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diff --git a/11351-0.txt b/11351-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87be957 --- /dev/null +++ b/11351-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3768 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11351 *** + +[Illustration: "He's a hero born and bred, +but it hasn't swelled his head."] + + + + +Cape Cod Ballads + +and Other Verse + +By + +Joseph C. Lincoln + +_With Drawings by Edward W. Kemble_ + + +1902 + + + + +To My Wife + +This book is affectionately dedicated + + + + +Preface + + +A friend has objected to the title of this book +on the ground that, as many of the characters +and scenes described are to be found in almost +any coast village of the United States, the title might, +with equal fitness, be "New Jersey Ballads," or "Long +Island Ballads," or something similar. + +The answer to this is, simply, that while "School-committee +Men" and "Village Oracles" are, doubtless, +pretty much alike throughout Yankeedom, the +particular specimens here dealt with were individuals +whom the author knew in his boyhood "down on the +Cape." So, "Cape Cod Ballads" it is. + +The verses in this collection originally appeared in +_Harper's Weekly, The Youth's Companion, The Saturday +Evening Post, Puck, Types, The League of American +Wheelmen Bulletin_, and the publications of the American +Press Association. Thanks are due to the editors +of these periodicals for their courteous permission +to reprint. + +J.C.L. + + + + +CONTENTS + +PREFACE + +LIST OF DRAWINGS + +THE COD-FISHER + +THE SONG OF THE SEA + +THE WIND'S SONG + +THE LIFE-SAVER + +"THE EVENIN' HYMN" + +THE MEADOW ROAD + +THE BULLFROG SERENADE + +SUNDAY AFTERNOONS + +THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES + +THE BEST SPARE ROOM + +THE OLD CARRYALL + +OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS + +WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR + +HEZEKIAH'S ART + +THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC + +"AUNT 'MANDY" + +THE STORY-BOOK BOY + +THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN + +WASTED ENERGY + +WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA + +"YAP" + +THE MINISTER'S WIFE + +THE VILLAGE ORACLE + +THE TIN PEDDLER + +"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS" + +WHEN PAPA's SICK + +THE BALLAD OF MCCARTY'S TROMBONE + +SUSAN VAN DOOZEN + +SISTER SIMMONS + +"THE FIFT' WARD J'INT DEBATE" + +HIS NEW BROTHER + +CIRCLE DAY + +SERMON TIME + +"TAKIN' BOARDERS" + +A COLLEGE TRAINING + +A CRUSHED HERO + +A THANKSGIVING DREAM + +O'REILLY'S BILLY-GOAT + +THE CUCKOO CLOCK + +THE POPULAR SONG + +MATILDY'S BEAU + +"SISTER'S BEST FELLER" + +"THE WIDDER CLARK" + +FRIDAY EVENING MEETINGS + +THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER + +MY OLD GRAY NAG + +THROUGH THE FOG + +THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP + +LIFE'S PATHS + +THE MAYFLOWER + +MAY MEMORIES + +BIRDS'-NESTING TIME + +THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL + +NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE + +SUMMER NIGHTS AT GRANDPA'S + +GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS" + +MIDSUMMER + +"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S" + +NOVEMBER'S COME + +THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME + +"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'" + +THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER + +THE CROAKER + +THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN + +THE LIGHT-KEEPER + +THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE + +WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT + +THE WATCHERS + +"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN" + +FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY + +LITTLE BARE FEET + +A RAINY DAY + +THE HAND-ORGAN BALL + +"JIM" + +IN MOTHER'S ROOM + +SUNSET-LAND + +THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE + +AT EVENTIDE + +INDEX OF FIRST LINES + + + + +LIST OF DRAWINGS + +THE LIFE-SAVER, +"He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't +swelled his head." + +THE BULLFROG SERENADE, +"With the big green-coated leader's double-bass." + +THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES, +"Grandpa's collar a show." + +OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS, +"Do yer 'member how yer fired 'em, slow and +careful, one by one?" + +HEZEKIAH'S ART, +"I swan, he did look like a daisy!" + +THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN, +"'And with--ahem--er--as I said before.'" + +WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA, +"He sets and says it's lovely." + +THE VILLAGE ORACLE, +"'Well now, I vum! I know, by gum! +I'm right because I _be_!'" + +THE BALLAD OF MCCARTY'S TROMBONE, +"'By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells, +Toot--tetoot toot--toot--toot--dells!'" + +His NEW BROTHER, +"Why'd they buy a baby brother, +When they know I'd _good_ deal ruther +Have a dog?" + +A COLLEGE TRAINING, +"'That was jolly, Guv'nor, now we'll practice every day.'" + +A THANKSGIVING DREAM, +"He stood up on his drumsticks." + +THE POPULAR SONG, +"The washwoman sings it all wrong." + +MATILDY'S BEAU, +"I recollect I spent an hour a-tyin' my cravat." + +MY OLD GRAY NAG, +"He ain't the sort that the big-bugs sport" + +MAY MEMORIES, +"Oh, the lazy days of boyhood, when the +world was fair and new!" + +NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE, +"Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck." + +NOVEMBER'S COME, +"Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!" + +THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER, +"The Grasshopper wore his summer clothes, +And stood there kicking his frozen toes." + +THE LIGHT-KEEPER, +"It seems ter me that's all there is: +jest do your duty right." + +"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN," +"They ain't no tears shed over him +When he goes off ter war." + +A RAINY DAY, +"'Settin' 'round and dreamin'." + +"JIM," +"Seem to see her tucked in bed, +With the kitten's furry head +Peekin' out." + + + + +CAPE COD BALLADS + + + + +THE COD-FISHER + +Where leap the long Atlantic swells + In foam-streaked stretch of hill and dale, +Where shrill the north-wind demon yells, + And flings the spindrift down the gale; +Where, beaten 'gainst the bending mast, + The frozen raindrop clings and cleaves, +With steadfast front for calm or blast + His battered schooner rocks and heaves. + +_To same the gain, to some the loss, + To each the chance, the risk, the fight: +For men must die that men may live-- + Lord, may we steer our course aright._. + +The dripping deck beneath him reels, + The flooded scuppers spout the brine; +He heeds them not, he only feels + The tugging of a tightened line. + +The grim white sea-fog o'er him throws + Its clammy curtain, damp and cold; +He minds it not--his work he knows, + 'T is but to fill an empty hold. + +Oft, driven through the night's blind wrack, + He feels the dread berg's ghastly breath, +Or hears draw nigh through walls of black + A throbbing engine chanting death; +But with a calm, unwrinkled brow + He fronts them, grim and undismayed, +For storm and ice and liner's bow-- + These are but chances of the trade. + +Yet well he knows--where'er it be, + On low Cape Cod or bluff Cape Ann-- +With straining eyes that search the sea + A watching woman waits her man: +He knows it, and his love is deep, + But work is work, and bread is bread, +And though men drown and women weep + The hungry thousands must be fed. + +_To some the gain, to some the loss_, + _To each his chance, the game with Fate_: +_For men must die that men may live_-- + _Dear Lord, be kind to those who wait_. + + * * * * * + +THE SONG OF THE SEA + + Oh, the song of the Sea-- + The wonderful song of the Sea! +Like the far-off hum of a throbbing drum + It steals through the night to me: + And my fancy wanders free + To a little seaport town, +And a spot I knew, where the roses grew + By a cottage small and brown; + And a child strayed up and down + O'er hillock and beach and lea, +And crept at dark to his bed, to hark + To the wonderful song of the Sea. + + Oh, the song of the Sea-- + The mystical song of the Sea! +What strains of joy to a dreaming boy + That music was wont to be! + And the night-wind through the tree + Was a perfumed breath that told +Of the spicy gales that filled the sails + Where the tropic billows rolled + And the rovers hid their gold + By the lone palm on the key,-- +But the whispering wave their secret gave + In the mystical song of the Sea. + + Oh, the song of the Sea-- + The beautiful song of the Sea! +The mighty note from the ocean's throat, + The laugh of the wind in glee! + And swift as the ripples flee + With the surges down the shore, +It bears me back, o'er life's long track, + To home and its love once more. + I stand at the open door, + Dear mother, again with thee, +And hear afar on the booming bar + The beautiful song of the Sea. + + * * * * * + +THE WIND'S SONG + + Oh, the wild November wind, + How it blew! +How the dead leaves rasped and rustled, +Soared and sank and buzzed and bustled + As they flew; +While above the empty square, +Seeming skeletons in air, +Battered branches, brown and bare, + Gauntly grinned; +And the frightened dust-clouds, flying. +Heard the calling and the crying + Of the wind,-- + The wild November wind. + + Oh, the wild November wind, + How it screamed! +How it moaned and mocked and muttered +At the cottage window, shuttered, + Whence there streamed +Fitful flecks of firelight mild: +And within, a mother smiled, +Singing softly to her child + As there dinned +Round the gabled roof and rafter +Long and loud the shout and laughter + Of the wind,-- + The wild November wind. + + Oh, the wild November wind, + How it rang +Through the rigging of a vessel +Rocking where the great waves wrestle! + And it sang, +Light and low, that mother's song; +And the master, staunch and strong, +Heard the sweet strain drift along-- + Softened, thinned,-- +Heard the tightened cordage ringing +Till it seemed a loved voice singing + In the wind,-- + The wild November wind. + + * * * * * + +THE LIFE-SAVER + +(_Dedicated to the Men in the United States Life-saving Service_.) + +When the Lord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters, + When the rollers are a-poundin' on the shore, +When the mariner's a-thinkin' of his wife and sons and daughters, + And the little home he'll, maybe, see no more; +When the bars are white and yeasty and the shoals are all a-frothin', + When the wild no'theaster's cuttin' like a knife; +Through the seethin' roar and screech he's patrollin' on the beach,-- + The Gov'ment's hired man fer savin' life. + +He's strugglin' with the gusts that strike and bruise him like a hammer, + He's fightin' sand that stings like swarmin' bees, +He's list'nin' through the whirlwind and the thunder and the clamor-- + A-list'nin' fer the signal from the seas; +He's breakin' ribs and muscles launchin' life-boats in the surges, + He's drippin' wet and chilled in every bone, +He's bringin' men from death back ter flesh and blood and breath, + And he never stops ter think about his own; + +He's a-pullin' at an oar that is freezin' to his fingers, + He's a-clingin' in the riggin' of a wreck, +He knows destruction's nearer every minute that he lingers, + But it do'n't appear ter worry him a speck: +He's draggin' draggled corpses from the clutches of the combers-- + The kind of job a common chap would shirk-- +But he takes 'em from the wave and he fits 'em fer the grave, + And he thinks it's all included in his work. + +He is rigger, rower, swimmer, sailor, doctor, undertaker, + And he's good at every one of 'em the same: +And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand and the breaker, + And a thousand wives and mothers bless his name. +He's an angel dressed in oilskins, he's a saint in a "sou'wester", + He's as plucky as they make, or ever can; +He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head, + And he's jest the U.S. Gov'ment's hired man. + + * * * * * + +"THE EVENIN' HYMN" + +When the hot summer daylight is dyin', + And the mist through the valley has rolled, +And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard + Are purple with trimmings of gold,-- +Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky, + The crickets chirp out from each nook, +And the frogs with their voices so husky + Jine in from the marsh and the brook. + +The chorus grows louder and deeper, + An owl sends a hoot from the hill, +The leaves on the elm-trees are rustling + A whippoorwill calls by the mill. +Where swamp honeysuckles are bloomin' + The breeze scatters sweets on the night, +Like incense the evenin' perfumin', + With fireflies fer candles alight. + +And the noise of the frogs and the crickets + And the birds and the breeze are ter me +Lots better than high-toned supraners, + Although they don't get to "high C"; +And the church, with its grand painted skylight, + Seems cramped and forbiddin' and grim +'Side of my old front porch in the twilight + When God's choir sings its "Evenin' Hymn." + + * * * * * + +THE MEADOW ROAD + +Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road + Leading down beside the ocean's pebbly shore, +Where a pair of patient oxen slowly drag their heavy load, + And a barefoot urchin trudges on before: +Yet I'm dreaming o'er it, smiling, and my thoughts are far away + 'Mid the glorious summer sunshine long ago, +And once more a happy, careless boy, in memory I stray + Down a little country road I used to know. + +I hear the voice of "Father" as he drives the lumbering steers, + And the pigeons coo and flutter on the shed, +While all the simple, homelike sounds come whispering to my ears, + And the cloudless sky of June is overhead; +And again the yoke is creaking as the oxen swing and sway, + The old cart rattles loudly as it jars, +Then we pass beneath the elm trees where the robin's song is gay, + And go out beyond the garden through the bars; + +Down the lane, behind the orchard where the wild rose blushes sweet, + Through the pasture, past the spring beside the brook +Where the clover blossoms press their dewy kisses on my feet + And the honeysuckle scents each shady nook; +By the meadow and the bushes, where the blackbirds build their nests, + Up the hill, beneath the shadow of the pine, +Till the breath of Ocean meets us, dancing o'er his sparkling crests, + And our faces feel the tingling of the brine. + +And my heart leaps gayly upward, like the foam upon the sea, + As I watch the breakers tumbling with a roar, +And the ships that dot the azure seem to wave a hail to me, + And to beckon to a wondrous, far-off shore. + + * * * * * + +Just a simple little picture, yet its charm is o'er me still, + And again my boyish spirit seems to glow, +And once more a barefoot urchin am I wandering at will + Down that little country road I used to know. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +THE BULLFROG SERENADE + + When the toil of day is over + And the dew is on the clover, +And the night-hawk whirls in circles overhead; + When the cow-bells melt and mingle + In a softened, silver jingle, +And the old hen calls the chickens in to bed; + When the marshy meadows glimmer + With a misty, purple shimmer, +And the twilight flush is changing into shade; + When the firefly lamps are burning + And the dusk to dark is turning,-- +Then the bullfrogs chant their evening serenade: + +"Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! +Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round,_" + + First the little chaps begin it, + Raise their high-pitched voices in it, +And the shrill soprano piping sets the pace; + Then the others join the singing + Till the echoes soon are ringing +With the big green-coated leader's double-bass. + All the lilies are a-quiver, + And the grasses by the river +Feel the mighty chorus shaking every blade, + While the dewy rushes glisten + As they bend their heads to listen +To the bullfrogs' summer evening serenade: + +"Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! +Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!"_ + + And the melody they're tuning + Has the sweet and sleepy crooning +That the mother hums the baby at her breast, + Till the world forgets its sorrow + And the cares that haunt the morrow, +And is sinking, hushed and happy, to its rest + Sometimes bubbling o'er with gladness, + Sometimes soft and fall of sadness, +Through my dreaming rings the music they have played, + And my memory's dearest treasures + Have been fitted to the measures +Of the bullfrogs' summer evening serenade: + +"Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! +Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!"_ + + * * * * * + +SUNDAY AFTERNOONS + +From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note, +Through the wintry Sabbath gloaming drifting shreds of music float, +And the quiet and the firelight and the sweetly solemn tunes +Bear me, dreaming, back to boyhood and its Sunday afternoons: + +When we gathered in the parlor, in the parlor stiff and grand, +Where the haircloth chairs and sofas stood arrayed, a gloomy band, +Where each queer oil portrait watched us with a countenance of wood, +And the shells upon the what-not in a dustless splendor stood. + +Then the quaint old parlor organ with the quaver in its tongue, +Seemed to tremble in its fervor as the sacred songs were sung, +As we sang the homely anthems, sang the glad revival hymns +Of the glory of the story and the light no sorrow dims. + +While the dusk grew ever deeper and the evening settled down, +And the lamp-lit windows twinkled in the drowsy little town, +Old and young we sang the chorus and the echoes told it o'er +In the dear familiar voices, hushed or scattered evermore. + +From the window of the chapel faint and low the music dies, +And the picture in the firelight fades before my tear-dimmed eyes, +But my wistful fancy, listening, hears the night-wind hum the tunes +That we sang there in the parlor on those Sunday afternoons. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES + +Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest, +Where the flowered gowns lie folded, which once were brave as the best; +And like the queer old jackets and the waistcoats gay with stripes, +They tell of a worn-out fashion--these old daguerreotypes. +Quaint little folding cases fastened with tiny hook, +Seemingly made to tempt one to lift up the latch and look; +Linings of purple velvet, odd little frames of gold, +Circling the faded faces brought from the days of old. + +Grandpa and grandma, taken ever so long ago, +Grandma's bonnet a marvel, grandpa's collar a show, +Mother, a tiny toddler, with rings on her baby hands +Painted--lest none should notice--in glittering, gilded bands. + +Aunts and uncles and cousins, a starchy and stiff array, +Lovers and brides, then blooming,--now so wrinkled and gray: +Out through the misty glasses they gaze at me, sitting here +Opening the quaint old cases with a smile that is half a tear. + +I will smile no more, little pictures, for heartless it was, in truth, +To drag to the cruel daylight these ghosts of a vanished youth; +Go back to your cedar chamber, your gowns and your lavender, +And dream, 'mid their bygone graces, of the wonderful days that were. + + * * * * * + +THE BEST SPARE ROOM + +I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent +When to visit Uncle Hiram in the country oft I went; +And the pleasant recollection still in memory has a charm +Of my boyish romps and rambles round the dear old-fashioned farm. +But at night all joyous fancies from my youthful bosom crept, +For I knew they'd surely put me where the "comp'ny" always slept, +And my spirit sank within me, as upon it fell the gloom +And the vast and lonely grandeur of the best spare room. + +Ah, the weary waste of pillow where I laid my lonely head! +Sinking, like a shipwrecked sailor, in a patchwork sea of bed, +While the moonlight through the casement cast a grim and ghastly glare +O'er the stiff and stately presence of each dismal haircloth chair; +And it touched the mantel's splendor, where the wax fruit used to be, +And the alabaster image Uncle Josh brought home from sea; +While the breeze that shook the curtains spread a musty, faint perfume +And a subtle scent of camphor through the best spare room. + +Round the walls were hung the pictures of the dear ones passed away, +"Uncle Si and A'nt Lurany," taken on their wedding day; +Cousin Ruth, who died at twenty, in the corner had a place +Near the wreath from Eben's coffin, dipped in wax and in a case; +Grandpa Wilkins, done in color by some artist of the town, +Ears askew and somewhat cross-eyed, but with fixed and awful frown, +Seeming somehow to be waiting to enjoy the dreadful doom +Of the frightened little sleeper in the best spare room. + +Every rustle of the corn-husks in the mattress underneath +Was to me a ghostly whisper muttered through a phantom's teeth, +And the mice behind the wainscot, as they scampered round about, +Filled my soul with speechless horror when I'd put the candle out. +So I'm deeply sympathetic when some story I have read +Of a victim buried living by his friends who thought him dead; +And I think I know his feelings in the cold and silent tomb, +For I've slept at Uncle Hiram's in the best spare room. + + * * * * * + +THE OLD CARRYALL + +It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed, +Where the spider-webs swing from the beams overhead, +And the sun, siftin' in through the dirt and the mold +Of the winder's dim pane, specks it over with gold. +Its curtains are tattered, its cushions are worn, +It's a kind of a ghost of a carriage, forlorn, +And the dust from the roof settles down like a pall +On the sorrowin' shape of the old carryall. + +It was built long ago, when the world seemed ter be +A heaven, jest made up for Mary and me, +And my mind wanders back to that first happy ride +When she sat beside me,--my beauty and bride. +Ah, them were the days when the village was new +And folks took time to live, as God meant 'em ter do; +And there's many a huskin' and quiltin' and ball +That we drove to and back in the old carryall. + +And here in the paint are the marks of the feet +Where a little form climbed ter the high-fashioned seat, +And soft baby fingers them curtains have swung, +And a curly head's nestled the cushions among; +And then come the gloom of that black, bitter day +When "Thy will be done" looked so wicked ter say +As we drove to the grave, while the rain seemed to fall +Like the tears of the sky on the old carryall. + +And so it has served us through sunshine and cloud, +Through fun'rals and weddin's, from bride-wreath ter shroud; +It's old and it's rusty, it's shaky and lame, +But I love every j'int of its rickety frame. +And it's restin' at last, for its race has been run, +It's lived out its life and its work has been done, +And I hope, in my soul, at the last trumpet call +I'll have done mine as well as the old carryall. + + * * * * * + +OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS + +O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me +In that lazy little village down beside the tumblin' sea, +When yer sniff the burnin' powder, when yer see the banners fly, +Don't yer thoughts, like mine, go driftin' back to Fourths long since + gone by? +And, amongst them days of gladness, ain't there one that stands alone, +When yer had yer first fire-crackers--jest one bunch, but all yer own? + +Don't yer 'member how yer envied bigger chaps their fuss and noise, +'Cause yer Ma had said that crackers wasn't good fer _little_ boys? +Do yer 'member how yer teased her, morn and eve and noon and night, +And how all the world yelled "Glory!" when at last she said yer might? + +Do yer 'member how yer bought 'em, weeks and weeks ahead of time, +After savin' all yer pennies till they footed up a dime? +Do yer 'member what they looked like? I can see 'em plain as plain, +With a dragon on the package, grinnin' through a fiery rain. + +[Illustration] + +Do yer 'member how yer fired 'em, slow and careful, one by one? +Do'n't it seem like each was louder than the grandest sort of gun? +Can't yer see the big, red flashes, if yer only shut yer eyes, +And jest smell the burnin' powder, sweeter'n breaths from paradise? + +O you boys, gray-haired and bearded. O you youngsters grown ter men, +We can't buy them kind of crackers now, nor never shall again! +Fer the joys thet used ter glitter through the fizz and puff and crash, +Has, ter most of us, been deadened by the grindin' chink of cash; +But I'd like ter ask yer, fellers, how much of yer hoarded gold +Would yer give if it could buy yer one glad Fourth like them of old? +How much would yer spend ter gain it--that light-hearted, joyous glow +That come with yer fust fire-crackers, when yer bought 'em long ago? + + * * * * * + +WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR + +I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me +Religion isn't nigh so good as what it used ter be! +I go ter meetin' every week and rent my reg'lar pew, +But hain't a mite uplifted when the sarvices are through; +I take my orthodoxy straight, like Gran'pop did his rum, +(It never hurt him, neither, and a deacon, too, by gum!) +But now the preachin' 's mushy and the singin' 's lost its fire: +I 'd like ter hear old Parson Day, with Nathan leadin' choir. + +I'd like ter know who told these folks that all was perfect peace, +And glidin' inter heaven was as slick as meltin' grease; +Old Parson Day, I tell yer what, his sermons made yer _think_! +He'd shake yer over Tophet till yer heard the cinders clink. +And then, when he'd gin out the tune and Nate would take his stand +Afore the chosen singers, with the tuning-fork in hand, +The meetin'-house jest held its breath, from cellar plum ter spire, +And then bu'st forth in thunder-tones with Nathan leadin' choir. + +They didn't chime so pretty, p'r'aps, as does our new quartette, +But all them folks was there ter sing, and done it, too, you bet! +The basses they 'd be rollin' on, with faces swelled and red, +And racin' the supraners, who was p'r'aps a bar ahead; +While Nate beat time with both his hands and worked like drivin' plow, +With drops o' sweat a-standin' out upon his face and brow; +And all the congregation felt that Heav'n was shorely nigher +Whene'er they heerd the chorus sung with Nathan leadin' choir. + +Rube Swan was second tenor, and his pipes was kinder cracked, +But Rube made up in loudness what in tune he might have lacked; +But 'twas a leetle cur'us, though, for p'r'aps his voice would balk, +And when he'd fetch a high note give a most outrageous squawk; +And Uncle Elkanah was deef and kind er'd lose the run, +And keep on singin' loud and high when all the rest was done; +But, notwithstandin' all o' this, I think I'd never tire +Of list'nin' ter the good old tunes with Nathan leadin' choir. + +We've got a brand-new organ now, and singers--only four-- +But, land! we pay 'em cash enough ter fee a hundred more; +They sing newfangled tunes and things that some folks think are sweet, +But don't appeal ter me no more'n a fish-horn on the street. +I'd like once more ter go ter church and watch old Nathan wave +His tunin'-fork above the crowd and lead the glorious stave; +I'd like ter hear old Parson Day jest knock the sinners higher, +And then set back and hear a hymn with Nathan leadin' choir. + + * * * * * + +HEZEKIAH'S ART + +My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at; +An artist, I mean,--course he ain't a whitewasher or nothin' like that. +At home he was always a-drawin' and shirkin' his work 'round the place, +And kept me continyerly jawin' or dressin' him down with a trace; +Till I says ter Mother, "Between us, this thing might's well be understood; +Our Hez is jest simply a gen'us, and a gen'us is _never_ no good; +He won't stop fer jawin's and dressin's; he'll daub and he'll draw + all the while; +So he might as well have a few lessons, and learn how ter do it in style." + +So I sold a slice of the wood-lot ter the folks at the summer hotel, +That fetched me some cash--quite a good lot--so now he's been gone a + long spell; +He's got a room up ter the City, an' calls it a name that is queer-- +I ain't up in French, more's the pity--but something that's like + "attyleer." +I went up last month on a visit, and blamed if that place wa'n't a sight! +The fourteenth or fifteenth--which is it?--well, anyhow, it's the top + flight; +I wouldn't have b'lieved he could be there, way up on that + breath-takin' floor, +If't wa'n't fer the sign that I see there--"H. Lafayette Boggs"--on + the door. + +That room was a wonder fer certain! The floor was all paint-spots and dirt, +Each window was hung with a curtain, striped gay as a calico shirt; +The walls was jest like a museum, all statoos and flim-flam and gush +And picters--good land! when I see 'em I jest had ter turn 'round and + blush; +And Hez! he looked like a gorilla,--a leetle round hat on his head, +And hair that would stuff a big piller, and necktie blue, yeller, and red; +I swan, he did look like a daisy! I tell yer, it went ter my heart, +'Cause, course I supposed he was crazy, until he explained it was ART. + +[Illustration: "I swan, he did look like a daisy!"] + +This Art, it does stagger a feller that ain't got a connerseer's view, +Fer trees by its teachin' is yeller, and cows is a shade of sky-blue. +Hez says that ter paint 'em like natur' is common and tawdry and vile; +He says it's a plaguey sight greater to do 'em "impressionist style." +He done me my portrait, and, reely, my nose is a ultrymarine, +My whiskers is purple and steely, and both of my cheeks is light green. +When Mother first viewed it she fainted--she ain't up in Art, don't + yer see? +And she had a notion 'twas painted when Hez had been off on a spree. + +We used ter think Hezzy would shame us by bein' no good anyhow, +But he says some day he'l be famous, so we're sort er proud of him, now. +He says that the name he's a-makin' shall ring in Fame's thunderin' tone; +He says that earth's dross he's forsaken, he's livin' fer Art's sake alone. +That's nice, but what seems ter me funny, and what I can't get through + my head +Is why he keeps writin' fer money and can't seem ter earn nary red. +I've been sort er thinkin' it over, and seems ter me, certain enough, +That livin' _for_ Art is just clover, but that livin' _on_ it is tough. + + * * * * * + +THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC + +Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town, +And we fellers are a-hootin' and a-jumpin' up and down, +And the girls are all a-gigglin' and a-tryin' ter be smart, +With their braided pig-tails wigglin' at the joltin' of the cart; +There's the teachers all a-beamin', rigged up in their Sunday clothes, +And the parson's specs a-gleamin' like two moons acrost his nose, +And the sup'rintendent lookin' mighty dignerfied and cool, +And a-bossin' of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday-school. + +Everybody's got their basket brimmin' full of things ter eat, +And I've got one--if yer ask it--that is purty hard ter beat,-- +'Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone, +And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone. +There'll be quarts of sass'parilla; yes, and "lemmo" in a tub; +There'll be ice-cream--it's vernilla--and all kinds of fancy grub; +And they're sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring, +So's the ants and hoppergrasses can just waltz on everything. + +Then the girls they'll be a-yippin', 'cause a bug is in the cream; +And a "daddy-long-legs" skippin' round the butter makes 'em scream; +And a fuzzy caterpillar--jest the littlest kind they make-- +Sets 'em holl'rin', "Kill her! kill her!" like as if it was a snake. +Then, when dinner-time is over and we boys have et enough, +Why, the big girls they'll pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and + stuff; +And the big chaps they'll set 'round 'em, lookin' soft as ever wuz, +Talkin' gush and actin' silly, same as that kind always does. + +Then, we'll ride home when it's dark'nin' and the leaves are wet with dew, +And the lightnin'-bugs are sparklin' and the moon is shinin', too; +We'll sing "Jingle bells" and "Sailing," "Seein' Nelly home," and more; +And that one that's slow and wailin', "Home ag'in from somethin' shore." +Then a feller's awful sleepy and he kinder wants ter rest, +But the stuff he's et feels creepy and like bricks piled on his chest; +And, perhaps, he dreams his stummick has been stepped on by a mule; +But it ain't: it's jest the picnic of the Baptist Sunday school! + + * * * * * + +"AUNT 'MANDY" + +Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys +Never ought ter make a noise, +Or go swimming or play ball, +Or have any fun at all; +Thinks a boy had ought ter be +Dressed up all the time, and she +Hollers jest as if she's hurt +At the _littlest mite_ er dirt +On a feller's hands or face, +Or his clothes, or any place. + +Then at dinner-time she's there, +Sayin', "Mustn't kick the chair!" +Or "Why _don't_ yer sit up straight?" +"'Tain't perlite to drum yer plate." +An' yer got ter eat as _slow_, +'Cause she's dingin' at yer so. +Then, when Chris'mus comes, she brings +Nothin', only _useful_ things: +Han'kershi'fs an' gloves an' ties, +Sunday stuff yer jest _despise_. + +She's a ole maid, all alone, +'Thout no children of her own, +An' I s'pose that makes her fuss +'Round our house a-bossin' us. +If she 'd had a boy, I bet, +'Tween her bossin' and her fret +She'd a-killed him, jest about; +So God made her do without, +For he knew _no_ boy could stay +With Aunt 'Mandy _every_ day. + + * * * * * + +THE STORY-BOOK BOY + +Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth, +A prodigy reeking with goodness and truth; +As brave as a lion, as wise as a sage, +And sharp as a razor, though twelve years of age. +His mother is good and she's awfully poor, +But he says, "Do not fret, _I'll_ provide for you, sure!" +And the hard grasping landlord, who comes to annoy, +Is braved to his teeth by the story-book boy. + +Oh, the story-book boy! when he sees that young churl. +The Squire's spoiled son, kick the poor crippled girl, +He darts to the rescue as quick as he can, +And dusts the hard road with the cruel young man; +And when he is sought by the vengeful old Squire, +He withers the latter with tongue-lashing ire; +For the town might combine his young nerve to destroy, +And never once shake him--the story-book boy. + +[Illustration: "And with--ahem--era--I said before."] + +Oh, the story-book boy! when the Judge's dear child +Is dragged through the streets by a runaway wild, +Of course he's on hand, and a "ten-strike" he makes, +For he stops the mad steed in a couple of "shakes"; +And he tells the glad Judge, who has wept on his hat, +"I did but my duty!" or something like that; +And the very best place in the Judge's employ +Is picked out at once for the story-book boy. + +Oh, the story-book boy! all his troubles are o'er, +For he gets to be Judge in a year or two more; +And the wicked old landlord in poverty dies, +And the Squire's son drinks, and in gutters he lies; +But the girl whom he saved is our hero's fair bride, +And his old mother comes to their home to abide; +In silks and sealskins, she cries, in her joy: +"Thank Heaven, I'm Ma of a story-book boy!" + + * * * * * + +THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN + +Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late, + And kinder warm and sleepy, don't yer know; +And p'r'aps a feller's studyin' or writin' on his slate, + Or, maybe chewin' paper-balls to throw, +And teacher's sort er lazy, too--why, then there'll come a knock + And everybody'll brace up quick's they can; +We boys and girls'll set up straight, and teacher'll smooth her frock, + Because it's him--the school-committee man. + +He'll walk in kinder stately-like and say, "How do, Miss Brown?" + And teacher, she'll talk sweet as choclate cake; +And he'll put on his specs and cough and pull his eyebrows down + And look at us so hard 't would make yer shake. +We'll read and spell, so's he can hear, and speak a piece or two, + While he sets there so dreadful grand and cool; +Then teacher'll rap her desk and say, "Attention!" soon's we're through, + And ask him, won't he please address the school. + +He'll git up kinder calm and slow, and blow his nose real loud, + And put his hands behind beneath his coat, +Then kinder balance on his toes and look 'round sort er proud + And give a big "Ahem!" ter clear his throat; +And then he'll say: "Dear scholars, I am glad ter see yer here, + A-drinkin'--er--the crystal fount of lore; +Here with your books, and--er--and--er--your teacher kind and dear, + And with--ahem--er--as I said before." + +We have ter listen awful hard ter every word of his + And watch him jest like kittens do a rat, +And laugh at every joke he makes, don't care how old it is, + 'Cause he can _boss the teacher_,--think of that! +I useter say, when I growed up I 'd be a circus chap + And drive two lions hitched up like a span; +But, honest, more I think of it, I b'lieve the bestest snap + Is jest ter be a school-committee man. + + * * * * * + +WASTED ENERGY + +South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth; +South Pokus folks are pious,--man and woman, maid and youth; +And they listen every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines, +In their seven shabby churches, ter their seven poor divines, +Who dispense the balm and comfort that the thirstin' sperit needs, +By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their seven different creeds, +Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only sartin way,-- +Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say. + +Now the Pokus population is nine hundred, more or less, +Which, in one big congregation, would be quite a church, I guess, +And do lots of good, I reckon; but yer see it couldn't be,-- +Long's one's tweedledum was diff'rent from the other's tweedledee. +So the Baptists they are Baptists, though the church is swamped in debt, +And the Orthodox is rigid, though expenses can't be met, +And the twenty Presbyterians 'll be Calvinists or bust,-- +Fer South Pokus is religious, as I said along at fust. + +And the Methodist is buried, when his time comes 'round ter die, +In the little weedy graveyard where no other sect can lie, +And at Second Advent socials, every other Wednesday night, +No one's ever really welcome but a Second Adventite; +While the Unitarian brother, as he walks the village streets, +Seldom bows unless another Unitarian he meets; +And there's only Univers'lists in a Univers'list's store,-- +Fer South Pokus is religious, as I think I said before. + +I thought I'd read that Jesus come ter do the whole world good,-- +Come ter bind the Jew and Gentile in a lovin' brotherhood; +But it seems that I'm mistaken, and I haven't read it right, +And the text of "_Love_ your neighbor" must be somewhere written "Fight"; +But I want ter tell yer, church folks, and ter put it to yer strong, +While _you're fighting_ Old Nick's fellers _pull tergether_ right along: +So yer'd better stop your squabblin', be united if yer can, +Fer the Pokus way of doin' ain't no use ter God or man. + + * * * * * + +WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA + +Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, +And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; +And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, +And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; +Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; +Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; +Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,-- +And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea. + +[Illustration] + +Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged chiny set, +And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; +And we're goin' ter have some fruit-cake and some thimbleberry jam, +And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. +Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, +And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; +But, er course, she's only bluffin', for it's as prime as it can be, +And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea. + +Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, +Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does, +And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho! +That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No." +Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school, +Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule, +And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:-- +Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea! + +Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never 'd say what wasn't true; +But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; +'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, +Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me, 's a lie: +But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay +At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; +Only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! Jimmi_nee_! +And I'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea! + + * * * * * + +"YAP" + +I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap, +Who jest ain't good fer nothin' but ter eat and sleep and "yap." +Fer all 'round general wuthlessness I never see his beat, +And yet he makes more fuss and noise than all the farm complete. +There ain't a mite of sense inside that yaller hide of his; +But, as _he_ ain't no good, he likes ter pester them that is. +The critters all despise him, but there ain't a one but feels +A little mite oneasy when he's "yappin'" round their heels. + +Yer see, he loves ter sneak around behind 'em, out of sight, +And give a sudden snap and snarl as if he meant ter bite; +Of course they know he wouldn't hurt, and only means to scare, +But still, it worries 'em ter know the little scamp is there; +And if they do git nervous-like and try to hit him back +He swells up so with pride it seems as if his skin would crack; +And then he's wuss than ever, so they find it doesn't pay, +But let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away. + +There's lots of people built like him--yer see 'em everywhere-- +Who, 'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear +Ter see another feller rise, but in their petty spite +And natural meanness, snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite. +They don't come out in front like men, and squarely speak their mind, +But like that wuthless yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind. +They're little and contemptible, but if yer make a slip +It must be bothersome ter know they'll take that chance ter nip. + +But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all; +Perhaps we ought ter thank the Lord _our_ souls ain't quite so small; +And they, with all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess, +The thorns that prick your fingers 'round the roses of success: +Fer, when yer come ter think of it, they never bark until +A feller's really started and a good ways up the hill; +So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap, +But I'd think I _was_ somebody when the curs begun ter "yap." + + * * * * * + +THE MINISTER'S WIFE + +She's little and modest and purty, + As red as a rose and as sweet; +_Her_ children don't ever look dirty, + Her kitchen ain't no way but neat. +She's the kind of a woman ter cherish, + A help ter a feller through life, +Yet every old hen in the parish + Is down on the minister's wife. + +'Twas Mrs. 'Lige Hawkins begun it; + She always has had the idee +That the church was built so's she could run it, + 'Cause Hawkins is deacon, yer see; +She thought that the whole congregation + Kept step ter the tune of her fife, +But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation + Applied ter the minister's wife. + +Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited-- + She thinks she's the whole upper crust;-- +When she found the Smiths was invited + Ter meet'n', she quit in disgust. +"_You_ can have all the paupers yer choose to," + Says she, jest as sharp as a knife; +"But if _they_ go ter church _I_ refuse to!" + "Good-by!" says the minister's wife. + +And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy + At her not comin' sooner ter call, +And old Miss Macgregor is huffy + 'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all. +Each one of the crowd hates the other, + The church has been full of their strife; +But now they're all hatin' another, + And that one's the minister's wife. + +But still, all their cackle unheedin', + She goes, in her ladylike way, +A-givin' the poor what they're needing + And helpin' the church every day: +Our numbers each Sunday is swelling + And real, true religion is rife, +And sometimes I feel like a-yellin', + "Three cheers fer the minister's wife!" + + * * * * * + +[Illustration: "'Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum! I'm right because +I _be_!'"] + +THE VILLAGE ORACLE + + * * * * * + +"_I am Sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips let no dog bark!_" + + * * * * * + +Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town + Is jest the best on earth; +He says there ain't one, up nor down, + That's got one half her worth; +He says there ain't no other state + That's good as ourn, nor near; +And all the folks that's good and great + Is settled right 'round here. + + Says I "D'jer ever travel, Dan?" + "You bet I ain't!" says he; + "I tell you what! the place I've got + Is good enough fer me!" + +He says the other party's fools, + 'Cause they don't vote his way; +He says the "feeble-minded schools" + Is where they ought ter stay; +If he was law their mouths he'd shut, + Or blow 'em all ter smash; +He says their platform's nawthin' but + A great big mess of trash. + + Says I, "D'jer ever read it, Dan?" + "You bet I ain't!" says he; + "And when I do; well, I tell you, + I'll let you know, by gee!" + +He says that all religion's wrong + 'Cept jest what he believes; +He says them ministers belong + In jail, the same as thieves; +He says they take the blessed Word + And tear it all ter shreds; +He says their preachin's jest absurd; + They're simply leatherheads. + + Says I, "D'jer ever hear 'em, Dan?" + "You bet I ain't!" says he; + "I'd never go ter _hear_ 'em; no; + They make me sick ter _see!_" + +Some fellers reckon, more or less, + Before they speak their mind, +And sometimes calkerlate or guess,-- + But them ain't Dan'l's kind. +The Lord knows all things, great or small, + With doubt he's never vexed; +He, in his wisdom, knows it all,-- + But Dan'l Hanks comes next. + + Says I, "How d' yer know you're right?" + "How do I _know_?" says he; + "Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum! + I'm right because I _be_!" + + * * * * * + +THE TIN PEDDLER + +Jason White has come ter town + Drivin' his tin peddler's cart, +Pans a-bangin' up an' down + Like they'd tear theirselves apart; +Kittles rattlin' underneath, + Coal-hods scrapin' out a song,-- +Makes a feller grit his teeth + When old Jason comes along. + +Jason drives a sorrel mare, + Bones an' skin at all her j'ints, +"Blooded stock," says Jase; "I swear, + Jest see how she shows her p'ints! +Walkin' 's her best lay," says he, + Eyes a-twinklin' full of fun, +"Named her Keely Motor. See? + Sich hard work ter make her run." + +Jason's jest the slickest scamp, + Full of jokes as he can hold; +Says he beats Aladdin's lamp, + Givin' out new stuff fer old; +"Buy your rags fer more 'n they're worth, + Give yer bran'-new, shiny tin, +I'm the softest snap on earth," + Says old Jason, with a grin. + +Jason gits the women's ear + Tellin' news and talkin' dress; +Can 't be peddlin' forty year + An' not know 'em more or less; +Children like him; sakes alive! + Why, my Jim, the other night, +Says, "When I git big I'll drive + Peddler's cart, like Jason White!" + + * * * * * + +"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS" + +Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer; +She's allers doin' loony things, unheard of fur and near. +One time there wa'n't no limit ter the distance she would tramp +Ter get a good-fer-nothin', wuthless, cancelled postage-stamp; +Another spell folks couldn't rest ontil, by hook or crook, +She got 'em all ter write their names inside a leetle book; +But though them fits was bad enough, the wust is nowadays, +Fer now she's got that pesky freak, the photygraphin' craze. + +She had ter have a camera--and them things cost a sight-- +So she took up subscriptions fer the "Woman's Home Delight" +And got one fer a premium--a blamed new-fangled thing, +That takes a tin-type sudden, when she presses on a spring; +And sence she got it, sakes alive! there's nothin' on the place +That hain't been pictured lookin' like a horrible disgrace: +The pigs, the cows, the horse, the colt, the chickens large and small; +She goes a-gunnin' fer 'em, and she bags 'em, one and all. + +She tuk me once a-settin' up on top a load er hay: +My feet shets out the wagon, and my head's a mile away; +She took her Ma in our back yard, a-hanging out the clothes, +With hands as big as buckets, and a face that's mostly nose. +A yard of tongue and monstrous teeth is what she calls a dog; +The cat's a kind er fuzzy-lookin' shadder in a fog; +And I've got a suspicion that what killed the brindle calf +Was that he seen his likeness in our Sary's photygraph. + +She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time; +She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime: +Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show, +With freaks and framed outrages stuck all 'round 'em in a row: +But soon I'll take them picters, and I'll fetch some of 'em out +And hang 'em 'round the garden when the corn begins ter sprout; +We'll have no crows and blackbirds ner that kind er feathered trash, +'Cause them photygraphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash. + + * * * * * + +WHEN PAPA'S SICK + +When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes! +Such awful, awful times it makes. +He speaks in, oh! such lonesome tones, +And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans, +And rolls his eyes and holds his head, +And makes Ma help him up to bed, +While Sis and Bridget run to heat +Hot-water bags to warm his feet, +And I must get the doctor _quick_,-- +We have to _jump_ when Papa's sick. + +When Papa's sick Ma has to stand +Right 'side the bed and hold his hand, +While Sis, she has to fan an' fan, +For he says he's "a dyin' man," +And wants the children round him to +Be there when "sufferin' Pa gets through"; +He says he wants to say good-by +And kiss us all, and then he'll die; +Then moans and says his "breathin''s thick",-- +It's awful sad when Papa's sick. + +When Papa's sick he acts that way +Until he hears the doctor say, +"You've only got a cold, you know; +You'll be all right 'n a day or so"; +And then--well, say! you ought to see-- +He's different as he can be, +And growls and swears from noon to night +Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right; +And all he does is fuss and kick,-- +We're _all_ used up when Papa's sick. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +THE BALLAD OF McCARTY'S TROMBONE + +Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone +On the top av a hill be the town av Athione, +And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone, +That he played in an iligant style av his own. +And often I've heard me ould grandfather say, +That, long as he lived, on Saint Patherick's Day, +the minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray +McCarty would rise and this tune he would play: + + "Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes, + Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'!" + With tootin' and blowin' he kept it a-goin', + For rest was a thing he was scornin'; + And thim that were lazy could niver lie aisy, + But jumped out av bed at the warnin'; + For who could be stayin' aslape with him playin' + "Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'?" + +And thin whin the b'ys would fall in fer parade, +McCarty'd be gay with his buttons and braid, +And whin he stipped out fer ter head the brigade, +Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played: + + "By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells, + Toot--tetoot toot--toot--toot--dells!" + And--the heel av--McCart--y's--boot + Marked--the time at--iv'--ry--toot, + While--the slide at--aich--bass--note + Seemed--ter slip half--down--his throat, + As--he caught his--breath--be--spells:-- + "By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells!" + +Now McCarty he lived ter be wrinkled and lean, +But he died wan fine day playin' "Wearin' the green," +And they sould the ould horn to a British spalpeen, +And it bu'st whin he tried ter blow "God save the Queen"; + +But the nights av Saint Patherick's Days in Athlone +Folks dare not go by the ould graveyard alone, +For they say that McCarty sits on his tombstone +And plays this sad tune on a phantom trombone: + + "The harp that wance through Tara's halls + The sowl av music shed, + Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls + As if that sowl were dead." + And all who've heard the lonesome _keens_ + That that grim ghost has blown, + Know well by Tara's harp he means + That batthered ould trombone. + + * * * * * + +SUSAN VAN DOOZEN + +I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty, + To bring to me shekels and fame, +And the only right way one may write one to-day + Is to give it some Irish girl's name. +There's "Rosy O'Grady," that dear "steady lady," + And sweet "Annie Rooney" and such, +But mine shall be nearly original, really, + For Susan Van Doozen is Dutch. + +_O Susan Van Doozen! the girl of my choos'n',_ + _You stick in my bosom like glue; +While this you're perusin', remember I'm mus'n',_ + _Sweet Susan Van Doozen, on you. +So don't be refus'n' my offer, and bruis'n'_ + _A heart that is willing to woo; +And please be excus'n', not cold and refus'n',-- + O Susan Van Doozen, please do_! + +Now through it I'll scatter--a quite easy matter-- + Some lines that we all of us know, +How "The neighbors all cry as she passes them by, + 'There's Susan, the pride of the row!'" +And something like "daisy" and "setting me crazy," + --These lines the dear public would miss-- +Then chuck a "sweetheart" in, and "never to part" in, + And end with a chorus like this: + + _O Susan Van Doozen! before I'd be los'n' + One glance from your eyes of sky-blue, + I vow I'd quit us'n' tobacco and booz'n', + (That word is not nice, it is true). + I wear out my shoes, 'n' I'm los'n' my roos'n'_ + _My reason, I should say, dear Sue_,-- + _So please change your views 'n' become my own Susan_, + _O Susan Van Doozen, please do_! + + * * * * * + +SISTER SIMMONS + +Almost every other evening jest as reg'lar as the clock +When we're settin' down ter supper, wife and I, there comes a knock +An' a high-pitched voice, remarking', "Don't get up; it's _me_, yer know"; +An' our mercury drops from "summer" down ter "twenty-five below," +An' our cup of bliss turns sudden inter wormwood mixed with gall, +Fer we know it's Sister Simmons come ter make her "reg'lar call." + +In she comes an' takes the rocker. Thinks she'll slip her bunnit off, +But she'll keep her shawl on, coz she's 'fraid of addin' ter her cough. +No, she won't set down ter supper. Tea? well, yes, a half er cup. +Her dyspepsy's been so lately, seems as if she _should_ give up; +An', 'tween rheumatiz an' as'ma, she's jest worn ter skin an' bone. +It's a good thing that she told us,--by her looks we'd never known. + +Next, she starts in on the neighbors; tells us all their private cares, +While we have the fun er knowin' how she talks of _our_ affairs; +Says, with sobs, that Christmas comin' makes her feel _so_ bad, for, oh! +Her Isaiah, the dear departed, allers did enjoy it so. +Her Isaiah, poor henpecked critter, 's been dead seven years er more, +An' looked happier in his coffin than he ever did afore. + +So she sits, her tongue a-waggin' in the same old mournful tones, +Spoilin' all our quiet evenin's with her troubles an' her groans, +Till, by Jude, I'm almost longin' fer those mansions of the blest, +"Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest!" +But if Sister Simmons' station is before the Throne er Grace, +I'll just ask 'em to excuse me, an' I'll try the other place. + + * * * * * + +"THE FIFT' WARD J'INT DEBATE" + +Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation, +He says thim Phillypynos air the r-r-ruin av the nation. +He says this counthry's job is jist a-mindin' av her biz, +And imparyilism's thrayson, so ut is, so ut is. +But big Moike Macnamara, him that runs the gin saloon, +He wants the nomina-a-tion, so he sings a different chune; +He's a-howlin' fer ixpansion, so he puts ut on the shlate +Thot he challenged Dan O'Hoolihan ter have a j'int debate. + +_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye 'd been there! +Ho, ho! Begorra! 'Twas lovely, Oi declare_; + _The langwudge, sure 't was iligant, the rhitoric was great_, +_Whin Dan and Mack, they had ut back, + At our big j'int debate_. + +'T was in the War-r-d Athletic Club we had ut fixed ter hear 'em, +And all the sates was crowded, fer the gang was there ter cheer 'em; +A foine debatin' platfor-r-m had been built inside the ring, +And iverybuddy said 't was jist the thing, jist the thing. +O'Hoolihan, he shtarted off be sayin', ut was safe +Ter say that aich ixpansionist was jist a murth'rin thafe; +And, whin I saw big Mack turn rid, and shtart ter lave his sate, +Oi knew we 'd have a gor-r-geous toime at our big j'int debate. + +Thin Moike he tuk his tur-r-n ter shpake, "Av Oi wance laid me hand," +Says he, "upon an 'Anti,' faith! Oi'd make his nose ixpand; +Oi 'd face the schnakin' blackguar-r-d, and Oi'd baste him where he shtood. +Oi'd annix him to a graveyard, so Oi would, so Oi would!" +Thin up jumped Dan O'Hoolihan a-roar-r-in' out "Yez loie!" +And flung his b'aver hat at Mack, and plunked him in the eye; +And Moike he niver shtopped ter talk, but grappled wid him straight, +And the ar-r-gymint got loively thin, at our big j'int debate. + +Oi niver in me loife have seen sich char-r-min' illycution, +The gistures av thim wid their fists was grand in ixecution; +We tried to be impar-r-tial, so no favoroite we made, +But jist sicked them on tergither, yis indade, yis indade. +And nayther wan was half convinced whin Sar-r-gint Leary came, +Wid near a dozen other cops, and stopped the purty game; +But niver did Oi see dhress-suits in sich a mortial state +As thim the or-r-ators had on at our big j'int debate. + +_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye'd been there! +Ho, ho! Begorra! The foight was on the square_; + _Ter see the wagon goin' off, wid thim two on the sate_!-- +_Oi 'd loike ter shtroike, 'twixt Dan and Moilce_, + _Another j'int debate_. + + * * * * * + +HIS NEW BROTHER + +Say, I've got a little brother, +Never teased to have him, nuther, + But he's here; +They just went ahead and bought him, +And, last week the doctor brought him, + Wa'n't that queer? + +When I heard the news from Molly, +Why, I thought at first 't was jolly, + 'Cause, you see, +I s'posed I could go and get him +And then Mama, course, would let him + Play with me. + +But when I had once looked at him, +"Why!" I says, "My sakes, is _that_ him? + Just that mite!" +They said, "Yes," and, "Ain't he cunnin'?" +And I thought they must be funnin',-- + He's a _sight!_ + +[Illustration: "Why'd they buy a baby brother, +When they know I'd _good_ deal ruther +Have a dog?"] + +He's so small, it's just amazin', +And you 'd think that he was blazin', + He's so red; +And his nose is like a berry, +And he's bald as Uncle Jerry + On his head. + +Why, he isn't worth a dollar! +All he does is cry and holler + More and more; +_Won't_ sit up--you can't arrange him,-- +_I_ don't see why Pa do'n't change him + At the store. + +Now we've got to dress and feed him, +And we really didn't _need_ him + More 'n a frog; +Why'd they buy a baby brother, +When they know I'd _good_ deal ruther + Have a dog? + + * * * * * + +CIRCLE DAY + +Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run outdoors and play; +Be good boys and don't be both'rin', till the company's gone away." +She and sister Mary's hustlin', settin' out the things for tea, +And the parlor's full of women, such a crowd you never see; +Every one a-cuttin' patchwork or a-sewin' up a seam, +And the way their tongues is goin', seems as if they went by steam. +Me and Billy's been a-listenin' and, I tell you what, it beats +Circus day to hear 'em gabbin', when the Sewin' Circle meets. + +First they almost had a squabble, fightin' 'bout the future life; +When they'd settled that they started runnin' down the parson's wife. +Then they got a-goin' roastin' all the folks there is in town, +And they never stopped, you bet yer, till they'd done 'em good and brown. +They knew everybody's business and they made it mighty free, +But the way they loved _each other_ would have done yer good to see; +Seems ter me the only way ter keep yer hist'ry off the streets +Is to be on hand a-waitin' when the Sewin' Circle meets. + +Pretty quick they'll have their supper, then's the time to see the fun; +Ma'll say the rolls is _awful_, and she's 'fraid the pie ain't done. +Really everything is bully, and she knows it well enough, +But the folks that's havin' comp'ny always talks that kind of stuff. +That sets all the women goin', and they say, "How _can_ you make +Such _delicious_ pies and biscuits, and such _lovely_ choc'late cake?" +Me and Billy don't say nothin' when we pitches in and eats +Up the things there is left over when the Sewin' Circle meets. + +I guess Pa do'n't like the Circle, 'cause he said ter Uncle Jim +That there cacklin' hen convention was too peppery for _him_. +And he'll say to Ma, "I'm sorry, but I've really got ter dodge +Down t' the hall right after supper--there's a meetin' at the lodge." +Ma'll say, "Yes, so I expected." Then a-speakin' kinder cold, +"Seems ter me, I'd get a new one; that excuse is gettin' old!" +Pa'll look sick, just like a feller when he finds you know he cheats, +But he do'n't stay home, you bet yer, when the Sewin' Circle meets. + + * * * * * + +SERMON TIME + +"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that, +And I'll say it over 'n over, till I've got it good and pat, +For when I get home from meetin', Gran'ma'll ask me for the text, +And if I say I've forgot it, she'll be goin' for me next, +Say in', I don't pay attention, and what _am_ I comin' to; +Tellin' 'bout when _she_ was little, same as old folks always do. +Say, I'll bet she didn't like it any better than the rest, +Sittin' 'round all stiff and starchy, dressed up in your Sunday best. + +"Blessed are the poor"--I tell yer, some day I'll be clearin' out, +Leavin' all this dressin' nonsense, 'cause I'm goin' ter be a scout, +Same as "Deadwood Dick," a-killin' all the Injuns on the plains: +_He_ do'n't comb his hair, you bet yer; no, nor wash, unless it rains. +And bimeby I'll come home, bringin' loads of gold and di'mon' rings; +My, won't all the boys be jealous when they see those kind of things! +'N' I'll have a reputation, folks'll call me "Lariat Ben," +Gran'ma'll think I 'mount ter somethin', maybe, when she sees me then. + +"Blessed are the"--There's a blackbird, outside, sittin' on a limb,-- +Gosh! I wish it wasn't Sunday, p'raps I wouldn't go for him. +Sis says stonin' birds is wicked, but she's got one on her hat,-- +S'pose that makes it right and proper, if yer kill 'em just for that. +There's that dudey city feller, sittin' in the Deacon's pew. +Needn't feel so big now, Smarty, just because your clothes are new; +Me and Sam has rigged a hat line; when it's dark to-morrer night +We'll just catch your shiny beaver and we'll send it out of sight. + +"Blessed are"--There's Mr. Wiggin sound asleep. I wish he'd snore. +Cracky! Now he's been and done it, dropped his hymn-book on the floor. +See how cross his wife is lookin'. Say, I bet they'll have a row; +Pa said that she wore the breeches, but she's got a dress on now. +There's Nell Baker with her uncle. Her 'n I don't speak at school, +'Cause she wouldn't help a feller when I clean forgot the rule. +Used to be my girl before that--Gee! what was that text about? +"Blessed--blessed--blessed" something. I'll ask Sis when we get out. + + * * * * * + +"TAKIN' BOARDERS" + +_We'd_ never thought of takin' 'em,--'t was Mary Ann's idee,-- +Sence she got back from boardin'-school she's called herself "Maree" +An' scattered city notions like a tom-cat sheds his fur. +She thought our old melodeon wa'n't good enough fer her, +An' them pianners cost so that she said the only way +Was ter take in summer boarders till we 'd made enough to pay; +So she wrote adver_tis_ements out to fetch 'em inter camp, +An' now there's boarders thicker here than June bugs round a lamp. + +Our best front parlor'll jest be sp'iled; they h'ist up every shade +An' open all the blinds, by gum! an' let the carpet fade. +They're in there week days jest the same as Sunday; I declare, +I really think our haircloth set is showin' signs o' wear! +They set up ha'f the night an' sing,--no use ter try ter sleep, +With them a-askin' folks ter "Dig a grave both wide an' deep," +An' "Who will smoke my mashum pipe?" By gee! I tell yer what: +If they want me to dig their graves, I'd jest as soon as not! + +There ain't no comfort now at meals; I can't take off my coat, +Nor use my knife to eat, nor tie my napkin 'round my throat, +Nor drink out of my sasser. Gosh! I hardly draw my breath +'Thout Mary Ann a-tellin' me she's "mortified to death!" +Before they came our breakfast time was allus ha'f-past six; +By thunderation! 't wouldn't do; you'd orter hear the kicks! +So jest to suit 'em 't was put off till sometime arter eight, +An' when a chap gits up at four that's mighty long ter wait. + +The idee was that Mary Ann would help her Ma; but, land! +She can't be round a minute but some boarder's right on hand +Ter take her out ter walk or ride--_she_ likes it well enough, +But when you 're gittin' grub for twelve, Ma finds it kinder tough. +We ain't a-sayin' nothin' now, we'll see this season through, +But folks that bought one gold brick ain't in love with number two; +An' if you're passin' down our way next summer, cast your eye +At our front fence. You'll see a sign, + "NO BOARDERS NEED APPLY." + + * * * * * + +A COLLEGE TRAINING + +Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair, +With a weird array of raiment and a wondrous wealth of hair, +With a lazy love of languor and a healthy hate of work +And a cigarette devotion that would shame the turbaned Turk. +And he called his father "Guv'nor," with a cheek serene and rude, +While that raging, wrathful rustic calld his son a "blasted dude." +And in dark and direful language muttered threats of coming harm +To the "idle, shif'less critter" from his father's good right arm. + +And the trouble reached a climax on the lawn behind the shed,-- +"Now, I'm gon' ter lick yer, sonny," so the sturdy parent said, +"And I'll knock the college nonsense from your noddle, mighty quick!"-- +Then he lit upon that chappy like a wagon-load of brick. +But the youth serenely murmured, as he gripped his angry dad, +"You're a clever rusher, Guv'nor, but you tackle very bad"; +And he rushed him through the center and he tripped him for a fall, +And he scored a goal and touchdown with his papa as the ball. + +[Illustration: "That was jolly, Guv'nor. now we'll practice every day."] + +Then a cigarette he lighted, as he slowly strolled away, +Saying, "That was jolly, Guv'nor, now we'll practice every day"; +While his father from the puddle, where he wallowed in disgrace, +Smiled upon his offspring, proudly, from a bruised and battered face, +And with difficulty rising, quick he hobbled to the house. +"Henry's all right, Ma!" he shouted to his anxious, waiting spouse, +"He jest licked me good and solid, and I tell yer, Mary Ann, +When a chap kin lick _your husband_ he's a mighty able man!" + + * * * * * + +A CRUSHED HERO + +On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm, +Sits a freckled youth and lanky, red of hair and long of arm; +But his mien is proud and haughty and his brow is high and stern, +And beneath their sandy lashes, fiery eyes with purpose burn. +Bow before him, gentle reader, he's the hero we salute, +He is Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute. + +Search not Fame's immortal marbles, never there his name you'll find, +For our hero, let us whisper, is a hero in his mind; +And a youth may bathe in glory, wade in slaughter time on time, +When a novel, wild and gory, may be purchased for a dime. +And through reams of lurid pages has he slain the Sioux and Ute, +Bloody Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute. + +Hark, a heavy step advancing,--list, a father's angry cry, +"He hain't shucked a single nubbin; where's that good-fer-nothin' Hi?" +"Here, base catiff," comes the answer, "here am I who was your slave, +But no more I'll do your shuckin', though I fill a bloody grave! +Freedom's fire my breast has kindled; there'll be bloodshed, tyrant! + brute!" +Quoth brave Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute. + +"Breast's a-blazin', is it, Sonny?" asks his father with a smile, +"Kind er like a stove, I reckon, what they call 'gas-burner' style. +Good 'base-burner' 's what your needin'"--here he pins our hero fast, +"Come, young man, we'll try the woodshed, keep the bloodshed till the + last." +Then an atmosphere of horse-whip, interspersed with cow-hide boot, +Wraps young Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute. + + * * * * * + +Weep ye now, oh, gentle reader, for the fallen, great of heart, +As ye wept o'er Saint Helena and the exiled Bonaparte; +For a picture, sad as that one, to your pity I would show +Of a spirit crushed and broken,--of a hero lying low; +For where husks are heaped the highest, working swiftly, hushed and mute, +Shucketh Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute. + + * * * * * + +A THANKSGIVING DREAM + +I'm pretty nearly certain that't was 'bout two weeks ago,-- +It might be more, or, p'raps 't was less,--but, anyhow, I know +'T was on the night I ate the four big saucers of ice cream +That I dreamed jest the horriblest, most awful, _worstest_ dream. +I dreamed that 'twas Thanksgiving and I saw our table laid +With every kind of goody that, I guess, was ever made; +With turkey, and with puddin', and with everything,--but, gee! +'T was dreadful, 'cause they was alive, and set and looked at me. + +And then a great big gobbler, that was on a platter there, +He stood up on his drumsticks, and he says, "You boy, take care! +For if, Thanksgivin' Day, you taste my dark meat or my white, +I'll creep up to your bedroom in the middle of the night; +I'll throw off all the blankets, and I'll pull away the sheet, +I'll prance and dance upon you with my prickly, tickly feet; +I'll kick you, and I'll pick you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!' +Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that gobbler says, says he. + +[Illustration: The Talking Turkey] + +And then a fat plum puddin' kind er grunted-like and said: +"I'm round and hot and steamin', and I'm heavier than lead, +And if you dare to eat me, boy, upon Thanksgivin' Day, +I'll come at night and tease you in a frightful sort of way. +I'll thump you, and I'll bump you, and I'll jump up high and fall +Down on your little stomach like a sizzlin' cannon-ball +I'll hound you, and I'll pound you, and I'll screech 'Remember me!' +Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that puddin says, says he. + +And then, soon as the puddin' stopped, a crusty ol' mince pie +Jumped from its plate and glared at me and winked its little eye; +"You boy," it says, "Thanksgivin' Day, don't dare ter touch a slice +Of me, for if you do, I'll come and cramp you like a vise. +I'll root you, and I'll boot you, and I'll twist you till you squeal, +I'll stand on edge and roll around your stomach like a wheel; +I'll hunch you, and I'll punch you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!'" + + * * * * * + +I don't know what came after that, 'cause I woke up, you see. + +You wouldn't b'lieve that talk like that one ever _could_ forget, +But, say! ter-day's Thanksgivin,' and I've et, and et, and et! +And when I'd stuffed jest all I could, I jumped and gave a scream, +'Cause all at once, when 't was too late, I 'membered 'bout that dream. +And now it's almost bedtime, and I ought ter say my prayers +And tell the folks "good-night" and go a-pokin' off up-stairs; +But, oh, my sakes! I dasn't, 'cause I know them things'll be +All hidin' somewheres 'round my bed and layin there fer me. + + * * * * * + +O'REILLY'S BILLY-GOAT + +A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes, +Among the crags of Shantytown a peaceful quiet reigns, +For down upon McCarty's dump, in fiery fight for fame, +The Shanties meet the Mudvilles in the final pennant game; +And heedless of the frantic fray, in center field remote, +Behind the biggest ash-heap lies O'Reilly's billy-goat. + +The eager crowd bends forward now, in fierce excitement's thrall, +The pitcher writhes in serpent twist, the umpire says, "Play ball!" +The batsman swings with sudden spite,--a loud, resounding "spat," +And hissing through the ambient air the horse-hide leaves the bat; +With one terrific battle-cry, the "rooter" clears his throat, +But still serene in slumber lies O'Reilly's billy-goat. + +Alas, alas for Shantytown! the Mudvilles forge ahead; +Alas for patriotic hopes! the green's below the red; +With one half inning still to play the score is three to two, +The Shantys have a man on base,--be brave my lads, and true; +Bold Captain Muggsy comes to bat, a batsman he of note, +And slowly o'er the ash-heap walks O'Reilly's billy-goat. + +The yelling Mudville hosts have wrecked his slumbers so serene, +With deep disgust and sullen eye he gazes o'er the scene. +He notes the center-fielder's garb, the Mudvilles' shirt of red; +He firmly plants his sturdy legs, he bows his horned head, +And, as upon his shaggy ears the Mudville slogan smote, +A sneer played 'mid the whiskers of O'Reilly's billy-goat. + +The valiant Muggsy hits the ball. Oh, deep and dark despair! +He hits it hard and straight, but ah, he hits it in the air! +The Mudville center-fielder smiles and reaches forth in glee, +He knows that fly's an easy out for such a man as he. +Beware, oh rash and reckless youth, nor o'er your triumph gloat, +For toward you like a comet flies O'Reilly's billy-goat. + +Across the battle-field is borne a dull and muffled sound, +The fielder like a bullock falls, the ball rolls on the ground. +Around the bases on the wing the gallant Muggsy speeds, +And follows swiftly in the track where fast his comrade leads. +And from the field of chaos where the dusty billows float, +With calm, majestic mien there stalks O'Reilly's billy-goat. + +Above the crags of Shantytown the flaunting pennant waves, +And cheering myriads chant the praise of Muggsy's lusty braves. +The children shout in gladsome glee, each fair one waves her hand, +As down the street the heroes march with lively German band; +But wilder grows the tumult when, with ribboned horns and coat, +They see, on high in triumph borne, O'Reilly's billy-goat. + + * * * * * + +THE CUCKOO CLOCK + +When Ezry, that's my sister's son, come home from furrin parts, +He fetched the folks a lot of things ter brighten up their hearts; +He fetched 'em silks and gloves and clothes, and knick-knacks, too, a + stock, +But all he fetched fer us was jest a fancy cuckoo clock. +'T was all fixed up with paint and gilt, and had a little door +Where sat the cutest little bird, and when 't was three or four +Or five or six or any time, that bird would jest come out +And, 'cordin' ter what time it was, he'd flap his wings and shout: + "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!" + +Well, fust along we had it, why, I thought 'twas simply prime! +And used to poke the hands around ter make it "cuckoo" time; +And allers when we'd company come, they had ter see the thing, +And, course they almost had a fit when "birdie" come ter sing. +But, by and by, b'gosh! I found it somehow lost its joys, +I found it kind er made me sick to hear that senseless noise; +I wished 't was jest a common clock, that struck a gong, yer know, +And didn't have no foolish bird ter flap his wings and go: + "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!" + +Well, things git on from bad to wuss, until I'm free ter grant, +I'd smash it into kindlin', but a present, so, I can't! +And, though a member of the church, and deacon, I declare, +That thing jest sets me up on end and makes me want ter swear! +I try ter be religious and ter tread the narrer way, +But seems as if that critter knew when I knelt down ter pray, +And all my thoughts of heaven go a-tumblin' down ter,--well, +A different kind of climate--when that bird sets out ter yell: + "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!" + +I read once in a poetry book, that Ezry had ter home, +The awful fuss a feller made about a crow, that come +And pestered him about ter death and made him sick and sore, +By settin' on his mantel-piece and hollerin' "Nevermore!" +But, say, I'd ruther have the crow, with all his fuss and row, +His bellerin' had _some_ sense, b'gosh! 'T was _English_, anyhow; +And all the crows in Christendom that talked a Christian talk +Would seem like nightingales, compared ter that air furrin squawk: + "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!" + + * * * * * + +THE POPULAR SONG + +I never was naturally vicious; + My spirit was lamb-like and mild; +I never was bad or malicious; + I loved with the trust of a child. +But hate now my bosom is burning, + And all through my being I long +To get one solid thump on the head of the chump + Who wrote the new popular song. + +[Illustration: "The washwoman sings it all wrong."] + + The office-boy hums it, + The book-keeper drums it, + It's whistled by all on the street; + The hand-organ grinds it, + The music-box winds it, + It's sung by the "cop" on the beat. + The newsboy, he spouts it, + The bootblack, he shouts it, + The washwoman sings it all wrong; + And I laugh, and I weep, + And I wake, and I sleep, + To the tune of that popular song. + +Its measures are haunting my dreaming; + I rise at the breakfast-bell's call +To hear the new chambermaid screaming + The chorus aloud through the hall. +The landlady's daughter's piano + Is helping the concert along, +And my molars I break on the tenderloin steak + As I chew to that popular song. + + The orchestra plays it, + The German band brays it, + 'T is sung on the platform and stage; + All over the city + They're chanting the ditty; + At summer resorts it's the rage. + The drum corps, it beats it, + The echo repeats it, + The bass-drummer brings it out strong, + And we speak, and we talk, + And we dance, and we walk, + To the notes of that popular song. + +It really is driving me crazy; + I feel that I'm wasting away; +My brain is becoming more hazy, + My appetite less every day. +But, ah! I'd not pray for existence, + Nor struggle my life to prolong, +If, up some dark alley, with him I might dally + Who wrote that new popular song. + + The bone-player clicks it, + The banjoist picks it, + It 'livens the clog-dancer's heels; + The bass-viol moans it, + The bagpiper drones it, + They play it for waltzes and reels. + I shall not mind quitting + The earthly, and flitting + Away 'mid the heavenly throng, + If the mourners who come + To my grave do not hum + That horrible popular song. + + * * * * * + +MATILDY'S BEAU + +I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind +That solves a whole blame murder case by footmarks left behind; +But then, again, on t'other hand, my eyes hain't shut so tight +But I can add up two and two and get the answer right; +So, when prayer-meet'ns, Friday nights, got keepin' awful late, +And, fer an hour or so, I'd hear low voices at the gate-- +And when that gate got saggin' down 'bout ha'f a foot er so-- +I says ter mother: "Ma," says I, "Matildy's got a beau." + +[Illustration: Matildy's Beau] + +We ought ter have expected it--she's 'most eighteen, yer see; +But, sakes alive! she's always seemed a baby, like, ter me; +And so, a feller after _her_! why, that jest did beat all! +But, t' other Sunday, bless yer soul, he come around ter call; +And when I see him all dressed up as dandy as yer please, +But sort er lookin' 's if he had the shivers in his knees, +I kind er realized it then, yer might say, like a blow-- +Thinks I, "No use! I'm gittin' old; Matildy's got a beau." + +Just twenty-four short years gone by--it do'n't seem five, I vow!-- +I fust called on Matildy--that's Matildy's mother now; +I recollect I spent an hour a-tyin' my cravat, +And I'd sent up ter town and bought a bang-up shiny hat. +And, my! oh, my! them new plaid pants; well, wa'n't I something grand +When I come up the walk with some fresh posies in my hand? +And didn't I feel like a fool when her young brother, Joe, +Sang out: "Gee crickets! Looky here! Here comes Matildy's beau!" + +And now another feller comes up _my_ walk, jest as gay, +And here's Matildy blushin' red in jest her mother's way; +And when she says she's got ter go an errand to the store, +We know _he_ 's waitin' 'round the bend, jest as I've done afore; +Or, when they're in the parlor and I knock, why, bless yer heart! +I have ter smile ter hear how quick their chairs are shoved apart. +They think us old folks don't "catch on" a single mite; but, sho! +I reckon they fergit I was Matildy's mother's beau. + + * * * * * + +"SISTER'S BEST FELLER" + +My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, +And handsome and strong as a feller can be; +And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, +You never would think she could boss him at all; + But, my jing! + She do'n't do a thing + But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string! +It jest makes me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, +To think that he'll let a girl bully him so. + +He goes to walk with her and carries her muff +And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; +She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; +And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun! + And, oh, say! + When they go to a play, + He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, +And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, +And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late. + +He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, +Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; +And all he's got for 'em 's a handkerchief case-- +A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; + But, my land! + He thinks it's just grand, + "'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; +He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint," +And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't. + +'Fore _I_ go an errand for her any time +I jest make her coax me, and give me a dime; +But that great, big silly--why, honest and true-- +He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to. + Oh, gee whiz! + I tell you what 'tis! + I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his. +_I_ won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee! +My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me! + + * * * * * + +"THE WIDDER CLARK" + +It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill, +The wind comes down the chimbly with a whistle sharp and shrill, +The dead leaves rasp and rustle in the corner by the shed, +And the branches scratch and rattle on the skylight overhead. +The cracklin' blaze is climbin' up around the old backlog, +As we set by the fireplace here, myself and cat and dog; +And as fer me, I'm thinkin', as the fire burns clear and bright, +That it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night. + +It's bad enough fer me, b'gosh, a-pokin' round the place, +With jest these two dumb critters here, and nary human face +To make the house a home agin, same as it used ter be +While mother lived, for she was 'bout the hull wide world ter me. +My bein' all the son she had, we loved each other more-- +That's why, I guess, I'm what they call a "bach" at forty-four. +It's hard fer _me_ to set alone, but women folks--'t ain't right, +And it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night. + +I see her t' other mornin', and, I swan, 't wa'n't later 'n six, +And there she was, out in the cold, a-choppin' up the sticks +To kindle fire fer breakfast, and she smiled so bright and gay, +By gee, I simply couldn't bear ter see her work that way! +Well, I went in and chopped, I guess, enough ter last a year, +And she said "Thanks," so pretty, gosh! it done me good ter hear! +She do'n't look over twenty-five, no, not a single mite; +Ah, hum! it must be lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night. + +I sez ter her, "Our breakfasts ain't much fun fer me or you; +Seems's if two lonesome meals might make one social one fer two." +She blushed so red that I did, too, and I got sorter 'fraid +That she was mad, and, like a fool, come home; I wish I'd stayed! +I'd like ter know, now, if she thinks that Clark's a pretty name-- +'Cause, if she do'n't, and fancies mine, we'll make 'em both the same. +I think I'll go and ask her, 'cause 't would ease my mind a sight +Ter know 't wa'n't quite so lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night. + + * * * * * + +FRIDAY EVENING MEETINGS + +Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago, +When the prayers were long and fervent and the anthems staid and slow, +Where the creed was like the pewbacks, of a pattern straight and stiff, +And the congregation took it with no doubting "but" or "if," +Where the girls sat, fresh and blooming, with the old folks down before, +And the boys, who came in later, took the benches near the door. + +Oh, the Friday evening meetings, how the ransomed sinners told +Of their weary toils and trials ere they reached the blessed fold; +How we trembled when the Deacon, with a saintly relish, spoke +Of the fiery place of torment till we seemed to smell the smoke; +And we all joined in "Old Hundred" till the rafters seemed to ring +When the preacher said, "Now, brethren: Hallelujah! Let us sing." + +Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the waiting 'round about, +'Neath the lamplight, at the portal, just to see when _she_ came out, +And the whispered, anxious question, and the faintly murmured "Yes," +And the soft hand on your coat-sleeve, and the perfumed, rustling dress,-- +Oh, the Paradise of Heaven somehow seemed to show its worth +When you walked home with an angel through a Paradise on earth. + +Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the happy homeward stroll, +While the moonlight softly mingled with the love-light in your soul; +Then the lingering 'neath the lattice where the roses hung above, +And the "good-night" kiss at parting, and the whispered word of love,-- +Ah, they lighted Life's dark highway with a sweet and sacred glow +From the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago. + + * * * * * + +THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER + +Little foot, whose lightest pat +Seems to glorify the mat, +Waving hair and picture hat, + Grace the nymphs have taught her; +Gown the pink of fit and style, +Lips that ravish when they smile,-- +Like a vision, down the aisle + Comes the parson's daughter. + +As she passes, like a dart +To each luckless fellow's heart +Leaps a throbbing thrill and smart, + When his eye has sought her; +Tries he then his sight to bless +With one glimpse of face or tress-- +Does she know it?--well, I guess! + Parson's pretty daughter. + +Leans she now upon her glove +Cheeks whose dimples tempt to love, +And, with saintly look above, + Hears her "Pa" exhort her; +But, within those upturned eyes, +Fair as sunny summer skies, +Just a hint of mischief lies,-- + Parson's roguish daughter. + +From their azure depths askance, +When the hymn-book gave the chance, +Did I get one laughing glance? + I was sure I caught her. +Are her thoughts so far amiss +As to stray, like mine, to bliss? +For, last night, I stole a kiss + From the parson's daughter. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration: man feeding horse] + +MY OLD GRAY NAG + +When the farm work's done, at the set of sun, + And the supper's cleared away, +And Ma, she sits on the porch and knits, + And Dad, he puffs his clay; +Then out I go ter the barn, yer know, + With never a word ner sign, +In the twilight dim I harness him-- + That old gray nag of mine. + +He's used ter me, and he knows, yer see, + Down jest which lane ter turn; +Fact is--well, yes--he's been, I guess, + Quite times enough ter learn; +And he knows the hedge by the brook's damp edge, + Where the twinklin' fireflies shine, +And he knows who waits by the pastur' gates-- + That old gray nag of mine. + +So he stops, yer see, fer he thinks, like me, + That a buggy's made fer two; +Then along the lane, with a lazy rein, + He jogs in the shinin' dew; +And he do'n't fergit he can loaf a bit + In the shade of the birch and pine; +Oh, he knows his road, and he knows his load-- + That old gray nag of mine. + +No, he ain't the sort that the big-bugs sport, + Docked up in the latest style, +But he suits us two, clean through and through, + And, after a little while, +When the cash I've saved brings the home we've craved, + So snug, and our own design, +He'll take us straight ter the parson's gate-- + That old gray nag of mine. + + * * * * * + +THROUGH THE FOG + +The fog was so thick yer could cut it + 'Thout reachin' a foot over-side, +The dory she'd nose up ter butt it, + And then git discouraged an' slide; +No noise but the thole-pins a-squeakin', + Or, maybe, the swash of a wave, +No feller ter cheer yer by speakin'-- + 'Twas lonesomer, lots, than the grave. + +I set there an' thought of my trouble, + I thought how I'd worked fer the cash +That bust and went up like a bubble + The day that the bank went ter smash. +I thought how the fishin' was failin', + How little this season I'd made, +I thought of the child that was ailin', + I thought of the bills ter be paid. + +"And," says I, "All my life I've been fightin' + Through oceans of nothin' but fog; +And never no harbor a-sightin'-- + Jest driftin' around like a log; +No matter how sharp I'm a-spyin', + I never see nothin' ahead: +I'm sick and disgusted with tryin'-- + I jest wish ter God I was dead." + +It wa'n't more'n a minute, I'm certain, + The words was jest out er my mouth, +When up went the fog, like a curtain, + And "puff" came the breeze from the south; +And 'bout a mile off, by rough guessin', + I see my own shanty on shore, +And Mary, my wife and my blessin', + God keep her, she stood in the door. + +And I says ter myself, "I'm a darlin'; + A chap with a woman like that, +To set here a-grumblin' and snarlin', + As sour as a sulky young brat-- +I'd better jest keep my helm steady, + And not mind the fog that's adrift, +For when the Lord gits good and ready, + I reckon it's certain ter lift." + + * * * * * + +THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP + +My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold, + And her fluttering banners are brave of hue, +And her shining sails are of satin fold, + And her tall sides gleam where the warm waves woo: + While the flung spray leaps in a diamond dew +From her bright bow, dipping its dance of glee; + For the skies are fair and the soft winds coo, +Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea. + +My dream-ship's journeys are long and bold, + And the ports she visits are far and few; +They lie by the rosy shores of old, + 'Mid the dear lost scenes my boyhood knew; + Or, deep in the future's misty blue, +By the purple islands of Arcady,-- + And Spain's fair turrets shine full in view, +Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea. + +My dream-ship's cargo is wealth untold, + Rare blooms that the old home gardens grew, +Sweet pictured faces, and loved songs trolled + By lips long laid 'neath the churchyard yew; + Or wondrous wishes not yet come true, +And fame and glory that is to be;-- + Hope holds the wheel all the lone watch through, +Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea. + +ENVOY + +Heart's dearest, what though the storms may brew, + And earth's ways darken for you and me? +The breeze is fair--let us voyage anew, + Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea. + + * * * * * + +LIFE'S PATHS + +It's A wonderful world we're in, my dear, + A wonderful world, they say, +And blest they be who may wander free + Wherever a wish may stray; +Who spread their sails to the arctic gales, + Or bask in the tropic's bowers, +While we must keep to the foot-path steep + In this workaday life of ours. + +For smooth is the road for the few, my dear, + And wide are the ways they roam: +Our feet are led where the millions tread, + In the worn, old lanes of home. +And the years may flow for weal or woe, + And the frost may follow the flowers, +Our steps are bound to the self-same round + In this workaday life of ours. + +But narrow our path may be, my dear, + And simple the scenes we view, +A heart like thine, and a love like mine, + Will carry us bravely through. +With a happy song we'll trudge along, + And smile in the shine or showers, +And we'll ease the pack on a brother's back + By this workaday life of ours. + + * * * * * + +THE MAYFLOWER + +In the gleam and gloom of the April weather, + When the snows have flown in the brooklet's flood, +And the Showers and Sunshine sport together, + And the proud Bough boasts of the baby Bud; +On the hillside brown, where the dead leaves linger + In crackling layers, all crimped and curled, +She parts their folds with a timid finger, + And shyly peeps at the waking world. + +The roystering West Wind flies to greet her, + And bids her haste, with a gleeful shout: +The quickening Saplings bend to meet her, + And the first green Grass-blades call, "Come out!" +So, venturing forth with a dainty neatness, + In gown of pink or in white arrayed, +She comes once more in her fresh completeness, + A modest, fair little Pilgrim Maid. + +Her fragrant petals, their beauties showing, + Creep out to sprinkle the hill and dell, +Like showers of Stars in the shadows glowing, + Or Snowflakes blossoming where they fell; +And the charmed Wood leaps into joyous blooming, + As though't were touched by a Fairy's ring, +And the glad Earth scents, in the rare perfuming, + The first sweet breath of the new-born Spring. + + * * * * * + +MAY MEMORIES + + To my office window, gray, + Come the sunbeams in their play, +Come the dancing, glancing sunbeams, airy fairies of the May; + Like a breath of summer-time, + Setting Memory's bells a-chime, +Till their jingle seems to mingle with the measure of my rhyme. + + And above the tramp of feet, + And the clamor of the street, +I can hear the thrush's singing, ringing high and clear and sweet,-- + Hear the murmur of the breeze + Through the bloom-starred apple trees, +And the ripples softly splashing and the dashing of the seas; + + See the shadow and the shine + Where the glossy branches twine, +And the ocean's sleepy tuning mocks the crooning in the pine; + Hear the catbird whistle shrill + In the bushes by the rill, +Where the violets toss and twinkle as they sprinkle vale and hill; + + Feel the tangled meadow-grass + On my bare feet as I pass; +See the clover bending over in a dew-bespangled mass; + See the cottage by the shore, + With the pansy beds before, +And the old familiar places and the faces at the door. + +[Illustration] + + Oh, the skies of blissful blue, + Oh, the woodland's verdant hue,-- +Oh, the lazy days of boyhood, when the world was fair and new! + Still to me your tale is told + In the summer's sunbeam's gold, +And my truant fancy straying, goes a-Maying as of old. + + * * * * * + +BIRDS'-NESTING TIME + +The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust + Through the dingy school-house pane, +A shining scimitar, free from rust, +That cuts the cloud of the drifting dust, + And scatters a golden rain; +And the boy at the battered desk within + Is dreaming a dream sublime, +For study's a wrong, and school a sin, +When the joys of woods and fields begin, + And it's just birds'-nesting time. + +He dreams of a nook by the world unguessed, + Where the thrush's song is sung, +And the dainty yellowbird's fairy nest, +Lined with the fluff from the cattail's crest, + 'Mid the juniper boughs is hung; +And further on, by the elder hedge, + Where the turtles come out to sleep, +The marsh-hen builds, by the brooklet's edge, +Her warm, wet home in the swampy sedge, + 'Mid the shadows so dark and deep. + +He knows of the spot by the old stone wall, + Where the sunlight dapples the glade, +And the sweet wild-cherry blooms softly fall, +And hid in the meadow-grass rank and tall, + The "Bob-white's" eggs are laid. +He knows, where the sea-breeze sobs and sings, + And the sand-hills meet the brine, +The clamorous crows, with their whirring wings, +Tell of their treasure that sways and swings + In the top of the tasselled pine. + + * * * * * + +And so he dreamed, with a happy face, + Till the noontide recess came, +And when't was over, ah, sad disgrace, +The teacher, seeing an empty place, + Marked "truant" against his name; +While he, forgetful of book or rule, + Sought only a tree to climb: +For where is the boy who remembers school +When the cowslip blows by the marshy + And it's just birds'-nesting time? + + * * * * * + +THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL + + Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming + Through the window, sets its gleaming, +With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall, + With its tassel torn and tattered, + And its blade, deep-bruised and battered, +Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall. + + None can tell its stirring story, + None can sing its deeds of glory, +None can say which cause it struck for, or from what limp hand it fell; + On the battle-field they found it, + Where the dead lay thick around it-- +Friend and foe--a gory tangle--tossed and torn by shot and shell. + + Who, I wonder, was its wearer, + Was its stricken soldier bearer? +Was he some proud Southern stripling, tall and straight and brave and true? + Dusky locks and lashes had he? + Or was he some Northern laddie, +Fresh and fair, with cheeks of roses, and with eyes and coat of blue? + + From New England's fields of daisies, + Or from Dixie's bowered mazes, +Rode he proudly forth to conflict? What, I wonder, was his name? + Did some sister, wife, or mother, + Mourn a husband, son, or brother? +Did some sweetheart look with longing for a love who never came? + + Fruitless question! Fate forever + Keeps its secret, answering never. +But the grim old blade shall blossom on this mild Memorial Day; + I will wreathe its hilt with roses + For the soldier who reposes +Somewhere 'neath the Southern grasses in his garb of blue or gray. + + May the flowers be fair above him, + May the bright buds bend and love him, +May his sleep be deep and dreamless till the last great bugle-call; + And may North and South be nearer + To each other's heart, and dearer, +For the memory of their heroes and the old swords on the wall. + + * * * * * + +NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE + +Pavements a-frying in street and in square, +Never a breeze in the blistering air, +Never a place where a fellow can run +Out of the shine of the sizzling sun: +"General Humidity" having his way, +Killing us off by the hundred a day; +Mercury climbing the tube like a shot,-- +Suffering Caesar! I tell you it's hot! + +Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck, +Necktie and bosom and wristbands a wreck, +Handkerchief dripping and worn to a shred +Mopping and scouring my face and my head; +Simply ablaze from my head to my feet, +Back all afire with the prickles of heat,-- +Not on my cuticle one easy spot,-- +Jiminy Moses! I tell you it's _hot_! + +Give me a fan and a seat in the shade, +Bring me a bucket of iced lemonade; +Dress me in naught but the thinnest of clothes, +Start up the windmill and turn on the hose: +Set me afloat from my toes to my chin, +Open the ice-box and fasten me in,-- +If it should freeze me, why, that matters not,-- +Brimstone and blazes! I tell you it's HOT! + + * * * * * + +[Illustration: "Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck."] + +SUMMER NIGHTS AT GRANDPA'S + +Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't they soft and still! +Just the curtains rustlin' on the window-sill, +And the wind a-blowin', warm and wet and sweet-- +Smellin' like the meadows or the fields of wheat; +Just the bullfrogs pipin' in amongst the grass, +Where the water's shinin' like a lookin'-glass; +Just a dog a-barkin' somewheres up along, +So far off his yelpin' 's like a kind of song. + +Summer nights at Grandpa's--hear the crickets sing, +And the water bubblin' down beside the spring; +Hear the cattle chewin' fodder in the shed, +And an owl a-hootin' high up overhead; +Hear the "way-off noises," faint and awful far-- +So mixed-up a feller do'n't know what they are-- +But so sort er lazy that they seem ter keep +Sayin' over 'n' over, "Sonny, go ter sleep." + +Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't it fun ter lay +In the early mornin' when it's gettin' day-- +When the sun is risin' and it's fresh and cool, +And you 're feelin' happy coz there ain't no school?-- +When you hear the crowin' as the rooster wakes, +And you think of breakfast and the buckwheat cakes; +Sleepin' in the city's too much fuss and noise; +Summer nights at Grandpa's are the things for boys. + + * * * * * + +GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS" + +Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe. + Out on the gnarled old tree, +Out where the robin redbreasts pipe, + And buzzes the bumblebee; +Swinging high on the bending bough, + Scenting the lazy breeze, +What is the gods' ambrosia now + To apples of gold like these? + +Ruddy the blush of their maiden cheeks + After the sunbeam's kiss-- +Every quivering leaflet speaks, + Telling a tale of bliss; +Telling of dainties hung about, + Each in a verdant wreath, +Shimmering satin all without, + Honey and cream beneath. + +Would ye haste to the banquet rare, + Taste of the feast sublime? +Brush from the brow the lines of care, + Scoff at the touch of Time? +Come in the glow of the olden days, + Come with a youthful face, +Come through the old familiar ways, + Up from the dear, old place. + +Barefoot, trip through the meadow lane, + Laughing at bruise and scratch; +Come, with your hands all rich with stain + Fresh from the blackberry patch; +Come where the orchard spreads its store + And the breath of the clover greets; +Quick! they are waiting you here once more,-- + Grandfather's "summer sweets." + +Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe, + Out on the gnarled, old tree-- +Out where the robin redbreasts pipe, + And buzzes the bumblebee; +Swinging high on the bending bough, + Scenting the lazy breeze, +What is the gods' ambrosia now + To apples of gold like these? + + * * * * * + +MIDSUMMER + +Sun like a furnace hung up overhead, +Burnin' and blazin' and blisterin' red; +Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep, +One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep; +Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still, +Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,--Labor +and laziness callin' to me: +"Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?" + +There's the old cornfield out there in the sun, +Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done; +There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout, +Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out; +But, there's the river, so clear and so cool, +There's the white lilies afloat on the pool, +Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree-- +"Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?" + +Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat, +Down by the river a robin sings sweet, +Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say: +"Who's the chump talkin' of _workin_' to-day?" +Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait +Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait; +I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know: +But, "Where's the fishin'-pole? Hang the old hoe!" + + * * * * * + +"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S" + +Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin, +With the grasses wet and shinin', and the air so clear and thin, +When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know +That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go"; +When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out, +And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about, +And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels, +Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels. + +There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe +When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe; +There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine, +And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine; +And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves, +Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves; +And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place, +And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face. + +Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass, +Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass, +Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat, +Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that; +And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane, +Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,-- +For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew +When _he_ went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too. + +Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll +Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul, +And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme +So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time; +And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near +That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here; +That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn, +But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration: boy looking at a turkey] + +NOVEMBER'S COME + +Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller! + Struttin' round so big and proud. +Pretty quick I guess your beller + Won't be goin' quite so loud. +Say, I'd run and hide, I bet you, + And I'd leave off eatin' some, +Else the choppin'-block'll get you,-- + Don't you know November's come? + +Don't you know that Grandma's makin' + Loads of mince and pun'kin pies? +Don't you smell those goodies cookin'? + Can't you see 'em? Where's your eyes? +Tell that rooster there that's crowin', + Cute folks now are keepin' mum; +_They_ don't show how fat they 're growin' + When they know November's come. + +'Member when you tried ter lick me? + Yes, you did, and hurt me, too! +Thought't was big ter chase and pick me,-- + Well, I'll soon be pickin' you. +Oh, I know you 're big and hearty, + So you needn't strut and drum,-- +Better make your will out, smarty, + 'Cause, you know, November's come. + +"Gobble! gobble!" oh, no matter! + Pretty quick you'll change your tune; +You'll be dead and in a platter, + And _I'll_ gobble pretty soon. +'F I was you I'd stop my puffin', + And I'd look most awful glum;-- +Hope they give you lots of stuffin'! + _Ain't_ you glad November's come? + + * * * * * + +THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME + +A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white, +The buildings blots of blackness, the windows gems of light, +A moon, now clear, now hidden, as in its headlong race +The north wind drags the cloud-wrack in tatters o'er its face; +Mailed twigs that click and clatter upon the tossing tree, +And, like a giant's chanting, the deep voice of the sea, +As 'mid the stranded ice-cakes the bursting breakers foam,-- +The old familiar picture--a winter night at home. + +The old familiar picture--the firelight rich and red, +The lamplight soft and mellow, the shadowed beams o'erhead; +And father with his paper, and mother, calm and sweet, +Mending the red yarn stockings stubbed through by careless feet. +The little attic bedroom, the window 'neath the eaves, +Decked by the Frost King's brushes with silvered sprays and leaves; +The rattling sash which gossips with idle gusts that roam +About the ice-fringed gables--the winter nights at home. + +What would I give to climb them--those narrow stairs so steep,-- +And reach that little chamber, and sleep a boy's sweet sleep! +What would I give to view it--that old house by the sea-- +Filled with the dear lost faces which made it home for me! +The sobbing wind sings softly the song of long ago, +And in that country churchyard the graves are draped in snow; +But there, beyond the arches of Heaven's star-jeweled dome, +Perhaps they know I'm dreaming of winter nights at home. + + * * * * * + +"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'" + +O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill, +And the frosty Christmas holly shines and sparkles on the hill, +And the Christmas sleigh-bells jingle and the Christmas laughter rings, +As the last stray shoppers hurry, takin' home the Christmas things; +And up yonder in the attic there's a little trundle bed +Where there's Christmas dreams a-dancin' through a sleepy, curly head; +And it's "Merry Christmas," Mary, once agin fer me and you, +With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue. + +'Tisn't silk, that little stockin', and it isn't much fer show, +And the darns are pretty plenty 'round about the heel and toe, +And the color's kind er faded, and it's sort er worn and old, +But it really is surprisin' what a lot of love 'twill hold; +And the little hand that hung it by the chimney there along +Has a grip upon our heartstrings that is mighty firm and strong; +So old Santy won't fergit it, though it isn't fine and new,-- +That plain little worsted stockin' hangin' up beside the flue. + +And the crops may fail and leave us with our plans all knocked ter smash, +And the mortgage may hang heavy, and the bills use up the cash, +But whenever comes the season, jest so long's we've got a dime, +There'll be somethin' in that stockin'--won't there, Mary?--every time. +And if in amongst our sunshine there's a shower or two of rain, +Why, we'll face it bravely smilin', and we'll try not ter complain, +Long as Christmas comes and finds us here together, me and you, +With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER + +You know the story--it's centuries old-- +How the Ant and the Grasshopper met, we're told, +On a blustering day, when the wind was cold + And the trees were bare and brown; +And the Grasshopper, being a careless blade, +Who all the summer had danced and played, +Now came to the rich old Ant for aid, + And the latter "turned him down." + +It's only fancy, but I suppose +That the Grasshopper wore his summer clothes, +And stood there kicking his frozen toes + And shaking his bones apart; +And the Ant, with a sealskin coat and hat, +Commanded the Grasshopper, brusque and flat, +To "Dance through the winter," and things like that, + Which he thought were "cute" and "smart." + +But, mind you, the Ant, all summer long, +Had heard the Grasshopper's merry song, +And had laughed with the rest of the happy throng + At the bubbling notes of glee; +And he said to himself, as his cash he lent, +Or started out to collect his rent, +"The shif'less fool do'n't charge a cent,-- + I'm getting the whole show free." + +I've never been told how the pair came out-- +The Grasshopper starved to death, no doubt, +And the Ant grew richer, and had the gout, + As most of his brethren do; +I know that it's better to save one's pelf, +And the Ant is considered a wise old elf, +But I like the Grasshopper more myself,-- + Though that is between we two. + + * * * * * + +THE CROAKER + +Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool, +Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool, +Where bushes over the water hung, +And grasses nodded and rushes swung-- +Just where the brook flowed out of the bog-- +There lived a gouty and mean old Frog, +Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak, +And do just nothing but croak and croak. + +'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know, +What _is_ the trouble down there below? +Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?" +The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot! +Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime, +For me to look at the livelong time. +'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke, +And voiced his woes in a mournful croak. + +"But you're looking _down!_" the Blackbird said. +"Look at the blossoms overhead; +Look at the lovely summer skies; +Look at the bees and butterflies-- +Look _up_, old fellow! Why, bless your soul, +You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!" +But still, with his gurgling sob and choke, +The Frog continued to croak and croak. + +And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near, +Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here: +Don't shed your tears over him, for he +Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be! +He's one of the kind who _won't_ be glad; +It makes him happy to think he's sad. +_I'll_ tell you something--and it's no joke-- +Don't waste your pity on those who croak!" + + * * * * * + +THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN + +Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy, +In the sunny little garden where I wandered when a boy! +Oh, the morning-glories twining 'mongst the shining sunflowers tall, +And the clematis a-tangle in the angle of the wall! +How the mignonette's sweet blooming was perfuming all the walks, +Where the hollyhocks stood proudly with their blossom-dotted stalks; +While the old-maids' pinks were nodding groups of gossips, here and there, +And the bluebells swung so lightly in the lazy, hazy air! + +Then the sleepy poppies, stooping low their drooping, drowsy heads, +And the modest young sweet-williams hiding in their shady beds! +By the edges of the hedges, where the spiders' webs were spun, +How the marigolds lay, yellow as the mellow summer sun +That made all the grass a-dapple 'neath the leafy apple tree, +Whence you heard the locust drumming and the humming of the bee; +While the soft breeze in the trellis, where the roses used to grow, +Sent the silken petals flying like a scented shower of snow! + +Oh, the quaint old-fashioned garden, and the pathways cool and sweet, +With the dewy branches splashing flashing jewels o'er my feet! +And the dear old-fashioned blossoms, and the old home where they grew, +And the mother-hands that plucked them, and the mother-love I knew! +Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast, +Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best; +And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know, +Like the sweet old-fashioned posies mother tended long ago. + + * * * * * + +THE LIGHT-KEEPER + +For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore; +For years the surge has tossed its kelp and wrack about my door; +I've heard the sea-wind sing its song in whispers 'round the place, +And fought it when it flung the sand, like needles, in my face. +I've seen the sun-rays turn the roof ter blist'rin', tarry coal; +I've seen the ice-drift clog the bay from foamin' shoal ter shoal; +I've faced the winter's snow and sleet, I've felt the summer's shower, +But every night I've lit the lamp up yonder in the tower. + +I've seen the sunset flood the earth with streams of rosy light, +And every foot of sea-line specked with twinklin' sails of white; +I've woke ter find the sky a mess of scud and smoky wreath, +A blind wind-devil overhead and hell let loose beneath. +And then ter watch the rollers pound on ledges, bars and rips, +And pray fer them that go, O Lord, down ter the sea in ships! +Ter see the lamp, when darkness comes, throw out its shinin' track, +And think of that one gleamin' speck in all the world of black. + +[Illustration: "It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty +right."] + +And often, through a night like that, I've waited fer the day +That broke and showed a lonesome sea, a sky all cold and gray; +And, may be, on the spit below, where sea-gulls whirl and screech, +I've seen a somethin' stretched among the fresh weed on the beach; +A draggled, frozen somethin', in the ocean's tangled scum, +That meant a woman waitin' fer a man who'd never come; +And all the drop of comfort in my sorrer I could git +Was this: "I done my best ter save; thank God, the lamp was lit." + +And there's lots of comfort, really, to a strugglin' mortal's breast +In the sayin', if it's truthful, of "I done my level best"; +It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right, +No matter if yer rule a land or if yer tend a light. +My lot is humble, but I've kept that lamp a-burnin' clear, +And so, I reckon, when I die I'll know which course ter steer; +The waves may roar around me and the darkness hide the view, +But the lights'll mark the channel and the Lord'll tow me through. + + * * * * * + +THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE + +It stands at the bend where the road has its end, + And the blackberries nod on the vine; +And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown, + Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine. +The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked, + And the grasses grow high at the door, +But hid in my heart is an altar, apart, + To the little old house by the shore. + +For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare, + With the blossoms that clustered above, +When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place + As she sang at her labor of love. +And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays + With the dust and the leaves on the floor, +Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet + In the little old house by the shore. + +And again in my ears, through the dream of the years, + They whisper, the playmates of old, +The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies, + The sister with ringlets of gold; +And Father comes late to the path at the gate, + As he did when the fishing was o'er, +And the echoes ring out, at our welcoming shout, + From the little old house by the shore. + +But the night-wind has blown and the vision has flown, + And the sound of the children is still, +And the shadowy mist, like a spirit, has kissed + The graves by the church on the hill; +But softly, afar, sing the waves on the bar, + A song of the sunshine of yore: +A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep + Near the little old house by the shore. + + * * * * * + +WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT + +When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance + Through the wiry sedge-grass near the shore; +How the ripples spark in the sunbeam's glance, + As they madly tumble the pebbles o'er! +The barnacled rocks emerging seem, + As their beards of seaweed are tossed about, +Like giants who wake from a troubled dream + And laugh for joy when the tide goes out. + +When the tide goes out, how the shining sands, + Like silver, glisten, and gleam, and glow; +How the sea-gulls whirl, in their joyous bands, + O'er the shoals where the breakers come and go! +The coal-black driftwood, gleaming wet, + Relic of by-gone vessel stout, +With its clinging shells, seems a bar of jet, + Studded with pearls, when the tide goes out. + +When the tide goes out, how the breezes blow + The nodding plumes of the pine-trees through; +How the far-off ships, like flakes of snow, + Are lightly sprinkled upon the blue! +The Sea, as he moves in his slow retreat, + Like a warrior struggling for each redoubt, +But with flashing lances the sand-bars meet + And drive him back, when the tide goes out. + +When the tide goes out, how each limpid pool + Reflects the sky and the fleecy cloud; +How the rills, like children set free from school, + Prattle and plash and sing aloud! +The shore-birds cheerily call, the while + They dart and circle in merry rout,-- +The face of the ocean seems to smile + And the earth to laugh, when the tide goes out. + +When the tide goes out, as the years roll by, + And Life sweeps on to the outer bar, +And I feel the chill of the depths that lie + Beyond the shoals where the breakers are, +I will not rail at a kindly Fate, + Or welcome Age with a peevish pout, +But still, with a heart of Youth, await + The final wave, when the tide goes out. + + * * * * * + +THE WATCHERS + +When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore, +And the tossing waves grow dim, and the white sails flash no more, +Then, over the shrouded sea, where the winding mist-wreaths creep, +The deep-voiced Watchers call, the Watchers who guard the Deep. + + * * * * * + +"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to the word I bring! +Toilers upon the sea, list to the Bell-buoy's ring! +List, as I clash and clang! list, as I toss and toll! +Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal +Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew, +And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the ship it slew. +Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear! +Toilers upon the sea, here is the shoal! Beware!" + +"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to me, one and all! +Toilers upon the sea, list to the Fog-horn's call! +List to my buzzing cry! list, as I growl and groan: +Here is the sullen shore where the white-toothed breakers moan; +Where the silky ripples run with the wolf-like wave behind, +To leap on the struggling wreck and worry and gnaw and grind, +To toss on the cruel crag the dead with his streaming hair! +Toilers upon the sea, here are the rocks! Beware!" + +"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to my stormy shriek! +Toilers upon the sea, the Whistling-buoy would speak! +List to my sobbing shout! list, for my word is brief: +Death is beneath me here! death on the sunken reef +Where the jagged ledge is hid and the slimy seaweeds grow, +And the long kelp streamers wave in the dark green depths below, +Where, under the shell-clad hulk, the gaunt shark makes his lair,-- +Toilers upon the sea, here is the reef! Beware!" + + * * * * * + +And then, o'er the silent sea, an answer from unseen lips, +Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound + ships,-- +A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,-- +"Thanks, O Guard of the Deep! Watchers, we hear! we hear!" + + * * * * * + +"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN" + +He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," + Ter sparkle in the sun; +He do'n't parade with gay cockade, + And posies in his gun; +He ain't no "pretty soldier boy," + So lovely, spick and span,-- +He wears a crust of tan and dust, + The Reg'lar Army man; + The marchin', parchin', + Pipe-clay starchin', +Reg'lar Army man. + +He ain't at home in Sunday-school, + Nor yet a social tea, +And on the day he gets his pay + He's apt to spend it free; +He ain't no temp'rance advocate, + He likes ter fill the "can," +He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough, + The Reg'lar Army man; + The r'arin', tearin', + Sometimes swearin', + Reg'lar Army man. + +No State'll call him "noble son," + He ain't no ladies' pet, +But, let a row start anyhow, + They'll send for him, you bet! +He "do'n't cut any ice" at all + In Fash'n's social plan,-- +He gits the job ter face a mob, + The Reg'lar Army man; + The millin', drilling + Made fer killin', + Reg'lar Army man. + +[Illustration: "They ain't no tears shed over him. When he goes off +ter war."] + +They ain't no tears shed over him + When he goes off ter war, +He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach" + From mayor or governor; +He packs his little knapsack up + And trots off in the van, +Ter start the fight and start it right, + The Reg'lar Army man; + The rattlin', battlin', + Colt or Gatlin', + Reg'lar Army man. + +He makes no fuss about the job, + He do'n't talk big or brave,-- +He knows he's in ter fight and win, + Or help fill up a grave; +He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but + He does the best he can, +And he's the chap that wins the scrap, + The Reg'lar Army man; + The dandy, handy, + Cool and sandy, + Reg'lar Army man. + + * * * * * + +FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY + +A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell, +Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell; +A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread, +With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red; +Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose +A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose, +The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk, +Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work. + +Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown, +And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down; +And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare, +And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air; +Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet, +He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street; +Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade, +But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid. + +Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain +To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane; +Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway, +And barely leaps to safety as the crashing roof gives way; +Sometimes, penned in and stifling fast, he waits, with courage grim, +And hears the willing axes ply that strive to rescue him; +But sometime, somewhere, somehow, help may come a bit too late +For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight. + +And then the morning paper may have half a column filled +With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed"; +And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead, +And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed +And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall +On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball; +But, maybe, on the other side, on God's great roll of fame, +Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same. + + * * * * * + +LITTLE BARE FEET + +Little bare feet, sunburned and brown, +Patterin', patterin' up and down, +Dancin' over the kitchen floor, +Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,-- +Right on the go from morn till late, +From the garden path ter the old front gate,-- +There hain't no music ter me so sweet +As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet. + +When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea, +Them little bare feet trot there with me, +And a shrill little voice I love'll say: +"Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day." +And I know when my dory comes ter land, +There's a spry little form somewheres on hand; +And the very fust sound my ears'll meet +Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet. + +Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed +Yer prints of love in my worn old breast! +And I sometimes think, when I come ter die, +'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by; +That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear +That little child's voice, so sweet and clear; +That even there, on the golden street, +I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet. + + * * * * * + +A RAINY DAY + +Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,-- +Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; +If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin', +And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'. + +Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water dashin' +From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splashin', +With the leaves and twigs around, shinin' wet and drippin', +Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'. + +[Illustration] + +Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder, +Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder, +Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges, +Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges. + +Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over, +Like ter see the di'mon's shine on the bendin' clover, +Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin' +And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'. + +But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin', +And myself, with chores all done, settin' round and dreaming +With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin', +And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'. + +Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together, +Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; +If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining +And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'. + + * * * * * + +THE HAND-ORGAN BALL + +When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down. + And hushed is the roar and the din, +When Evening is cooling the sweltering town, + 'Tis then that the frolics begin; +And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement, + Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall, +'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night, + They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball. + +'Tis not a society function, you see, + But quite an informal affair; +The costumes are varied, yet simple and free, + And gems are exceedingly rare; +The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching, + And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all. +In a jacket, they say, one's not rated _au fait_ + By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball. + +There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "shines"; + There's Beppo who peddles "banan'"; +There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines-- + His skin has a very deep tan; +There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles, + And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall; +She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand," + She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball. + +Professor Spaghetti the music supplies, + From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime; +His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies, + Is merrily thumping the rollicking time; +The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper, + The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall, +And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in + To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball. + +The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street, + The mothers lean out from the windows to see, +While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet, + And tenement babies crow loud in their glee; +And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,-- + Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;-- +There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light, + In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +"JIM" + +Want to see me, hey, old chap? +Want to curl up in my lap, + Do yer, Jim? +See him sit and purr and blink-- +Don't yer bet he knows I think + Lots of him? + +Little kitten, nothin' more, +When we found him at the door. + In the cold, +And the baby, half undressed, +Picked him up, and he was jest + All she'd hold. + +Put him up fer me to see, +And she says, so 'cute, says she, + "Baby's cat." +And we never had the heart +Fer to keep them two apart + After that. + +Seem's if _I must_ hear the beat +Of her toddlin' little feet + 'Round about; +Seem to see her tucked in bed, +With the kitten's furry head + Peekin' out. + +Seem's if I could hear her say, +In the cunnin' baby way + That she had: +"Say 'dood-night' to Jimmie, do, +'Coz if 'oo fordetted to + He'd feel bad." + +Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy? +Day do'n't seem to bring no joy + With the dawn; +Look's if night was everywhere,-- +But there's glory over there + Where she's gone. + +Seems as if my heart would break, +But I love yer for her sake, + Don't I, Jim? +See him sit and purr and blink, +Don't yer bet he knows I think + Lots of him? + + * * * * * + +IN MOTHER'S ROOM + +In Mother's room still stands the chair +Beside the sunny window, where + The flowers she loved now lightly stir + In April's breeze, as though they were +Forlorn without her loving care. + +Her books, her work-box, all are there, +And still the snowy curtains bear + The soft, sweet scent of lavender + In Mother's room. + +Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair, +Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare, + On me your fragrant peace confer, + Make my life sweet with thoughts of her, +As lavender makes sweet the air + In Mother's room. + + * * * * * + +SUNSET-LAND + +Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,-- + If you look, as the sun sinks low, +Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies, + Each one with its crest aglow, +O'er the rosy sea, where the purple isles + Have beaches of golden sand, +To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white, +You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light + At the harbor of Sunset-land. + +It's a wonderful place, little boy, little boy, + And its city is Sugarplum Town, +Where the slightest breeze through the candy trees + Will tumble the bon-bons down; +Where the fountains sprinkle their lemonade + In syrupy, cooling streams; +And they pave each street with a goody, sweet, +And mark them off in a manner neat, + With borders of chocolate creams. + +It's a children's town, little boy, little boy, + With a great big jail, you know, +Where "grown-ups" stay who are heard to say, + "Now don't!" or "You mustn't do so." +And half of the time it is Fourth of July, + And 'tis Christmas all the rest, +With plenty of toys that will make a noise, +For Santa is king of this realm of joys, + And knows what a lad likes best. + +Shall I tell you the way, little boy, little boy, + To get to this country, bright? +When you're snug in bed, and your prayers are said, + You must shut up your eyelids tight; +And wait till the sleepy old Sandman comes + And gives you his kindly hand, +And then you'll float in a drowsy boat, +O'er the sea of rose to the cloud, remote, + And the wonderful Sunset-land. + + * * * * * + +THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE + +Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks, +Your valleys forest laden, your cliffs where Echo speaks; +And ye, who by the prairies your childhood's joys have seen, +Sing of your waving grasses, your velvet miles of green: +But when my memory wanders down to the dear old home +I hear, amid my dreaming, the seething of the foam, +The wet wind through the pine trees, the sobbing crash and roar, +The mighty surge and thunder of the surf along the shore. + +I see upon the sand-dunes the beach-grass sway and swing, +I see the whirling sea-birds sweep by on graceful wing, +I see the silver breakers leap high on shoal and bar, +And hear the bell-buoy tolling his lonely note afar. +The green salt-meadows fling me their salty, sweet perfume, +I hear, through miles of dimness, the watchful fog-horn boom; +Once more, beneath the blackness of night's great roof-tree high, +The wild geese chant their marches athwart the arching sky. + +The dear old Cape! I love it! I love its hills of sand, +The sea-wind singing o'er it, the seaweed on its strand; +The bright blue ocean 'round it, the clear blue sky o'erhead; +The fishing boats, the dripping nets, the white sails filled and spread;-- +For each heart has its picture, and each its own home song, +The sights and sounds which move it when Youth's fair memories throng; +And when, down dreamland pathways, a boy, I stroll once more, +I hear the mighty music of the surf along the shore. + + * * * * * + +AT EVENTIDE + +The tired breezes are tucked to rest + In the cloud-beds far away; +The waves are pressed to the placid breast + Of the dreaming, gleaming bay; +The shore line swims in a hazy heat, + Asleep in the sea and sky, +And the muffled beat where the breakers meet + Is a soft, sweet lullaby. + +The pine-clad hill has a crimson crown + Of glittering sunset glows; +The roofs of brown in the distant town + Are bathed in a blush of rose; +The radiant ripples shine and shift + In shimmering shreds of gold; +The seaweeds lift and drowse and drift, + And the jellies fill and fold. + +The great sun sinks, and the gray fog heaps + His cloak on the silent sea; +The night-wind creeps where the ocean sleeps, + And the wavelets wake in glee; +Across the bay, like a silver star, + There twinkles the harbor-light, +And faint and far from the outer bar + The sea-birds call "Good-night." + + * * * * * + +INDEX TO FIRST LINES + + * * * * * + +A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell + +A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes + +A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white + +Almost every other evenin', jest as reg'lar as the clock + +"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that + +Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,-- + +For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore + +From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note + +Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe + +He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere" + +Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller! + +Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair + +I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind + +I never was naturally vicious; + +I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent + +I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me + +I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty + +I'm pretty nearly certain that 't was 'bout two weeks ago,-- + +I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap + +In Mother's room still stands the chair + +In the gleam and gloom of the April weather + +It's a wonderful world we're in, my dear + +It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed + +It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill + +It stands at the bend where the road has its end + +Jason White has come ter town + +Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road + +Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,-- + +Little bare feet, sunburned and brown, + +Little foot, whose lightest pat + +Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run out-doors and play; + +My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold + +My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three + +My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at; + +Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation + +O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill + +O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me + +Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they 're with us once agin + +Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago + +Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town + +Oh, the song of the Sea-- + +Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth + +Oh, the wild November wind + +Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair + +Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy + +Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town + +On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm + +Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool + +Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys + +Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer; + +Pavements a-frying in street and in square + +Say, I've got a little brother + +She's little and modest and purty + +Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late + +South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth; + +Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't they soft and still! + +Sun like a furnace hung up overhead + +Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone + +The fog was so thick yer could cut it + +The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust + +The tired breezes are tucked to rest + +To my office window, gray + +Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest + +Want to see me, hey, old chap? + +_We'd_ never thought of takin' 'em,--'twas Mary Ann's idee,-- + +When Ezry, that's my sister's son, came home from furrin parts + +When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes! + +When the farm work's done, at the set of sun + +When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore + +When the hot summer daylight is dyin' + +When the Lord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters + +When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance + +When the toil of day is over + +When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down + +Where leap the long Atlantic swells + +Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming + +Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks + +You know the story--it's centuries old-- + + +THE END + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse, by +Joseph C. Lincoln + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11351 *** |