Appendix D: Additional Poems by Ione McMillan

Appendix D: Additional Poems by Ione McMillan


“Who hides his money in the earth

Is but a fool, what’er his birth;

And he who tries to dig it thence

Expecting pounds, should find but pence.

The hider is but half a wit,

The seeker brain a smaller yet,

For who to chance his labor sells

Is only fit for cap and bells.”

(-Attributed to Ione Reed, 11 yrs and 10 months, June 22, 1925, of 293 Willow Ave. Pontiac, Mich.)



Spring is not here, but this day, ‘twould appear,

Is a bonny, bright bit of an omen;

A token for good, if my heart’s understood,

That Spring is not here, but it’s comin’.

No robins yet sing, and no larks on the wing

Could so soon set my heartstrings ahumin’;

There’s snow on the ground in gray lumps all around;

No! Spring has not come, but it’s comin’.

Why this hope then today that Spring’s on its way?

It comes from my heart, not the season.

If you really would know, don’t look at the snow,

But look at yourself – you’re the reason!

-IR 2/13/19



(Written in grade school)

When I think of the Merry Christmas

And the New Year, too,

It makes me think of happy days

I’ve spent with Mother and you.

You are the fairest maiden

That ever God has sent.

You are so young and beautiful

While I with age am bent.

Can you remember the Christmas

When you were a child of seven?

And your Mother slowly drifting,

Drifted up to Heaven?

I remember my lonely evenings

When she was far away

And you a lonely daughter,

Alone throughout the whole day.

But someday, my child, now remember,

We will drift to that heavenly place,

Where our cares will all drift downward,

And we’ll see your Mother’s face!



I’ve a problem that haunts,

I’ve a worry that taunts;

A load like a chain and ball:

Is it better to love and not be loved

Or not to have loved at all?



Twenty coeds went to school;

Not to learn, but break the rule.

Twenty little curley heads,

Twenty shades of lipstick reds.

There they wrote their lengthy notes,

Combed their hair and traded coats,

Yawned thru classes, heard the bell,

Rushed out with some news to tell.

Twenty heads of bobbing curls:

Twenty little college girls.



My soul is in deep despair,

I’ve sinned against my Lord!

T’was not by spoken word,

But by actions far from fair.

To tell the truth I cheated –

Cheated in Music Class;

Fouled in Music Class –

And punishment was meted.

My repentence is so great

In spite of my just desserts

That I still feel the hurts

Of an all-too-sure small pate.

One small misstep sometimes makes

A mighty heap of bruises,

So I’ll walk the righteous path

And not be he who loses.



(Written during school days.)

When I was but a little girl

With long, unweildy gown,

My home was then considered rural,

Tho’ now, ‘twould be in town.

O! Fol-de-rol, I know it’s true,

Because It’s I that’s telling you.

Dear Mother placed upon a rack

Up high, our grandest dishes,

And every time she turned her back,

I watched those plates with wishes.

O! Fol-de-rol, I know it’s true,

Because It’s I that’s telling you.

One day my Mother went away

To visit with a friend.

Toward that rack, leaving me play,

I stole with cautious trend,

O! Fol-de-rol, I know it’s true,

Because It’s I that’s telling you.

I climbed a chair, grasped on a plate,

Then that old chair slipped back.

I dropped the dish, but t’was too late,

So I hung on the rack.

O! Fol-de-rol, I know it’s true,

Because It’s I that’s telling you.

The rack, it seemed supported plates,

Refusing any more,

So with my added heavy weights,

We crashed onto the floor.

O! Fol-de-rol, I know it’s true,

Because It’s I that’s telling you.



Little he thinks of the sorrow he causes

By his sharp words and embarrassing pauses,

And little he dreams of this dull-witted blond,

Who would not, and could not tell that she is fond

Of conceited, big-feeted Reddy.

Oh! If I but had enough nerve to shake him.

Oh! For the power to across my knee take him.

But the sight of red ringlets and wistful brown eye

Cool my anger. I blush and I grin and I sigh

At conceited, big-feeted Reddy.


There was a young rascal named Reddy.

“I sure am a handsome one!” said he.

He tried hard to stagger

And walked with a swagger

Till no one could say he was steady.

Ione was a bashful young freak.

List softly and you’ll hear her squeek:

“I know who I like, –

‘Tis that red-headed tyke,

But I can’t get enough nerve to speak!”



(written enroute to Pontiac, 4-30-37)

I’m going home tonight!

The tho’t alone

Is all I need

To make the future bright.

It’s dark indeed;

By winds I’m blown,

But just ahead the light

I see of home,

My own dear home.

I’m hastening there tonight.

The day – it went so fast!

My work is done:

I hope it’s right –

I’m glad the day is past.

I love the night,

For when it’s done

I’ll then be home at last.

Pour down, Oh rain!

Move on, Oh train!

You cannot go too fast.

Whom shall I find at home?

Will Doris be there,

Or Marcellyn,

To greet me when I come?

The former’s hair,

The latter’s grin,

I think of when I roam.

If they are there

That’s all I care,

For that is home, sweet home!

I’ll look for Mother’s face

She’s always glad

When she sees me

And gives a tight embrace.

And when I see

And hug my Dad,

I’ll say, Oh wondrous grace!

Christ gave me home,

My Christian home,

And naught can take its place.

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