to and fro. 

               When shadows gather and the night-mists rise.
               Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes
               To where the last red rose of sunset lies. 

               A little smile he weareth, wise and cold.
               The smile of one to whom all things are old,
               And life is weary, as a tale twice told. 

               "Come see," he seems to say —"where joy has fled—
               The leaves that burned but yesterday so red
               Have turned to ashes — and the flowers are dead. 

               The summer's green and gold hath taken flight,
               October days have gone. Now bleached and white
               Winter doth come with many a lonely night. 

               "And though the people will not heed or stay,
               But pass with careless laughter on their way,
               Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray."

Related posts:

Stringer's 'The Song-Sparrow in November'

Archibald Lampman's 'In November'

Now That April's Here, Virna Sheard's 'April'

The Miracle and Other Poems
Virna Sheard
Toronto: Dent, 1913

Related posts:

'When April Comes!' by Virna Sheard

Verse from an April a Century Past

'When April Comes!' by Virna Sheard

In anticipation! Time to prepare your Easter bonnets!

The Miracle and Other Poems
Virna Sheard
Toronto: Dent, 1913

'When Christmas Comes' by Virna Sheard

Verse for the day by Virna Sheard (née Stanton), daughter of Cobourg, Ontario, from her collection The Miracle and Other Poems (Toronto: Dent, 1913). 

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES

            For thee, my small one—trinkets and new toys,
            The wine of life and all its keenest joys,
                 When Christmas comes.
            For me, the broken playthings of the past
            That in my folded hands I still hold fast,
                 When Christmas comes. 

            For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be,
            And tender dreams of sweetest mystery,
                 When Christmas comes.
            For thee, the future in a golden haze,
            For me, the memory of some bygone days,
                 When Christmas comes. 

            For thee, the things that lightly come and go,
            For thee, the holly and the mistletoe,
                 When Christmas comes.
            For me, the smiles that are akin to tears,
            For me, the frost and snows of many years,
                 When Christmas comes. 

            For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay,
            For me, the purple shadows and the grey,
                 When Christmas comes.
            For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door,
            For me, the faces I shall see no more,
                 When Christmas comes. 

            But ah, for both of us the mystic star
            That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar,
                 When Christmas comes.
            For both of us the child they saw of old,
            That evermore his mother's arms enfold,
                 When Christmas comes.

A Merry Christmas to all!

Related posts:

Great War Christmas Verse from a Century Past

'Christmas 1916' by Robert Stanley Weir

A Century-Old Prayer for Christmas
Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page

'Christmas in Heaven' by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Arthur Stringer Pines for Christmas
Miss Machar's 'The Call of Christmas - 1914'

Christmas Verse by the Master of All Poets