MABEL PORTER PITTS
Reading edition
Miss Mabel Porter Pitts, poet, was born near Flemingsburg, Kentucky, January 5, 1884. Her family removed to Seattle, Washington, when she was a girl, and her education was received at the Academy of the Holy Names. Miss Pitts lived at Seattle for a number of years, but she now resides at San Francisco. Her verse and short-stories have appeared in several of the eastern magazines, and they have been read with pleasure by many people. Her first book of poems, In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems (Denver, Colorado, 1907), is now in its third edition, five thousand copies having been sold so far. This seems to show that there are people in the United States who care for good verse. Miss Pitts is well-known on the Pacific coast, where she has spent nearly all her life, but she must be introduced to the people of her native State, Kentucky. Her short-stories are as well liked as her poems, a collection of them is promised for early publication, and she should have a permanent place in the literature of Kentucky.
Bibliography. Overland Monthly (January; December, 1904; April, 1908).
ON THE LITTLE SANDY[97]
[From In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems (Denver, 1907)]
Just within the mystic border of Kentucky's blue grass region There's a silver strip of river lying idly in the sun, On its banks are beds of fragrance where the butterflies are legion And the moonbeams frame its glory when the summer day is done. There's a little, rose-wreathed cottage nestling close upon its border Where a tangled mass of blossoms half conceals an open door, There's a sweet, narcotic perfume from a garden's wild disorder, And the jealous poppies cluster where its kisses thrill the shore. From across its dimpled bosom comes the half-hushed, careful calling Of a whippoorwill whose lonely heart is longing for its mate, And the sun aslant the sleepy eyes of fox-gloves gently falling Tells the fisherman out yonder that the hour is growing late. From the branches of the poplars a spasmodic sleepy twitter Comes, 'twould seem, in careless answer to the pleading of a song, And perhaps the tiny bosom holds despair that's very bitter For his notes are soon unheeded by the little feathered throng. Then the twilight settling denser shows a rush-light dimly burning— Ah, how well I know the landing drowsing 'neath its feeble beams, And my homesick heart to mem'ries of the yesterday is turning While I linger here, forgotten, with no solace but my dreams.