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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15079-8.txt b/15079-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3be9596 --- /dev/null +++ b/15079-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5618 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other +Poems, by James Whitcomb Riley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems + +Author: James Whitcomb Riley + +Release Date: February 16, 2005 [EBook #15079] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREEN FIELDS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS + + + + + +JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + + + + + +INDIANAPOLIS + +THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY + +PUBLISHERS + + + + +COPYRIGHT 1893 + +BY JAMES W. RILEY + + + + + + + + +TO MY SISTERS + +ELVA AND MARY + + + + + CONTENTS. + + PROEM + + Artemus of Michigan, The + As My Uncle Used to Say + At Utter Loaf + August + Autumn + + Bedouin + Being His Mother + Blind + Blossoms on the Trees, The + By Any Other Name + By Her White Bed + + Chant of the Cross-Bearing Child, The + Country Pathway, A + Cup of Tea, A + Curse of the Wandering Foot, The + Cyclone, The + + Dan Paine + Dawn, Noon and Dewfall + Discouraging Model, A + Ditty of No Tone, A + Don Piatt of Mac-o-chee + Dot Leedle Boy + Dream of Autumn, A + + Elizabeth + Envoy + + Farmer Whipple--Bachelor + Full Harvest, A + + Glimpse of Pan, A + Go, Winter + + Her Beautiful Eyes + Hereafter, The + His Mother's Way + His Vigil + Home at Night + Home-Going, The + Hoodoo, The + Hoosier Folk-Child, The + How John Quit the Farm + + Iron Horse, The + Iry and Billy and Jo + + Jack the Giant-Killer + Jap Miller + John Alden and Percilly + John Brown + John McKeen + Judith + June at Woodruff + Just to Be Good + + Last Night--And This + Let Us Forget + Little Fat Doctor, The + Longfellow + Lounger, A + + Monument for the Soldiers, A + Mr. What's-His-Name + My Friend + + Nessmuk + North and South + + Old Retired Sea Captain, The + Old Winters on the Farm + Old Year and the New, The + On the Banks o' Deer Crick + Out of Nazareth + + Passing of A Heart, The + Plaint Human, The + + Quarrel, The + Quiet Lodger, The + + Reach Your Hand to Me + Right Here at Home + Rival, The + Rivals, The; or the Showman's Ruse + Robert Burns Wilson + Rose, The + + September Dark + Shoemaker, The + Singer, The + Sister Jones's Confession + Sleep + Some Scattering Remarks of Bub's + Song of Long Ago, A + Southern Singer, A + Suspense + + Thanksgiving + Their Sweet Sorrow + Them Flowers + To an Importunate Ghost + To Hear Her Sing + Tom Van Arden + To the Serenader + Tugg Martin + Twins, The + + Wandering Jew, The + Watches of the Night, The + Water Color, A + We to Sigh Instead of Sing + What Chris'mas Fetched the Wigginses + When Age Comes On + Where-Away + While the Musician Played + Wife-Blesséd, The + Wraith of Summertime, A + + + + + GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS + + + + + GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS + + + + + Ho! green fields and running brooks! + Knotted strings and fishing-hooks + Of the truant, stealing down + Weedy backways of the town. + + Where the sunshine overlooks, + By green fields and running brooks, + All intruding guests of chance + With a golden tolerance, + + Cooing doves, or pensive pair + Of picnickers, straying there-- + By green fields and running brooks, + Sylvan shades and mossy nooks! + + And--O Dreamer of the Days, + Murmurer of roundelays + All unsung of words or books, + Sing green fields and running brooks! + + + + + A COUNTRY PATHWAY. + + I come upon it suddenly, alone-- + A little pathway winding in the weeds + That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, + I wander as it leads. + + Full wistfully along the slender way, + Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, + I take the path that leads me as it may-- + Its every choice is mine. + + A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, + Is startled by my step as on I fare-- + A garter-snake across the dusty trail + Glances and--is not there. + + Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos + And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, + Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose + When autumn winds arise. + + The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts + Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, + And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts + Still onward, beckoning me. + + And though it needs must lure me mile on mile + Out of the public highway, still I go, + My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, + Allure me even so. + + Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went + At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, + And was not found again, though Heaven lent + His mother ail the stars + + With which to seek him through that awful night. + O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise + But well might miss their glitter in the light + Of tears in mother-eyes! + + So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- + My _avant-courier_ must be obeyed! + Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, + Invites me to invade + + A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide + Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, + And stumbles down again, the other side, + To gambol there awhile + + In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead + I see it running, while the clover-stalks + Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- + "You dog our country-walks + + And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- + We will not suffer tamely what you do + And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sic + Our bumble-bees on you!" + + But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- + The more determined on my wayward quest, + As some bright memory a moment dawns + A morning in my breast-- + + Sending a thrill that hurries me along + In faulty similes of childish skips, + Enthused with lithe contortions of a song + Performing on my lips. + + In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- + Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands, + Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, + Put berries in my hands: + + Or, the path climbs a boulder--wades a slough-- + Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, + Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou + On old tree-trunks and snags: + + Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool + Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, + With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool + That its foundation laid. + + I pause a moment here to bend and muse, + With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where + A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, + Or wildly oars the air, + + As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- + The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- + Swings pivoting about, with wary look + Of low and cunning greed. + + Till, filled with other thought, I turn again + To where the pathway enters in a realm + Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign + Of towering oak and elm. + + A puritanic quiet here reviles + The almost whispered warble from the hedge, + And takes a locust's rasping voice and files + The silence to an edge. + + In such a solitude my somber way + Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom + Of his own shadows--till the perfect day + Bursts into sudden bloom, + + And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, + Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, + And where the valley's dint in Nature's face + Dimples a smiling world. + + And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, + I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, + Where, like a gem in costly setting held, + The old log cabin gleams. + + * * * * * + + O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on + Adown your valley way, and run before + Among the roses crowding up the lawn + And thronging at the door,-- + + And carry up the echo there that shall + Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay + The household out to greet the prodigal + That wanders home to-day. + + + + + ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK. + + On the banks o' Deer Crick! There's the place fer me!-- + Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be:-- + See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky, + And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by; + Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees-- + And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze! + Well--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea: + On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me! + + On the banks o' Deer Crick--mild er two from town-- + 'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down,-- + Like to git up in there--'mongst the sycamores-- + And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours: + Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line, + Where the fish is jes so thick you kin see 'em shine + As they flicker round yer bait, _coaxin_' you to jerk, + Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as _work_! + + On the banks o' Deer Crick!--Allus my delight + Jes to be around there--take it day er night!-- + Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day-- + Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way!-- + Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight; + And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at night-- + Stars up through the tree-tops--er in the crick below,-- + And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from the old b'y-o! + + Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to "Johnson's Hole," + And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin' pole; + Have yer "dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut-and-dry"-- + Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye,-- + Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade-- + Like the Good Book tells us--"where there're none to make afraid!" + Well!--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea-- + On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me! + + + + + A DITTY OF NO TONE. + + _Piped to the Spirit of John Keats._ + + I. + + Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise + A fitting melody--an air sublime,-- + A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze-- + The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme: + A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed + With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers + Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of-- + Such thoughts as might be hymned + To thee from this midsummer land of ours + Through shower and sunshine blent for very love. + + + II. + + Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough + Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill + Of best-remembered birds hath something new + In cadence for the hearing--lingering still + Through all the open day that lies beyond; + Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks, + Majestic still in pathos of decay,-- + The road--the wayside pond + Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks + His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away. + + + III. + + And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould, + Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long + Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold, + And braid them in the meshes of my song; + And with them I would tangle wheat and rye, + And wisps of greenest grass the katydid + Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily, + As harvest-hands went by; + And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid, + A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee. + + + + + A WATER-COLOR. + + Low hidden in among the forest trees + An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep + In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these + A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep + Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat-- + A little wicker flask tossed into that. + + A sense of utter carelessness and grace + Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene,-- + As if the June, all hoydenish of face, + Had romped herself to sleep there on the green, + And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream + Were just romantic parcels of her dream. + + + + + THE CYCLONE. + + So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn + In conference with themselves.--Intense--intense + Seemed everything;--the summer splendor on + The sight,--magnificence! + + A babe's life might not lighter fail and die + Than failed the sunlight--Though the hour was noon, + The palm of midnight might not lighter lie + Upon the brow of June. + + With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings + Of swallows--gone the instant afterward-- + While from the elms there came strange twitterings, + Stilled scarce ere they were heard. + + The river seemed to shiver; and, far down + Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores + Lean inward closer, under the vast frown + That weighed above the shores. + + Then was a roar, born of some awful burst!-- + And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path-- + Flung--he or I--out of some space accurst + As of Jehovah's wrath: + + Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer, + Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done, + And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there, + The birds sang in the sun. + + + + + WHERE-AWAY. + + O the Lands of Where-Away! + Tell us--tell us--where are they? + Through the darkness and the dawn + We have journeyed on and on-- + From the cradle to the cross-- + From possession unto loss,-- + Seeking still, from day to day, + For the lands of Where-Away. + + When our baby-feet were first + Planted where the daisies burst, + And the greenest grasses grew + In the fields we wandered through, + On, with childish discontent, + Ever on and on we went, + Hoping still to pass, some day, + O'er the verge of Where-Away. + + Roses laid their velvet lips + On our own, with fragrant sips; + But their kisses held us not, + All their sweetness we forgot;-- + Though the brambles in our track + Plucked at us to hold us back-- + "Just ahead," we used to say, + "Lie the Lands of Where-Away." + + Children at the pasture-bars, + Through the dusk, like glimmering stars, + Waved their hands that we should bide + With them over eventide: + Down the dark their voices failed + Falteringly, as they hailed, + And died into yesterday-- + Night ahead and--Where-Away? + + Twining arms about us thrown-- + Warm caresses, all our own, + Can but stay us for a spell-- + Love hath little new to tell + To the soul in need supreme, + Aching ever with the dream + Of the endless bliss it may + Find in Lands of Where-Away! + + + + + THE HOME-GOING. + + We must get home--for we have been away + So long it seems forever and a day! + And O so very homesick we have grown, + The laughter of the world is like a moan + In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain,-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home: It hurts so, staying here, + Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, + And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, + When most our lack, the least our hope of rest + When most our need of joy, the more our pain-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home: All is so quiet there: + The touch of loving hands on brow and hair-- + Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild--- + The lost love of the mother and the child + Restored in restful lullabies of rain.-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse, + Time humors us and tiptoes through the house, + And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, + With dreams--not tear-drops--brimming our clenched eyes,-- + Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home; and, unremembering there + All gain of all ambitions otherwhere, + Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown + Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.-- + Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + + + + HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM. + + Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, + Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on-- + And then, I want to say to you, we _needed_ he'p about, + As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out! + + A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found + Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!-- + The house was small--but plenty-big we found it from the day + That John--our only livin' son--packed up and went way. + + You see, we tuck sich pride in John--his mother more 'n me-- + That's natchurul; but _both_ of us was proud as proud could be; + Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright, + And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight. + + He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart + As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start; + And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up to say-- + "Jest listen, David!--listen!--Johnny's beat the birds to-day!" + + High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,-- + He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn: + He'd ast more plaguey questions in a mortal-minute here + Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year! + + And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell; + And "The Childern of the Abbey"--w'y, he knowed that book as well + At fifteen as his parents!--and "The Pilgrim's Progress," too-- + Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through! + + At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance-- + That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance; + And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on, + Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone. + + But--I missed him--w'y of course I did!--The Fall and Winter through + I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two, + Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin, + But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home agin. + + He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the Sund'y out; + And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about: + But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than before, + And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more. + + And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh, + He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie, + And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone; + And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own. + + But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home + And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come; + But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down, + When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in town. + + "But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course + I will," says he.-- + "This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer me; + I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and gay, + "And town's the place fer me, and I'm a-goin' right away!" + + And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate, + A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight. + I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so, + And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine--and let him go! + + I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about + The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;-- + I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's hand, + And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand. + + And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore! + With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door, + Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more--- + Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store! + + The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write + A letter to his mother, savin' that his work was light, + And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit-- + Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it. + + And sometimes he would write and ast how _I_ was gittin' on, + And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone; + And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock, + And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk. + + And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home, + Fer business would, of course be dull in town.--But _didn't_ come:-- + We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade + They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why he staid. + + And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word-- + Exceptin' what the neighbors brung who'd been to town and heard + What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire + If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher. + + And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away, + And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day! + The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit, + The wind a-howlin' round the house--it makes me creepy yit! + + And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the prongs + Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs, + And Mother sayin', "_David! David!_" in a' undertone, + As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown. + + "I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother said, + A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,-- + "And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh; + And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--" "Who'll eat 'em?" I-says-I. + + "The cramberries is drippin-sweet," says Mother, runnin' on, + P'tendin' not to hear me;--"and somehow I thought of John + All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was + His favour--he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose he does?" + + "Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile-- + "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!" + And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant + And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content. + + "It's _me_," he says--"your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand; + Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand + How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we + Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!" + + * * * * * * + + Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, + Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on; + And then, I want to say to you, we _need_ sich he'p about, + As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out! + + + + + NORTH AND SOUTH. + + Of the North I wove a dream, + All bespangled with the gleam + Of the glancing wings of swallows + Dipping ripples in a stream, + That, like a tide of wine, + Wound through lands of shade and shine + Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine. + + And where orchard-boughs were bent + Till their tawny fruitage blent + With the golden wake that marked the + Way the happy reapers went; + Where the dawn died into noon + As the May-mists into June, + And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon. + + Of the South I dreamed: And there + Came a vision clear and fair + As the marvelous enchantments + Of the mirage of the air; + And I saw the bayou-trees, + With their lavish draperies, + Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees. + + Peering from lush fens of rice, + I beheld the Negro's eyes, + Lit with that old superstition + Death itself can not disguise; + And I saw the palm tree nod + Like an oriental god, + And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod, + + And I dreamed that North and South, + With a sigh of dew and drouth, + Blew each unto the other + The salute of lip and mouth; + And I wakened, awed and thrilled-- + Every doubting murmur stilled + In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled. + + + + + THE IRON HORSE. + + No song is mine of Arab steed-- + My courser is of nobler blood, + And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, + And greater strength and hardihood + Than ever cantered wild and free + Across the plains of Araby. + + Go search the level desert-land + From Sana on to Samarcand-- + Wherever Persian prince has been + Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin, + And I defy you there to point + Me out a steed the half so fine-- + From tip of ear to pastern-joint-- + As this old iron horse of mine. + + You do not know what beauty is-- + You do not know what gentleness + His answer is to my caress!-- + Why, look upon this gait of his,-- + A touch upon his iron rein-- + He moves with such a stately grace + The sunlight on his burnished mane + Is barely shaken in its place; + And at touch he changes pace, + And, gliding backward, stops again. + + And talk of mettle--Ah! my friend, + Such passion smoulders in his breast + That when awakened it will send + A thrill of rapture wilder than + Ere palpitated heart of man + When flaming at its mightiest. + And there's a fierceness in his ire-- + A maddened majesty that leaps + Along his veins in blood of fire, + Until the path his vision sweeps + Spins out behind him like a thread + Unraveled from the reel of time, + As, wheeling on his course sublime, + The earth revolves beneath his tread. + + Then stretch away, my gallant steed! + Thy mission is a noble one: + You bear the father to the son, + And sweet relief to bitter need; + You bear the stranger to his friends; + You bear the pilgrim to the shrine, + And back again the prayer he sends + That God will prosper me and mine,-- + The star that on thy forehead gleams + Has blossomed in our brightest dreams. + Then speed thee on thy glorious race! + The mother waits thy ringing pace; + The father leans an anxious ear + The thunder of thy hoofs to hear; + The lover listens, far away, + To catch thy keen exultant neigh; + And, where thy breathings roll and rise, + The husband strains his eager eyes, + And laugh of wife and baby-glee + Ring out to greet and welcome thee. + Then stretch away! and when at last + The master's hand shall gently check + Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, + The world will pat thee on the neck. + + + + + HIS MOTHER'S WAY + + Tomps 'ud allus haf to say + Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."-- + _He_ lived hard-like--never jined + Any church of any kind.-- + "It was Mother's way," says he, + "To be good enough fer _me_ + And her too,--and certinly + Lord has heerd _her_ pray!" + Propped up on his dyin' bed,-- + "Shore as Heaven's overhead, + I'm a-goin' there," he said--- + "It was Mother's way." + + + + + JAP MILLER. + + Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit! + When _he_ starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!-- + 'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else + But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts: + He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax, + And prove the pore man pays 'em all--and them's about the fac's!-- + Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball-- + Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all. + + And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer + And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer.-- + There's where the feller's strength lays,--he's so + common-like and plain,-- + They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you--nary grain! + They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head, + And did n't make no differunce what anybody said,-- + He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes; + But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes. + + He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last campaign + He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain, + And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust, + And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd! + He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know, + Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show! + And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate + Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State! + + W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun, + Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run! + Do n't matter what _his_ views is, when he states the same to you, + They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two: + You _can't_ take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense + In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.-- + The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does, + And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz! + + + + + A SOUTHERN SINGER. + + Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls." + + Herein are blown from out the South + Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- + As sweet in voice as, in perfume, + The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. + + Such sumptuous languor lures the sense-- + Such luxury of indolence-- + The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, + With water-lilies watching her. + + You waken, thrilling at the trill + Of some wild bird that seems to spill + The silence full of winey drips + Of song that Fancy sips and sips. + + Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough + The chipmunk stripes himself from view, + You pause to lop a creamy spray + Of elder-blossoms by the way. + + Or where the morning dew is yet + Gray on the topmost rail, you set + A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet + Your vaulting shadow in the wheat. + + On lordly swards, of suave incline, + Entessellate with shade and shine, + You shall misdoubt your lowly birth, + Clad on as one of princely worth: + + The falcon on your wrist shall ride-- + Your milk-white Arab side by side + With one of raven-black.--You fain + Would kiss the hand that holds the rein. + + Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer! + Sing us back home--from there to here; + Grant your high grace and wit, but we + Most honor your simplicity.-- + + Herein are blown from out the South + Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- + As sweet in voice as, in perfume, + The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. + + + + + A DREAM OF AUTUMN. + + Mellow hazes, lowly trailing + Over wood and meadow, veiling + Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing + Sailor-like to foreign lands; + And the north-wind overleaping + Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping + Wrecks of roses where the weeping + Willows wring their helpless hands. + + Flared, like Titan torches flinging + Flakes of flame and embers, springing + From the vale the trees stand swinging + In the moaning atmosphere; + While in dead'ning-lands the lowing + Of the cattle, sadder growing, + Fills the sense to overflowing + With the sorrow of the year. + + Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter + Sings the brook in rippled meter + Under boughs that lithely teeter + Lorn birds, answering from the shores + Through the viny, shady-shiny + Interspaces, shot with tiny + Flying motes that fleck the winy + Wave-engraven sycamores. + + Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled + With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled + Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled + Over Harvest's battle-piain; + And the sudden whir and whistle + Of the quail that, like a missile, + Whizzes over thorn and thistle, + And, a missile, drops again. + + Muffled voices, hid in thickets + Where the redbird stops to stick its + Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets + Of the truant's rustic trap; + And the sound of laughter ringing + Where, within the wild-vine swinging, + Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging + Purple clusters in her lap. + + Rich as wine, the sunset flashes + Round the tilted world, and dashes + Up the sloping west and splashes + Red foam over sky and sea-- + Till my dream of Autumn, paling + In the splendor all-prevailing, + Like a sallow leaf goes sailing + Down the silence solemnly. + + + + + TOM VAN ARDEN. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Our warm fellowship is one + Far too old to comprehend + Where its bond was first begun: + Mirage-like before my gaze + Gleams a land of other days, + Where two truant boys, astray, + Dream their lazy lives away. + + There's a vision, in the guise + Of Midsummer, where the Past + Like a weary beggar lies + In the shadow Time has cast; + And as blends the bloom of trees + With the drowsy hum of bees, + Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + All the pleasures we have known + Thrill me now as I extend + This old hand and grasp your own-- + Feeling, in the rude caress, + All affection's tenderness; + Feeling, though the touch be rough, + Our old souls are soft enough. + + So we'll make a mellow hour: + Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- + Warp your face, if it be sour, + I can spare a smile from mine; + If it sharpen up your wit, + Let me feel the edge of it-- + I have eager ears to lend, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? + Are we all that we pretend + In the jolly life we lead?-- + Bachelors, we must confess, + Boast of "single blessedness" + To the world, but not alone-- + Man's best sorrow is his own! + + And the saddest truth is this,-- + Life to us has never proved + What we tasted in the kiss + Of the women we have loved: + Vainly we congratulate + Our escape from such a fate + As their lying lips could send, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend! + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, + Ripen sweetest, I contend, + As the frost falls over them: + Your regard for me to-day + Makes November taste of May, + And through every vein of rhyme + Pours the blood of summertime. + + When our souls are cramped with youth + Happiness seems far away + In the future, while, in truth, + We look back on it to-day + Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- + "Better to have loved and lost!" + Broken hearts are hard to mend, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + I grow prosy, and you tire; + Fill the glasses while I bend + To prod up the failing fire . . . + You are restless:--I presume + There's a dampness in the room.-- + Much of warmth our nature begs, + With rheumatics in our legs! . . . + + Humph! the legs we used to fling + Limber-jointed in the dance, + When we heard the fiddle ring + Up the curtain of Romance, + And in crowded public halls + Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls.-- + _Feats of mountebanks, depend_!-- + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Pardon, then, this theme of mine: + While the fire-light leaps to lend + Higher color to the wine,-- + I propose a health to those + Who have _homes_, and home's repose, + Wife- and child-love without end! + . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + + + + JUST TO BE GOOD. + + Just to be good-- + This is enough--enough! + O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, + Do we not feel how more than any gold + Would be the blameless life we led of old + While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss? + Ah! though we miss + All else but this, + To be good is enough! + + It is enough-- + Enough--just to be good! + To lift our hearts where they are understood; + To let the thirst for worldly power and place + Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face + With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. + Ah! though we miss + All else but this, + To be good is enough! + + + + + HOME AT NIGHT. + + When chirping crickets fainter cry, + And pale stars blossom in the sky, + And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom + And blurred the butterfly: + + When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, + And up the tiger-lily stalk + The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls + And glimmers down the garden-walls: + + When buzzing things, with double wings + Of crisp and raspish flutterings, + Go whizzing by so very nigh + One thinks of fangs and stings:-- + + O then, within, is stilled the din + Of crib she rocks the baby in, + And heart and gate and latch's weight + Are lifted--and the lips of Kate. + + + + + THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. + + The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung-- + Unlettered all of mind and tongue; + Unmastered, unmolested--made + Most wholly frank and unafraid: + Untaught of any school--unvexed + Of law or creed--all unperplexed-- + Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled, + An all imperfect-perfect child-- + A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you + And I do tardy honor to, + And so, profane the sanctities + Of our most sacred memories. + Who, growing thus from boy to man, + That dares not be American? + Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz-- + Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does. + + The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not + Much wider than the stable-lot + Between the house and highway fence + That bounds the home his father rents. + His playmates mostly are the ducks + And chickens, and the boy that "shucks + Corn by the shock," and talks of town, + And whether eggs are "up" or "down," + And prophesies in boastful tone + Of "owning horses of his own," + And "being his own man," and "when + He gets to be, what he'll do then."-- + Takes out his jack-knife dreamily + And makes the Folk-Child two or three + Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span + Of horses and a little man. + + The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise + And wide and round as Brownies' eyes: + The smile they wear is ever blent + With all-expectant wonderment,-- + On homeliest things they bend a look + As rapt as o'er a picture-book, + And seem to ask, whate'er befall, + The happy reason of it all:-- + Why grass is all so glad a green, + And leaves--and what their lispings mean;-- + Why buds grow on the boughs, and why + They burst in blossom by and by-- + As though the orchard in the breeze + Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_, + To lure and whet, as well they might, + Some seven-league giant's appetite! + + The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face + Has scant refinement, caste or grace,-- + From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, + It bears the grimy water-streak + Of rinsings such as some long rain + Might drool across the window-pane + Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, + As some lorn team drives by for town. + His brow is elfed with wispish hair, + With tangles in it here and there, + As though the warlocks snarled it so + At midmirk when the moon sagged low, + And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, + And children moaned themselves awake, + With fingers clutched, and starting sight + Blind as the blackness of the night! + + The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he + In all the wealth of poverty! + He owns nor title nor estate, + Nor speech but half articulate,-- + He owns nor princely robe nor crown;-- + Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, + He owns the bird-songs of the hills-- + The laughter of the April rills; + And his are all the diamonds set. + In Morning's dewy coronet,-- + And his the Dusk's first minted stars + That twinkle through the pasture-bars, + And litter all the skies at night + With glittering scraps of silver light;-- + The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, + In beaten gold, belongs to him. + + + + + JACK THE GIANT KILLER. + + _Bad Boy's Version_. + + Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':-- + Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, + An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap + Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;" + An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows-- + Th' horns an' all--an' pigs an' sows! + But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh! + So awful sharp 'at he could go + An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two + Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do! + An' _one_ ole Gi'nt, he had four + Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"-- + An' he wuz feered o' Jack--'cause he, + _Jack_, he killed six--five--ten--three, + An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him: + An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim + 'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"-- + Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door: + But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum + Clean acrost; an' when he come + To th' uther side, he thist put on + His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone! + You could n't see him at all!--An' so + He slewed the "griffuns"--_boff_, you know! + Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head + High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,-- + "Whoever kin this trumput blow + Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!" + An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed + The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed + Th' castul-gates wide open, an' + Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', + An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore," + An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four + Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!-- + Wisht 'at _I'd_ been Jack!--don't you? + + + + + WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED. + + O it was but a dream I had + While the musician played!-- + And here the sky, and here the glad + Old ocean kissed the glade-- + And here the laughing ripples ran, + And here the roses grew + That threw a kiss to every man + That voyaged with the crew. + + Our silken sails in lazy folds + Drooped in the breathless breeze: + As o'er a field of marigolds + Our eyes swam o'er the seas; + While here the eddies lisped and purled + Around the island's rim, + And up from out the underworld + We saw the mermen swim. + + And it was dawn and middle-day + And midnight--for the moon + On silver rounds across the bay + Had climbed the skies of June-- + And there the glowing, glorious king + Of day ruled o'er his realm, + With stars of midnight glittering + About his diadem. + + The seagull reeled on languid wing + In circles round the mast, + We heard the songs the sirens sing + As we went sailing past; + And up and down the golden sands + A thousand fairy throngs + Flung at us from their flashing hands + The echoes of their songs. + + O it was but a dream I had + While the musician played-- + For here the sky, and here the glad + Old ocean kissed the glade; + And here the laughing ripples ran, + And here the roses grew + That threw a kiss to every man + That voyaged with the crew. + + + + + AUGUST. + + A day of torpor in the sullen heat + Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream + The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, + With drowsy eyes, and dream. + + Long since the winds have died, and in the sky + There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; + The sun glares ever like an evil eye, + And withers flower and leaf. + + Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote + The thresher lies deserted, like some old + Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat + Upon a sea of gold. + + The yearning cry of some bewildered bird + Above an empty nest, and truant boys + Along the river's shady margin heard-- + A harmony of noise-- + + A melody of wrangling voices blent + With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls + Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent + To mimic waterfalls. + + And through the hazy veil the atmosphere + Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, + The sifted glances of the sun appear + In splinterings of spray. + + The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, + Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, + A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on + His journey to the sky. + + And down across the valley's drooping sweep, + Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, + The forest stands in silence, drinking deep + Its purple wine of shade. + + The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; + The sailor-vision voyages the skies + And carries into chaos everything + That freights the weary eyes: + + Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat + Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, + And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, + Within the arms of Night. + + + + + TO HEAR HER SING. + + To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- + It is to hear the birds of Spring + In dewy groves on blooming sprays + Pour out their blithest roundelays. + + It is to hear the robin trill + At morning, or the whip-poor-will + At dusk, when stars are blossoming-- + To hear her sing--to hear her sing! + + To hear her sing--it is to hear + The laugh of childhood ringing clear + In woody path or grassy lane + Our feet may never fare again. + + Faint, far away as Memory dwells, + It is to hear the village bells + At twilight, as the truant hears + Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. + + Such joy it is to hear her sing, + We fall in love with everything-- + The simple things of every day + Grow lovelier than words can say. + + The idle brooks that purl across + The gleaming pebbles and the moss, + We love no less than classic streams-- + The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. + + To hear her sing--with folded eyes, + It is, beneath Venetian skies, + To hear the gondoliers' refrain, + Or troubadours of sunny Spain.-- + + To hear the bulbul's voice that shook + The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: + What wonder we in homage bring + Our hearts to her--to hear her sing! + + + + + BEING HIS MOTHER. + + Being his mother--when he goes away + I would not hold him overlong, and so + Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O + So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay + To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay, + Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although + Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow; + Let his remembered features, as I pray, + Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love + Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: + Its fullest speech ever to be denied + Mine own--being his mother! All thereof + Thou knowest only, looking from the skies + As when not Christ alone was crucified. + + + + + JUNE AT WOODRUFF. + + Out at Woodruff Place--afar + From the city's glare and jar, + With the leafy trees, instead + Of the awnings, overhead; + With the shadows cool and sweet, + For the fever of the street; + With the silence, like a prayer, + Breathing round us everywhere. + + Gracious anchorage, at last, + From the billows of the vast + Tide of life that comes and goes, + Whence and where nobody knows-- + Moving, like a skeptic's thought, + Out of nowhere into naught. + Touch and tame us with thy grace, + Placid calm of Woodruff Place! + + Weave a wreath of beechen leaves + For the brow that throbs and grieves + O'er the ledger, bloody-lined, + 'Neath the sun-struck window-blind! + Send the breath of woodland bloom + Through the sick man's prison room, + Till his old farm-home shall swim + Sweet in mind to hearten him! + + Out at Woodruff Place the Muse + Dips her sandal in the dews, + Sacredly as night and dawn + Baptize lilied grove and lawn: + Woody path, or paven way-- + She doth haunt them night and day,-- + Sun or moonlight through the trees, + To her eyes, are melodies. + + Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear + Through night-scenes, are songs to her-- + Tinted lilts and choiring hues, + Blent with children's glad halloos; + Then belated lays that fade + Into midnight's serenade-- + Vine-like words and zithern-strings + Twined through ali her slumberings. + + Blesséd be each hearthstone set + Neighboring the violet! + Blessed every rooftree prayed + Over by the beech's shadel + Blessed doorway, opening where + We may look on Nature--there + Hand to hand and face to face-- + Storied realm, or Woodruff Place. + + + + + FARMER WHIPPLE.--BACHELOR. + + It's a mystery to see me--a man o' fifty-four, + Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more-- + A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say + That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day! + + I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate + A little in beginning so's to set the matter straight + As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife-- + Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life! + + I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five-- + Three brothers and a sister--I'm the only one alive,-- + Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, + You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise. + + The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat-- + We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! + But someway we sort o' _suited_-like! and Mother she'd declare + She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair + + Than _we_ was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', + And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!-- + W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe + Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve! + + I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride + In thinkin' all depended on _me_ now to pervide + Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place + With sleeves rolled up--and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.-- + + Fer _sompin' else_ was workin'! but not a word I said + Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,-- + "Someday I'd mayby marry, and _a brother's_ love was one + Thing--a _lover's_ was another!" was the way the notion run! + + I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done-- + When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one-- + I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day-- + A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way! + + And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane: + I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain + Well--when she turned and _kissed_ me, _with her arm around me--law_! + I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw! + + I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fac', + They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a almanack-- + Er _somers_--'bout "puore happiness"--perhaps some folks'll laugh + At the idy--"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."-- + + But its jest as true as preachin'!--fer that was a sister's kiss, + And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:-- + "_She_ was happy, _bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown_."-- + And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down! + + I don't know how I acted--I don't know _what_ I said, + Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; + And the hosses kind o' glimmered before me in the road, + And the lines fell from my fingers--and that was all I knowed-- + + Fer--well, I don't know how long--They's a dim rememberence + Of a sound o' snortin' bosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence + A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, + And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where + + _I_ was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down + A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round! + And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague + Sort o' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg. + + Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh + As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, + And wonder what was left _me_ worth livin' fer below, + When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know! + + And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind + When Brown and Mary married--Railly must a-been my _mind_ + Was kindo' out o' kilter!--fer I hated Brown, you see, + Worse'n _pizen_--and the feller whittled crutches out fer _me_-- + + And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respec'-- + And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! + My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done + When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one. + + Then I went to work in airnest--I had nothin' much in view + But to drownd out rickollections--and it kep' me busy, too! + But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say + She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. + + Then I'd think how little _money_ was, compared to happiness-- + And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! + But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, + Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near! + + Well!--A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand + Astin' how I 'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land-- + "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, + "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"-- + + And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."-- + I'd never been West, anyhow--a most too wild fer me, + I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town + Said I'd find myself mistakend when I come to look around. + + So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, + A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again-- + And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, + I think it's more 'n likely she'd a-went along with me! + + Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! + But finally they called out my stopping-place at last: + And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train + O' cars, and _skeered_ at sumpin', runnin' down a country lane! + + Well, in the mornin' airly--after huntin' up the man-- + The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land-- + We started fer the country;' and I ast the history + Of the farm--its former owner--and so-forth, etcetery! + + And--well--it was _interestin'_--I su'prised him, I suppose, + By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!-- + But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder more, + When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!-- + + _It was Mary_: They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here-- + Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.-- + It was with us in that meeting I don't want you to fergit! + And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit! + + I _bought_ that farm, and _deeded_ it, afore I left the town, + With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! + And fu'thermore, I took her and _the childern_--fer you see, + They'd never seed their Grandma--and I fetched 'em home with me. + + So _now_ you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, + Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more, + Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!--And I've jest come into town + To git a pair o' license fer to _marry_ Mary Brown. + + + + + DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL. + + I. + + Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin + Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'! + Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin' + I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fishin'! + + + II. + + On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, + Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover: + Fish all out a visitin'--'cept some dratted minnor! + Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner. + + + III. + + Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin' + In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':-- + Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me! + And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me! + + + + + NESSMUK. + + I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone + Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry! + True forester thou art, and still to be, + Even in happier fields than thou hast known. + Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown + Of groves delectable--"preserves" for thee-- + Ranged but by friends of thine--I name thee three:-- + + First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown + With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, + Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; + And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: + These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, + Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise + To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should. + + + + + AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY. + + I've thought a power on men and things, + As my uncle ust to say,-- + And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings! + W'y, they ain't no use to pray! + Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set + A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, + And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_, + As my uncle ust to say. + + They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, + As my uncle ust to say, + And yit don't waste no candle-grease, + Ner whistle their lives away! + But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme + No ringin' song fer to last all time, + They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, + As my uncle ust to say. + + Whoever's Foreman of all things here, + As my uncle ust to say, + He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, + And our round-up, night and day: + And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, + And north and south, and worst and best + I ain't got nothin' to suggest, + As my uncle ust to say. + + + + + THE SINGER. + + While with Ambition's hectic flame + He wastes the midnight oil, + And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, + To rest him from his toil,-- + + Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, + Above him spreads her wings, + And fans the embers of his lips + To ashes as he sings. + + + + + A FULL HARVEST. + + Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day + Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, + In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, + Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say + There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway + Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho', + And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show + More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?-- + And watch that little reaper wadin' thue + That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground-- + Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two + Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around + The field--like it had nothin' else to do + On'y jes' waste it all on me and you! + + + + + BLIND. + + You think it is a sorry thing + That I am blind. Your pitying + Is welcome to me; yet indeed, + I think I have but little need + Of it. Though you may marvel much + That _we_, who see by sense of touch + And taste and hearing, see things _you_ + May never look upon; and true + Is it that even in the scent + Of blossoms _we_ find something meant + No eyes have in their faces read, + Or wept to see interpreted. + + And you might think it strange if now + I told you you were smiling. How + Do I know that? I hold your hand-- + _Its_ language I can understand-- + Give both to me, and I will show + You many other things I know. + Listen: We never met before + Till now?--Well, you are something lower + Than five-feet-eight in height; and you + Are slender; and your eyes are blue-- + + Your mother's eyes--your mother's hair-- + Your mother's likeness everywhere + Save in your walk--and that is quite + Your father's; nervous.--Am I right? + I thought so. And you used to sing, + But have neglected everything + Of vocalism--though you may + Still thrum on the guitar, and play + A little on the violin,-- + I know that by the callous in + The finger-tips of your left hand-- + And, by-the-bye, though nature planned + You as most men, you are, I see, + "_Left_-handed," too,--the mystery + Is clear, though,--your right arm has been + Broken, to "break" the left one in. + And so, you see, though blind of sight, + I still have ways of seeing quite + Too well for you to sympathize + Excessively, with your good eyes.-- + Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere, + Within the whole asylum here, + From cupola to basement hall, + I was the blindest of them all! + + Let us move further down the walk-- + The man here waiting hears my talk, + And is disturbed; besides, he may + Not be quite friendly anyway. + In fact--(this will be far enough; + Sit down)--the man just spoken of + Was once a friend of mine. He came + For treatment here from Burlingame-- + A rich though brilliant student there, + Who read his eyes out of repair, + And groped his way up here, where we + Became acquainted, and where he + Met one of our girl-teachers, and, + If you 'll believe me, asked her hand + In marriage, though the girl was blind + As I am--and the girl _declined_. + Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see + Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he? + And handsome, eloquently wide + And high of brow, and dignified + With every outward grace, his sight + Restored to him, clear and bright + As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still + For the blind girl that never will + Be wife of his. How do I know? + You will recall a while ago + I told you he and I were friends. + In all that friendship comprehends, + I was his friend, I swear! why now, + Remembering his love, and how + His confidence was all my own, + I hear, in fancy, the low tone + Of his deep voice, so full of pride + And passion, yet so pacified + With his affliction, that it seems + An utterance sent out of dreams + Of saddest melody, withal + So sorrowfully musical + It was, and is, must ever be-- + But I'm digressing, pardon me. + _I_ knew not anything of love + In those days, but of that above + All worldly passion,--for my art-- + Music,--and that, with all my heart + And soul, blent in a love too great + For words of mine to estimate. + And though among my pupils she + Whose love my friend sought came to me + I only knew her fingers' touch + Because they loitered overmuch + In simple scales, and needs must be + Untangled almost constantly. + But she was bright in other ways, + And quick of thought, with ready plays + Of wit, and with a voice as sweet + To listen to as one might meet + In any oratorio-- + And once I gravely told her so,-- + And, at my words, her limpid tone + Of laughter faltered to a moan, + And fell from that into a sigh + That quavered all so wearily, + That I, without the tear that crept + Between the keys, had known she wept; + And yet the hand I reached for then + She caught away, and laughed again. + And when that evening I strolled + With my old friend, I, smiling, told + Him I believed the girl and he + Were matched and mated perfectly: + He was so noble; she, so fair + Of speech, and womanly of air; + He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild + And artless even as a child; + And with a nature, I was sure, + As worshipful as it was pure + And sweet, and brimmed with tender things + Beyond his rarest fancyings. + He stopped me solemnly. He knew, + He said, how good, and just, and true + Was all I said of her; but as + For his own virtues, let them pass, + Since they were nothing to the one + That he had set his heart upon; + For but that morning she had turned + Forever from him. Then I learned + That for a month he had delayed + His going from us, with no aid + Of hope to hold him,--meeting still + Her ever firm denial, till + Not even in his new-found sight + He found one comfort or delight. + And as his voice broke there, I felt + The brother-heart within me melt + In warm compassion for his own + That throbbed so utterly alone. + And then a sudden fancy hit + Along my brain; and coupling it + With a belief that I, indeed, + Might help my friend in his great need, + I warmly said that I would go + Myself, if he decided so, + And see her for him--that I knew + My pleadings would be listened to + Most seriously, and that she + Should love him, listening to me. + Go; bless me! And that was the last-- + The last time his warm hand shut fast + Within my own--so empty since, + That the remembered finger-prints + I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet + Them with the tears of all regret! + + I know not how to rightly tell + How fared my quest, and what befell + Me, coming in the presence of + That blind girl, and her blinder love. + I know but little else than that + Above the chair in which she sat + I leant--reached for, and found her hand, + And held it for a moment, and + Took up the other--held them both-- + As might a friend, I will take oath: + Spoke leisurely, as might a man + Praying for no thing other than + He thinks Heaven's justice;--She was blind, + I said, and yet a noble mind + Most truly loved her; one whose fond + Clear-sighted vision looked beyond + The bounds of her infirmity, + And saw the woman, perfectly + Modeled, and wrought out pure and true + And lovable. She quailed, and drew + Her hands away, but closer still + I caught them. "Rack me as you will!" + She cried out sharply--"Call me 'blind'-- + Love ever is--I am resigned! + Blind is your friend; as blind as he + Am I--but blindest of the three-- + Yea, blind as death--you will not see + My love for you is killing me!" + + There is a memory that may + Not ever wholly fade away + From out my heart, so bright and fair + The light of it still glimmers there. + Why, it did seem as though my sight + Flamed back upon me, dazzling white + And godlike. Not one other word + Of hers I listened for or heard, + But I _saw_ songs sung in her eyes + Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, + As my mad lips did strike her own + And we flashed one and one alone! + Ah! was it treachery for me + To kneel there, drinking eagerly + That torrent-flow of words that swept + Out laughingly the tears she wept?-- + Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe, + Than light of day to those that see,-- + God knows, who did the rapture send + To me, and hold it from my friend. + + And we were married half a year + Ago,--and he is--waiting here, + Heedless of that--or anything, + But just that he is lingering + To say good-bye to her, and bow-- + As you may see him doing now,-- + For there's her footstep in the hall; + God bless her!--help him!--save us all! + + + + + RIGHT HERE AT HOME. + + Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom, + Where strangers allus joke us when they come, + And brag o' _their_ old States and interprize-- + Yit _settle_ here; and 'fore they realize, + They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live + Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive! + + Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, + Fer me and you and plain old happiness: + We hear the World's lots grander--likely so,-- + We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.-- + We know _its_ ways aint _our_ ways--so we'll stay + Right here at home, boys, where we know the way. + + Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do + Man's plenty rich enough--and knows it, too, + And's got a' extry dollar, any time, + To boost a feller up 'at _wants_ to climb + And 's got the git-up in him to go in + And _git there_, like he purt'-nigh allus kin! + + Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!-- + Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; + And where a _common_ feller's jes as good + As ary other in the neighborhood: + The World at large don't worry you and me + Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be! + + Right here at home, boys--jes right where we air!-- + Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere: + Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows + Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,-- + All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, + Right here at home, boys, ef we _size_ 'em right. + + Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place + Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, + Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled + And kissed us--dyin' so and rickonciled, + Seein' us all at home here--none astray-- + Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day. + + + + + THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR. + + He seemed so strange to me, every way-- + In manner, and form, and size, + From the boy I knew but yesterday,-- + I could hardly believe my eyes! + + To hear his name called over there, + My memory thrilled with glee + And leaped to picture him young and fair + In youth, as he used to be. + + But looking, only as glad eyes can, + For the boy I knew of yore, + I smiled on a portly little man + I had never seen before!-- + + Grave as a judge in courtliness-- + Professor-like and bland-- + A little fat doctor and nothing less, + With his hat in his kimboed hand. + + But how we talked old times, and "chaffed" + Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"--- + And how the little fat doctor laughed, + And how I laughed with him! + + "And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see + The face of the youth that was, + To know no boy could smile on me + As the little fat doctor does!" + + + + + THE SHOEMAKER. + + Thou Poet, who, like any lark, + Dost whet thy beak and trill + From misty morn till murky dark, + Nor ever pipe thy fill: + Hast thou not, in thy cheery note, + One poor chirp to confer-- + One verseful twitter to devote + Unto the Shoe-ma-ker? + + At early dawn he doth peg in + His noble work and brave; + And eke from cark and wordly sin + He seeketh soles to save; + And all day long, with quip and song, + Thus stitcheth he the way + Our feet may know the right from wrong, + Nor ever go a stray. + + Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker, + Nor slight his lasting fame: + Alway he waxeth tenderer + In warmth of our acclaim;-- + Aye, more than any artisan + We glory in his art + Who ne'er, to help the under man, + Neglects the upper part. + + But toe the mark for him, and heel + Respond to thee in kine-- + Or kid--or calf, shouldst thou reveal + A taste so superfine: + Thus let him jest--join in his laugh-- + Draw on his stock, and be + A shoer'd there's no rival half + Sole liberal as he. + + Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker + For all his goodly deeds,-- + Yea, bless him free for booting thee-- + The first of all thy needs! + And when at last his eyes grow dim, + And nerveless drops his clamp, + In golden shoon pray think of him + Upon his latest tramp. + + + + + THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN. + + The old sea captain has sailed the seas + So long, that the waves at mirth, + Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, + Were as near playmates from birth: + He has loved both the storm and the calm, because + They seemed as his brothers twain,-- + The flapping sail was his soul's applause, + And his rapture, the roaring main. + + But now--like a battered hulk seems he, + Cast high on a foreign strand, + Though he feels "in port," as it need must be, + And the stay of a daughter's hand-- + Yet ever the round of the listless hours,-- + His pipe, in the languid air-- + The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers, + And the strange earth everywhere! + + And so betimes he is restless here + In this little inland town, + With never a wing in the atmosphere + But the wind-mill's, up and down; + His daughter's home in this peaceful vale, + And his grandchild 'twixt his knees-- + But never the hail of a passing sail, + Nor the surge of the angry seas! + + He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck-- + Would speak, though he coughs instead, + Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck + With a reeling mast o'erhead! + Ho! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm, + And his eyes gleam grim and weird, + As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm, + In the cloud of his beetling beard. + + + + + ROBERT BURNS WILSON. + + What intuition named thee?--Through what thrill + Of the awed soul came the command divine + Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine + Should palpitate with his whose raptures will + Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill + Their undulating ways up through the fine + Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line + Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still + The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised + His voice therein, and, quit of every stress + Of earthly ache and longing and despair, + Knew certainly each simple thing he praised + Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, + Than any joy of all the glory There. + + + + + TO THE SERENADER. + + Tinkle on, O sweet guitar, + Let the dancing fingers + Loiter where the low notes are + Blended with the singer's: + Let the midnight pour the moon's + Mellow wine of glory + Down upon him through the tune's + Old romantic story! + + I am listening, my love, + Through the cautious lattice, + Wondering why the stars above + All are blinking at us; + Wondering if his eyes from there + Catch the moonbeam's shimmer + As it lights the robe I wear + With a ghostly glimmer. + + Lilt thy song, and lute away + In the wildest fashion:-- + Pour thy rippling roundelay + O'er the heights of passion!-- + Flash it down the fretted strings + Till thy mad lips, missing + All but smothered whisperings, + Press this rose I'm kissing. + + + + + THE WIFE-BLESSÉD. + + I. + + In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, + Lorn-faced and long of hair-- + In youth--in youth he painted her + A sister of the air-- + Could clasp her not, but felt the stir + Of pinions everywhere. + + + II. + + She lured his gaze, in braver days, + And tranced him sirenwise; + And he did paint her, through a haze + Of sullen paradise, + With scars of kisses on her face + And embers in her eyes. + + + III. + + And now--nor dream nor wild conceit-- + Though faltering, as before-- + Through tears he paints her, as is meet, + Tracing the dear face o'er + With lilied patience meek and sweet + As Mother Mary wore. + + + + + SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION. + + I thought the deacon liked me, yit + I warn't adzackly shore of it-- + Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, + When jiners 'ud be comin' in, + I'd seed him shakin' hands as free + With all the sistern as with me! + But jurin' last Revival, where + He called on _me_ to lead in prayer, + An' kneeled there with me, side by side, + A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified + Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"-- + That settled things as fur as them- + Thare other wimmin was concerned!-- + And--well!--I know I must a-turned + A dozen colors!--_Flurried_?--_la_!-- + No mortal sinner never saw + A gladder widder than the one + A-kneelin' there and wonderun' + Who'd pray'--So glad, upon my word, + I railly could n't thank the Lord! + + + + + THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT. + + All hope of rest withdrawn me?-- + What dread command hath put + This awful curse upon me-- + The curse of the wandering foot! + Forward and backward and thither, + And hither and yon again-- + Wandering ever! And whither? + Answer them, God! Amen. + + The blue skies are far o'er me--- + The bleak fields near below: + Where the mother that bore me?-- + Where her grave in the snow?-- + Glad in her trough of a coffin-- + The sad eyes frozen shut + That wept so often, often, + The curse of the wandering foot! + + Here in your marts I care not + Whatsoever ye think. + Good folk many who dare not + Give me to eat and drink: + Give me to sup of your pity-- + Feast me on prayers!--O ye, + Met I your Christ in the city + He would fare forth with me-- + + Forward and onward and thither, + And hither again and yon, + With milk for our drink together + And honey to feed upon-- + Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, + Since the one Father put + The blesséd curse upon us-- + The curse of the wandering foot. + + + + + A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. + + A monument for the Soldiers! + And what will ye build it of? + Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, + Outlasting the Soldiers' love? + Can ye glorify it with legends + As grand as their blood hath writ + From the inmost shrine of this land of thine + To the outermost verge of it? + + And the answer came: We would build it + Out of our hopes made sure, + And out of our purest prayers and tears, + And out of our faith secure: + We would build it out of the great white truths + Their death hath sanctified, + And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, + And their faces ere they died. + + And what heroic figures + Can the sculptor carve in stone? + Can the marble breast be made to bleed, + And the marble lips to moan? + Can the marble brow be fevered? + And the marble eyes be graved + To look their last, as the flag floats past, + On the country they have saved? + + And the answer came: The figures + Shall all be fair and brave, + And, as befitting, as pure and white + As the stars above their grave! + The marble lips, and breast and brow + Whereon the laurel lies, + Bequeath us right to guard the flight + Of the old flag in the skies! + + A monument for the Soldiers! + Built of a people's love, + And blazoned and decked and panoplied + With the hearts ye build it oft + And see that ye build it stately, + In pillar and niche and gate, + And high in pose as the souls of those + It would commemorate! + + + + + THE RIVAL. + + I so loved once, when Death came by I hid + Away my face, + And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid + To make my hiding-place. + + The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and + I turned me then + To calm my love--kiss down her shielding hand + And comfort her again. + + And lo! she answered not: And she did sit + All fixedly, + With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, + In love with Death, not me. + + + + + IRY AND BILLY AND JO. + + Iry an' Billy an' Jo!-- + Iry an' Billy's _the boys_, + An' _Jo's_ their _dog_, you know,-- + Their pictures took all in a row. + Bet they kin kick up a noise-- + Iry and Billy, the boys, + And that-air little dog Jo! + + _Iry's_ the one 'at stands + Up there a-lookin' so mild + An' meek--with his hat in his hands, + Like such a 'bediant child-- + (_Sakes-alive_!)--An' _Billy_ he sets + In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' _sweats_ + Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good! Ho-ho! + Iry an' Billy an' Jo! + + Yit the way them boys, you know, + Usen to jes turn in + An' fight over that dog Jo + Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin !-- + Iry _he'd_ argy 'at, by gee-whizz! + That-air little Jo-dog wuz _his_!-- + An' Billy _he'd_ claim it wuzn't so-- + 'Cause the dog wuz _his'n_!--An' at it they'd go, + Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know-- + Iry an' Billy an' Jo! + + But their Pa--(He wuz the marshal then) + He 'tended-like 'at he _jerked 'em up_; + An' got a jury o' Brickyard men + An' helt a _trial_ about the pup: + An' _he_ says _he_ jes like to a-died + When the rest o' us town-boys _testified_-- + Regardin', you know, + Iry an' Billy an' Jo.-- + + 'Cause we all knowed, when _the Gypsies_ they + Camped down here by the crick last Fall, + They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away + To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all!-- + So the jury fetched in the _verdick_ so + Jo he ain't _neether_ o' theirn fer _shore_-- + He's _both_ their dog, an' jes no more! + An' so + They've quit quarrelin' long ago, + Iry an' Billy an' Jo. + + + + + A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME. + + In its color, shade and shine, + 'T was a summer warm as wine, + With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine, + And a fragrance and a taste + Of ripe roses gone to waste, + And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced. + + 'Twas a summer such as broods + O'er enchanted solitudes, + Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods, + And with lavish love out-pours + All the wealth of out-of-doors, + And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors. + + 'Twas a summertime long dead,-- + And its roses, white and red, + And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed,-- + O they all are ghostly things-- + For the ripple never sings, + And the rocking lily never even rustles as it rings! + + + + + HER BEAUTIFUL EYES. + + O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew + On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, + And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun + O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run: + As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies-- + So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes. + + And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me, + When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, + And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, + And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet + And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies-- + So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. + + O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own + As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne; + And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar + Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, + And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise-- + So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes. + + + + + DOT LEEDLE BOY. + + Ot's a leedle Christmas story + Dot I told der leedle folks-- + Und I vant you stop dot laughin' + Und grackin' funny jokes'-- + So-help me Peter-Moses! + Ot's no time for monkeyshine', + Ober I vas told you somedings + Of dot leedle boy of mine! + + Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder, + Ven der snow vas all about-- + Dot you have to chop der hatchet + Eef you got der saur kraut! + Und der cheekens on der hind-leg + Vas standin' in der shine + Der sun shmile out dot morning + On dot leedle boy of mine. + + He vas yoost a leedle baby + Not bigger as a doll + Dot time I got acquaintet-- + Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!-- + I grackys! dot's der moosic + Ot make me feel so fine + Ven first I vas been marriet-- + Oh, dot leedle boy of mine! + + He look' yoost like his fader!-- + So, ven der vimmen said + "Vot a purty leedle baby!" + Katrina shake der head. + I dink she must a-notice + Dot der baby vas a-gryin', + Und she cover up der blankets + Of dot leedle boy of mine. + + Vel, ven he vas got bigger, + Dot he grawl und bump his nose, + Und make der table over, + Und molasses on his glothes-- + Dot make 'im all der sveeter,-- + So I say to my Katrine + "Better you vas quit a-shpankin' + Dot leedle boy of mine!" + + I vish you could a-seen id-- + Ven he glimb up on der chair + Und shmash der lookin' glasses + Ven he try to comb his hair + Mit a hammer!--Und Katrina + Say "Dot's an ugly sign!" + But I laugh und vink my fingers + At dot leedle boy of mine. + + But vonce, dot Vinter morning, + He shlip out in der snow + Mitout no stockin's on 'im.-- + He say he "vant to go + Und fly some mit der birdies!" + Und ve give 'im medi-cine + Ven he catch der "parrygoric"-- + Dot leedle boy of mine! + + Und so I set und nurse 'im, + Vile der Christmas vas come roun', + Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle," + How he come der chimbly down: + Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im + Eef he bring 'im someding fine? + "_Nicht besser as mein fader_," + Say dot leedle boy of mine.-- + + Und he put his arms aroun' me + Und hug so close und tight, + I hear der gclock a-tickin' + All der balance of der night! . . . + Someding make me feel so funny + Ven I say to my Katrine + "Let us go und fill der stockin's + Of dot leedle boy of mine." + + Veil.--Ve buyed a leedle horses + Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, + Und a leedle fancy jay-bird-- + Eef you vant to hear 'im sing + You took 'im by der top-knot + Und yoost blow in behine-- + Und dot make much _spectakel_-- + For dot leedle boy of mine! + + Und gandles, nuts and raizens-- + Unt I buy a leedle drum + Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle + Ven der Gristmas morning come! + Und a leedle shmall tin rooster + Dot vould crow so loud und fine + Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning, + Dot leedle boy of mine! + + Und--vile ve vas a-fixin'-- + Dot leedle boy vake out! + I fought he been a-dreamin' + "Kriss Kringle" vas about,-- + For he say--"_Dot's him!--I see 'im_ + _Mit der shtars dot make der shine_!" + Und he yoost keep on a-gryin'-- + Dot leedle boy of mine,-- + + Und gottin' vorse und vorser-- + Und tumble on der bed! + So--ven der doctor seen id, + He kindo' shake his head, + Und feel his pulse--und visper + "Der boy is a-dyin'." + You dink I could _believe_ id?-- + _Dot leedle boy of mine_? + + I told you, friends--dot's someding, + Der last time dot he speak + Und say "_Goot-bye, Kriss Kringle_!" + --Dot make me feel so veak + I yoost kneel down und drimble, + Und bur-sed out a-gryin' + "_Mein Goit, mein Gott im Himmel_!-- + _Dot leedle boy, of mine_!" + + * * * * * + + Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas! + . . . Eef dot leedle boy vould _liff'd_-- + No deefer-en'! for Heaven vas + His leedle Gristmas-gift! . . . + Und der rooster, und der _gandy_, + Und me--und my Katrine-- + Und der jay-bird--is a-vaiting + For dot leedle boy of mine. + + + + + DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE. + + Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,-- + Not the one of History, + Who, with flaming tongue and pen, + Scathes the vanities of men; + Not the one whose biting wit + Cuts pretense and etches it + On the brazen brow that dares + Filch the laurel that it wears: + Not the Donn Piatt whose praise + Echoes in the noisy ways + Of the faction, onward led + By the statesman!--But, instead, + Give the simple man to me,-- + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + II. + + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + Branches of the old oak tree, + Drape him royally in fine + Purple shade and golden shine! + Emerald plush of sloping lawn + Be the throne he sits upon! + And, O Summer sunset, thou + Be his crown, and gild a brow + Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed + By the breezes, mellow-palmed + As Erata's white hand agleam + On the forehead of a dream.-- + So forever rule o'er me, + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + III. + + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee: + Through a lilied memory + Plays the wayward little creek + Round thy home at hide-and-seek-- + As I see and hear it, still + Romping round the wooded hill, + Till its laugh-and-babble blends + With the silence while it sends + Glances back to kiss the sight, + In its babyish delight, + Ere it strays amid the gloom + Of the glens that burst in bloom + Of the rarest rhyme for thee, + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + IV. + + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + What a darling destiny + Has been mine--to meet him there-- + Lolling in an easy chair + On the terrace, while he told + Reminiscences of old-- + Letting my cigar die out, + Hearing poems talked about; + And entranced to hear him say + Gentle things of Thackeray, + Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, + Known to him as host and guest-- + Known to him as he to me-- + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + + + THEM FLOWERS. + + Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf, + All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore-- + Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself + With a stiff upper-lip any more; + Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room + As dark as the tomb, and as grim, + And then take and send him some roses in bloom, + And you can have fun out o' him! + + You've ketched him 'fore now--when his liver was sound + And his appetite notched like a saw-- + A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round + With a big posy-bunch in yer paw; + But you ketch him, say, when his health is away, + And he's flat on his back in distress, + And _then_ you kin trot out yer little bokay + And not be insulted, I guess! + + You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is,-- + Them flowers makes him think of the days + Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his, + And the roses that _she_ us't to raise:-- + So here, all alone with the roses you send-- + Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint,-- + My eyes is--my eyes is--my eyes is--old friend-- + Is a-leakin'--I'm blamed ef they ain't! + + + + + THE QUIET LODGER. + + The man that rooms next door to me: + Two weeks ago, this very night, + He took possession quietly, + As any other lodger might-- + But why the room next mine should so + Attract him I was vexed to know,-- + Because his quietude, in fine, + Was far superior to mine. + + "Now, I like quiet, truth to tell, + A tranquil life is sweet to me-- + But _this_," I sneered, "suits me too well.-- + He shuts his door so noiselessly, + And glides about so very mute, + In each mysterious pursuit, + His silence is oppressive, and + Too deep for me to understand." + + Sometimes, forgetting book or pen, + I've found my head in breathless poise + Lifted, and dropped in shame again, + Hearing some alien ghost of noise-- + Some smothered sound that seemed to be + A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly, + Or the crisp writhings of some quire + Of manuscript thrust in the fire. + + Then I have climbed, and closed in vain + My transom, opening in the hall; + Or close against the window-pane + Have pressed my fevered face,--but all + The day or night without held not + A sight or sound or counter-thought + To set my mind one instant free + Of this man's silent mastery. + + And often I have paced the floor + With muttering anger, far at night, + Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er, + The muffled noises, and the light + And tireless movements of this guest + Whose silence raged above my rest + Hoarser than howling storms at sea-- + The man that rooms next door to me. + + But twice or thrice, upon the stair, + I've seen his face--most strangely wan,-- + Each time upon me unaware + He came--smooth'd past me, and was gone. + So like a whisper he went by, + I listened after, ear and eye, + Nor could my chafing fancy tell + The meaning of one syllable. + + Last night I caught him, face to face,-- + He entering his room, and I + Glaring from mine: He paused a space + And met my scowl all shrinkingly, + But with full gentleness: The key + Turned in his door--and I could see + It tremblingly withdrawn and put + Inside, and then--the door was shut. + + Then silence. _Silence_!--why, last night + The silence was tumultuous, + And thundered on till broad daylight;-- + O never has it stunned me thus!-- + It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet.-- + Ah, God! how loud may silence get + When man mocks at a brother man + Who answers but as silence can! + + The silence grew, and grew, and grew, + Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard + Throughout the house; and men flocked through + The echoing halls, with faces blurred + With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe, + And shuddering at what they saw-- + The quiet lodger, as he lay + Stark of the life he cast away. + + * * * * * + + So strange to-night--those voices there, + Where all so quiet was before; + They say the face has not a care + Nor sorrow in it any more-- + His latest scrawl:--"Forgive me--You + Who prayed, 'they know not what they do!'" + My tears wilt never let me see + This man that rooms next door to me! + + + + + THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. + + O the waiting in the watches of the night! + In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright; + The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight: + The ever weary memory that ever weary goes + Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows-- + The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose-- + In the dreary, weary watches of the night! + + Dark--stifling dark--the watches of the night! + With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white + With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight!-- + What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought + that may not be redressed-- + Of tears we did not brush away--of lips we left unpressed, + And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed! + Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night! + + What solace in the watches of the night?-- + What frailest staff of hope to stay--what faintest shaft of light? + Do we _dream_ and dare _believe_ it, that by never weight of right + Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last-- + Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past, + In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom + that flees aghast-- + Shall we survive the watches of the night? + + One leads us through the watches of the night-- + By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight + He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might;-- + With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears, + Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears, + And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears + In the waning of the watches of the night. + + + + + HIS VIGIL. + + Close the book and dim the light, + I shall read no more to-night. + No--I am not sleepy, dear-- + Do not go: sit by me here + In the darkness and the deep + Silence of the watch I keep. + Something in your presence so + Soothes me--as in long ago + I first felt your hand--as now-- + In the darkness touch my brow; + I've no other wish than you + Thus should fold mine eyelids to, + Saying nought of sigh or tear-- + Just as God were sitting here. + + + + + THE PLAINT HUMAN + + Season of snows, and season of flowers, + Seasons of loss and gain!-- + Since grief and joy must alike be ours, + Why do we still complain? + + Ever our failing, from sun to sun, + O my intolerent brother:-- + We want just a little too little of one, + And much too much of the other. + + + + + BY ANY OTHER NAME. + + First the teacher called the roll, + Clos't to the beginnin', + "Addeliney Bowersox!" + Set the school a-grinnin'. + Wintertime, and stingin'-cold + When the session took up-- + Cold as _we_ all looked at _her_, + Though _she_ couldn't look up! + + Total stranger to us, too-- + Country-folks ain't allus + Nigh so shameful unpolite + As some people call us!-- + But the honest facts is, _then_, + Addeliney Bower- + Sox's feelin's was so hurt + She cried half an hour! + + My dest was acrost from her 'n: + Set and watched her tryin' + To p'tend she didn't keer, + And a kind o' dryin' + Up her tears with smiles---tel I + Thought, "Well, '_Addeliney + Bowersox_' is plain, but _she's_ + Purty as a piney!" + + It's be'n many of a year + Sence that most oncommon + Cur'ous name o' _Bowersox_ + Struck me so abomin- + Nubble and outlandish-like!-- + I changed it to Adde- + Liney _Daubenspeck_--and _that_ + Nearly killed her Daddy! + + + + + TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST. + + Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost! + Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin + Impalpable transparency of grin; + And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost + Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast + Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin, + And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, + Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast + That I am _helpless_ to combat thee! Well, + Have at thee, then! Yet if a doom most dire + Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst!--Revile + Me not, Miasmic Mist!--Rank Air! _retire_! + One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll + _Inhale_ thee, O thou wraith despicable! + + + + + THE QUARREL. + + They faced each other: Topaz-brown + And lambent burnt her eyes and shot + Sharp flame at his of amethyst.-- + "I hate you! Go, and be forgot + As death forgets!" their glitter _hissed_ + (So _seemed_ it) in their hatred. Ho! + Dared any mortal front her so?-- + Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down-- + Tense nostril, mouth--no muscle slack,-- + And black--the suffocating black-- + The stifling blackness of her frown! + + Ah! but the lifted face of her! + And the twitched lip and tilted head! + Yet he did neither wince nor stir,-- + Only--his hands clenched; and, instead + Of words, he answered with a stare + That stammered not in aught it said, + As might his voice if trusted there. + + And what--what spake his steady gaze?-- + Was there a look that harshly fell + To scoff her?--or a syllable + Of anger?--or the bitter phrase + That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, + Or curdles blood as poison drips? + What made their breasts to heave and swell + As billows under bows of ships + In broken seas on stormy days? + We may not know--nor _they_ indeed-- + What mercy found them in their need. + + A sudden sunlight smote the gloom; + And round about them swept a breeze, + With faint breaths as of clover-bloom; + A bird was heard, through drone of bees,-- + Then, far and clear and eerily, + A child's voice from an orchard-tree-- + Then laughter, sweet as the perfume + Of lilacs, could the hearing see. + And he--O Love! he fed thy name + On bruiséd kisses, while her dim + Deep eyes, with all their inner flame, + Like drowning gems were turned on him. + + + + + THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. + + I. + + As one in sorrow looks upon + The dead face of a loyal friend, + By the dim light of New Year's dawn + I saw the Old Year end. + + Upon the pallid features lay + The dear old smile--so warm and bright + Ere thus its cheer had died away + In ashes of delight. + + The hands that I had learned to love + With strength of passion half divine, + Were folded now, all heedless of + The emptiness of mine. + + The eyes that once had shed their bright + Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, + And ever lidded from the light + That made them beautiful. + + + II. + + The chimes of bells were in the air, + And sounds of mirth in hall and street, + With pealing laughter everywhere + And throb of dancing feet: + + The mirth and the convivial din + Of revelers in wanton glee, + With tunes of harp and violin + In tangled harmony. + + But with a sense of nameless dread, + I turned me, from the merry face + Of this newcomer, to my dead; + And, kneeling there a space, + + I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:-- + By this dear face so fixed and cold, + O Lord, let not this New Year be + As happy as the old! + + + + + THE HEREAFTER. + + Hereafter! O we need not waste + Our smiles or tears, whatever befall: + No happiness but holds a taste + Of something sweeter, after all;-- + No depth of agony but feels + Some fragment of abiding trust,-- + Whatever death unlocks or seals, + The mute beyond is just. + + + + + JOHN BROWN. + + Writ in between the lines of his life-deed + We trace the sacred service of a heart + Answering the Divine command, in every part + Bearing on human weal: His love did feed + The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead + The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart + Of other wounds than rankled at the dart + In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed. + He served the lowliest first--nay, them alone-- + The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath + In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat + Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.-- + For these doomed there it was he went to death. + God! how the merest man loves one like that! + + + + + A CUP OF TEA. + + I have sipped, with drooping lashes, + Dreamy draughts of Verzenay; + I have flourished brandy-smashes + In the wildest sort of way; + I have joked with "Tom and Jerry" + Till wee hours ayont the twal'-- + But I've found my tea the very + Safest tipple of them all! + + 'Tis a mystical potation + That exceeds in warmth of glow + And divine exhilaration + All the drugs of long ago-- + All of old magicians' potions-- + Of Medea's filtered spells-- + Or of fabled isles and oceans + Where the Lotos-eater dwells! + + Though I've reveled o'er late lunches + With _blasé_ dramatic stars, + And absorbed their wit and punches + And the fumes of their cigars-- + Drank in the latest story, + With a cock-tail either end,-- + I have drained a deeper glory + In a cup of tea, my friend. + + Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa, + Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey-- + No odds the name it knows--ah! + Fill a cup of it for me! + And, as I clink my china + Against your goblet's brim, + My tea in steam shall twine a + Fragrant laurel round its rim. + + + + + JUDITH. + + O her eyes are amber-fine-- + Dark and deep as wells of wine, + While her smile is like the noon + Splendor of a day of June. + If she sorrow--lo! her face + It is like a flowery space + In bright meadows, overlaid + With light clouds and lulled with shade + If she laugh--it is the trill + Of the wayward whippoorwill + Over upland pastures, heard + Echoed by the mocking-bird + In dim thickets dense with bloom + And blurred cloyings of perfume. + If she sigh--a zephyr swells + Over odorous asphodels + And wan lilies in lush plots + Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. + Then, the soft touch of her hand-- + Takes all breath to understand + What to liken it thereto!-- + Never roseleaf rinsed with dew + Might slip soother-suave than slips + Her slow palm, the while her lips + Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss + Sweet as heated honey is. + + + + + THE ARTEMUS OF MICHIGAN. + + Grand Haven is in Michigan, and in possession, too, + Of as many rare attractions as our party ever knew:-- + The fine hotel, the landlord, and the lordly bill of fare, + And the dainty-neat completeness of the pretty waiters there; + The touch on the piano in the parlor, and the trill + Of the exquisite soprano, in our fancy singing still; + Our cozy room, its comfort, and our thousand grateful tho'ts, + And at our door the gentle face + Of + H. + Y. + Potts! + + His artless observations, and his drollery of style, + Bewildered with that sorrowful serenity of smile-- + The eye's elusive twinkle, and the twitching of the lid, + Like he didn't go to say it and was sorry that he did. + O Artemus of Michigan! so worthy of the name, + Our manager indorses it, and Bill Nye does the same-- + You tickled our affection in so many tender spots + That even Recollection laughs + At + H. + Y. + Potts! + + And hark ye! O Grand Haven! count your rare attractions o'er-- + The commerce of your ships at sea, and ships along the shore; + Your railroads, and your industries, and interests untold, + Your Opera House--our lecture, and the gate-receipts in gold!-- + Ay, Banner Town of Michigan! count all your treasures through-- + Your crowds of summer tourists, and your Sanitarium, too; + Your lake, your beach, your drives, your breezy groves + and grassy plots, + But head the list of all of these + With + H. + Y. + Potts! + + + + + THE HOODOO. + + Owned a pair o' skates onc't.--Traded + Fer 'em,--stropped 'em on and waded + Up and down the crick, a-waitin' + Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'. + Mildest winter I remember-- + More like Spring- than Winter-weather!-- + Did n't _frost_ tel bout December- + Git up airly ketch a' feather + Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder-- + Sunshine swinge it like a cinder! + + Well--I _waited_--and _kep_' waitin'! + Couldn't see my money's w'oth in + Them-air skates and was no skatin', + Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin'! + So, one day--along in airly + Spring--I swopped 'em off--and barely + Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather + Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet, + And crick--tail-race--all together, + Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it! + + + + + THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE + + A TRAGI-COMEDY, IN ONE ACT. + + PERSONS REPRESENTED. + + BILLY MILLER ) The Rivals + JOHNNY WILLIAMS ) + + TOMMY WELLS Conspirator + + TIME--Noon: SCENE--Country Town--Rear-view of the + Miller Mansion, showing Barn, with practical loft-window + opening on alley-way, with colored-crayon poster beneath, + announcing:--"BILLY MILLER'S Big Show and Monstur Circus + and Equareum! A shour-bath fer Each and All fer 20 pins. + This Afternoon! Don't fer git the date!" Enter TOMMY + WELLS and JOHNNY WILLIAMS, who gaze awhile at poster, + TOMMY secretly smiling and winking at BILLY MILLER, + concealed at loft-window above. + + TOMMY (to JOHNNY). + Guess 'at Billy haint got back,-- + Can't see nothin' through the crack--- + Can't hear nothin' neither--No! + . . . Thinks he's got the dandy show, + Don't he? + + JOHNNY (scornfully)-- + 'Course' but what _I_ care?-- + He haint got no show in there!-- + What's _he_ got in there but that + Old hen, cooped up with a cat + An' a turkle, an' that thing + 'At he calls his "circus-ring?" + "_What a circus-ring_!" I'd _quit_! + Bet mine's twic't as big as it! + + TOMMY-- + Yes, but _you_ got no machine + Wat you bathe with, painted green, + With a string to work it, guess! + + JOHNNY (contemptuously)-- + Folks don't _bathe_ in _circuses_!-- + _Ladies_ comes to _mine_, you bet! + I' got seats where girls can set; + An' a dressin'-room, an' all, + Fixed up in my pony's stall-- + Yes, an' I' got _carpet_, too, + Fer the tumblers, and a blue + Center-pole! + + TOMMY-- + Well, Billy, he's + Got a tight-rope an' trapeze, + An' a hoop 'at he jumps through + Head-first! + + JOHNNY-- + Well, what's _that_ to do-- + Lightin' on a pile o' hay? + Haint no _actin_' thataway! + + TOMMY-- + Don't care what you say, he draws + Bigger crowds than you do, 'cause + Sense he started up, I know + All the fellers says his show + Is the best-un! + + JOHNNY-- + Yes, an' he + Better not tell things on me! + His old circus haint no good!-- + 'Cause he's got the neighborhood + Down on me he thinks 'at I'm + Goin' to stand it all the time; + Thinks ist 'cause my Pa don't 'low + Me to fight, he's got me now. + An' can say I lie, an' call + Me ist anything at all! + Billy Miller thinks I am + 'Feared to say 'at he says "dam"-- + Yes, and worser ones! and I'm + Goin' to tell his folks sometime!-- + An' ef he don't shet his head + I'll tell worse 'an _that_ he said + When he fighted Willie King-- + An' got licked like ever'thing!-- + Billy Miller better shin + Down his Daddy's lane agin, + Like a cowardy-calf, an' climb + In fer home another time! + Better-- + + [Here BILLY leaps down from the loft upon his unsuspecting + victim; and two minutes, later, JOHNNY, with the half of a + straw hat, a bleeding nose, and a straight rent across one + trouser-knee, makes his inglorious--exit.] + + + + + WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE WIGGINSES. + + Wintertime, er Summertime, + Of late years I notice I'm, + Kindo'-like, more subjec' to + What the _weather_ is. Now, you + Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose, + Thinks its bully when it snows; + But the chap 'at chops and hauls + Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls, + And snapps tuggs and swingletrees, + And then has to walk er freeze, + Haint so much "stuck on" the snow + As stuck _in_ it--Bless ye, no!-- + When its packed, and sleighin's good, + And _church_ in the neighborhood, + Them 'at's _got_ their girls, I guess, + Takes 'em, likely, more er less, + Tell the plain facts o' the case, + No men-folks about our place + On'y me and Pap--and he + 'Lows 'at young folks' company + Allus made him sick! So I + Jes don't want, and jes don't try! + Chinkypin, the dad-burn town, + 'S too fur off to loaf aroun' + Either day er night--and no + Law compellin' me to go!-- + 'Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day, + Er big-doin's thataway-- + _Then_, to tell the p'inted fac', + I've went more so's to come back + By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where + Minors _has_ got licker there-- + That's pervidin' we could show 'em + Old folks sent fer it from home! + Visit roun' the neighbors some, + When the boys wants me to come.-- + Coon-hunt with 'em; er set traps + Fer mussrats; er jes, perhaps, + Lay in roun' the stove, you know, + And parch corn, and let her snow! + Mostly, nights like these, you'll be + (Ef you' got a writ fer _me_) + Ap' to skeer me up, I guess, + In about the Wigginses. + Nothin' roun' _our_ place to keep + Me at home--with Pap asleep + 'Fore it's dark; and Mother in + Mango pickles to her chin; + And the girls, all still as death, + Piecin' quilts.--Sence I drawed breath + Twenty year' ago, and heerd + Some girls whispern' so's it 'peared + Like they had a row o' pins + In their mouth--right there begins + My first rickollections, built + On that-air blame old piece-quilt! + + Summertime, it's jes the same-- + 'Cause I've noticed,--and I claim, + As I said afore, I'm more + Subjec' to the weather, _shore_, + 'Proachin' my majority, + Than I ever ust to be! + Callin' back _last_ Summer, say,-- + Don't seem hardly past away-- + With night closin' in, and all + S' lonesome-like in the dew-fail: + Bats--ad-drat their ugly muggs!-- + Flickern' by; and lightnin'-bugs + Huckstern' roun' the airly night + Little sickly gasps o' light;-- + Whip-poor-wills, like all possessed, + Moanin' out their mournfullest;-- + Frogs and katydids and things + Jes clubs in and sings and sings + Their _ding-dangdest_!--Stock's all fed, + And Pap's washed his feet fer bed;-- + Mother and the girls all down + At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'-- + No wunder 'at I git blue, + And lite out--and so would you! + I caint stay aroun' no place + Whur they haint no livin' face:-- + 'Crost the fields and thue the gaps + Of the hills they's friends, perhaps, + Waitin' somers, 'at kin be + Kindo' comfertin' to me! + + Neighbors all 'is plenty good, + Scattered thue this neighberhood; + Yit, of all, I like to jes + Drap in on the Wigginses.-- + Old man, and old lady too, + 'Pear-like, makes so much o' you--, + Least, they've allus pampered me + Like one of the fambily.-- + The boys, too, 's all thataway-- + Want you jes to come and stay;-- + Price, and Chape, and Mandaville, + Poke, Chasteen, and "Catfish Bill"-- + Poke's the runt of all the rest, + But he's jes the beatinest + Little schemer, fer fourteen, + Anybody ever seen!-- + "Like his namesake," old man claims, + "Jeems K. Poke, the first o' names! + Full o' tricks and jokes--and you + Never know what _Poke's_ go' do!" + Genius, too, that-air boy is, + With them awk'ard hands o' his: + Gits this blame pokeberry-juice, + Er some stuff, fer ink--and goose- + Quill pen-p'ints: And then he'll draw + Dogdest pictures yevver saw! + Er make deers and eagles good + As a writin'-teacher could! + Then they's two twin boys they've riz + Of old Coonrod Wigginses + 'At's deceast--and glad of it, + 'Cause his widder's livin' yit! + + Course _the boys_ is mostly jes' + Why I go to Wigginses.--- + Though _Melviney_, sometimes, _she_ + Gits her slate and algebry + And jes' sets there ciphern' thue + Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do!-- + Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair + Forreds tel, 'pear-like, her hair + Jes' _spills_ in her lap--and then + She jes' dips it up again + With her hands, as white, I swan, + As the apern she's got on! + + Talk o' hospitality!-- + Go to Wigginses with me-- + Overhet, or froze plum thue, + You'll find welcome waitin' you:-- + Th'ow out yer tobacker 'fore + You set foot acrost that floor,-- + "Got to eat whatever's set-- + Got to drink whatever's wet!" + Old man's sentimuns--them's his--- + And means jes the best they is! + Then he lights his pipe; and she, + The old lady, presen'ly + She lights her'n; and Chape and Poke. + I haint got none, ner don't smoke,-- + (In the crick afore their door-- + Sorto so's 'at I'd be shore-- + Drownded mine one night and says + "I won't smoke at _Wigginses_!") + Price he's mostly talkin' 'bout + Politics, and "thieves turned out"-- + What he's go' to be, ef he + Ever "gits there"--and "we'll see!"-- + Poke he 'lows they's blame few men + Go' to hold their breath tel then! + Then Melviney smiles, as she + Goes on with her algebry, + And the clouds clear, and the room's + Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms! + (That Melviney, she' got some + Most surprisin' ways, I gum!-- + Don't 'pear like she ever _says_ + Nothin', yit you'll _listen_ jes + Like she was a-talkin', and + Half-way seem to understand, + But not quite,--_Poke_ does, I know, + 'Cause he good as told me so,-- + Poke's her favo-rite; and he-- + That is, confidentially-- + He's _my_ favo-rite--and I + Got my whurfore and my why!) + + I haint never ben no hand + Much at talkin', understand, + But they's _thoughts_ o' mine 'at's jes + Jealous o' them Wigginses!-- + Gift o' talkin 's what they got, + Whether they want to er not-- + F'r instunce, start the old man on + Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone, + 'Way back in the Forties, when + Bears stold pigs right out the pen, + Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm + With a bee-hive on their arm!-- + And--sir, _ping_! the old man's gun + Has plumped-over many a one, + Firin' at him from afore + That-air very cabin-door! + Yes--and _painters_, prowlin' 'bout, + Allus darkest nights.--Lay out + Clost yer cattle.--Great, big red + Eyes a-blazin' in their head, + Glittern' 'long the timber-line-- + Shine out some, and then _un_-shine, + And shine back--Then, stiddy! whizz! + 'N there yer Mr. Painter is + With a hole bored spang between + Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen, + Say, on blooded racin'-stock, + Ef you want to hear him talk; + Er tobacker--how to raise, + Store, and k-yore it, so's she pays: + The old lady--and she'll cote + Scriptur' tel she'll git yer vote! + + Prove to you 'at wrong is right, + Jes as plain as black is white: + Prove when you're asleep in bed + You're a-standin' on yer head, + And yer train 'at's goin' West, + 'S goin' East its level best; + And when bees dies, it's their wings + Wears out--and a thousand things! + And the boys is "chips," you know; + "Off the old block"--So I go + To the Wigginses, 'cause--jes + 'Cause I _like_ the Wigginses-- + Even ef Melviney _she_ + Hardly 'pears to notice me! + + Rid to Chinkypin this week-- + Yisterd'y.--No snow to speak + Of, and didn't have no sleigh + Anyhow; so, as I say, + I rid in--and froze one ear + And both heels--and I don't keer!-- + "Mother and the girls kin jes + Bother 'bout their Chris'mases + _Next_ time fer _theirse'vs_, I jack!" + Thinks-says-I, a-startin' back,-- + Whole durn meal-bag full of things + Wrapped in paper-sacks, and strings + Liable to snap their holt + Jes at any little jolt! + That in front o' me, and _wind_ + With _nicks_ in it, 'at jes skinned + Me alive!--I'm here to say + Nine mile' hossback thataway + Would a-walked my log! But, as + Somepin' allus comes to pass, + As I topped old Guthrie's hill. + Saw a buggy, front the 'Still, + P'inted home'ards, and a thin + Little chap jes climbin' in. + Six more minutes I were there + On the groun's'--And course it were-- + It were little Poke--and he + Nearly fainted to see me!-- + "You ben in to Chinky, too?" + "Yes; and go' ride back with you," + I-says-I. He he'pped me find + Room fer my things in behind-- + Stript my hoss's reins down, and + Put his mitt' on the right hand + So's to lead--"Pile in!" says he, + "But you 've struck pore company!" + Noticed he was pale--looked sick, + Kindo-like, and had a quick + Way o' flickin' them-air eyes + 0' his roun' 'at didn't size + Up right with his usual style-- + s' I, "You well?" He tried to smile, + But his chin shuck and tears come.-- + "_I've run 'Viney 'way from home_!" + + Don't know jes what all occurred + Next ten seconds--Nary word, + But my heart jes drapt, stobbed thue, + And whirlt over and come to.-- + Wrenched a big quart bottle from + That fool-boy!--and cut my thumb + On his little fiste-teeth--helt + Him snug in one arm, and felt + That-air little heart o' his + Churn the blood o' Wigginses + Into that old bead 'at spun + Roun' her, spilt at Lexington! + His k'niptions, like enough, + He'pped us both,--though it was rough-- + Rough on him, and rougher on + Me when last his nerve was gone, + And he laid there still, his face + Fishin' fer some hidin'-place + Jes a leetle lower down + In my breast than he 'd yit foun'! + + Last I kindo' soothed him, so's + He could talk.--And what you s'pose + Them-air revelations of + Poke's was? . . . He'd ben writin' love- + Letters to Melviney, and + Givin her to understand + They was from "a young man who + Loved her," and--"the violet's blue + 'N sugar's sweet"--and Lord knows what! + Tel, 'peared-like, Melviney got + S' interested in "the young + Man," Poke _he_ says, 'at she brung + A' answer onc't fer him to take, + Statin' "she'd die fer his sake," + And writ fifty xs "fer + Love-kisses fer him from her!" + I was standin' in the road + By the buggy, all I knowed + When Poke got that fer.--"That's why," + Poke says, "I 'fessed up the lie-- + _Had_ to--'cause I see," says he, + "'Viney was in airnest--she + Cried, too, when I told her.--Then + She swore me, and smiled again, + And got Pap and Mother to + Let me hitch and drive her thue + Into Chinkypin, to be + At Aunt 'Rindy's Chris'mas-tree-- + That's to-night." Says I, "Poke--durn + Your lyin' soul!--'s that beau o' hern-- + That--_she_--loves--Does _he_ live in + That hellhole o' Chinkypin?" + "No," says Poke, "er 'Viney would + Went some _other_ neighborhood." + "Who _is_ the blame whelp?" says I. + "Promised 'Viney, hope I'd die + Ef I ever told!" says Poke, + Pittiful and jes heart-broke-- + "'Sides that's why she left the place,-- + 'She caint look him in the face + Now no more on earth!' she says.--" + And the child broke down and jes + Sobbed! Says I, "Poke, I p'tend + T' be _your_ friend, and your _Pap's_ friend, + And your _Mother's_ friend, and all + The _boys_' friend, little, large and small-- + The _whole fambily's_ friend--and you + Know that means _Melviney_, too.-- + Now--you hush yer troublin!'--I'm + Go' to he'p friends ever' time-- + On'y in _this_ case, _you_ got + To he'p _me_--and, like as not + I kin he'p Melviney then, + And we'll have her home again. + And now, Poke, with your consent, + I'm go' go to that-air gent + She's in love with, and confer + With _him_ on his views o' _her_.-- + Blast him! give the man _some_ show.-- + Who is he?--_I'm go' to know_!" + Somepin' struck the little chap + Funny, 'peared-like.--Give a slap + On his leg--laughed thue the dew + In his eyes, and says: "It's you!" + + Yes, and--'cordin' to the last + Love-letters of ours 'at passed + Thue his hands--we was to be + Married Chris'mas.--"Gee-mun-_nee_! + Poke," says I, "it's _suddent_--yit + We _kin_ make it! You're to git + Up tomorry, say, 'bout _three_-- + Tell your folks you're go' with me:-- + We'll hitch up, and jes drive in + 'N take the town o' Chinkypin!" + + + + + GO, WINTER! + + Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again + The twitter of the bluebird and the wren; + Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine + Of Summer's sun--not thine.-- + + Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love + And all the heartening fervencies thereof, + It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin + Pathetic yearnings in. + + So get thee from us! We are cold, God wot, + Even as _thou_ art.--We remember not + How blithe we hailed thy coming.--That was O + Too long--too long ago! + + Get from us utterly! Ho! Summer then + Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been, + And thy last icy footprint melt and mold + In her first marigold. + + + + + ELIZABETH. + + _May 1, 1891_. + + I. + + Elizabeth! Elizabeth! + The first May-morning whispereth + Thy gentle name in every breeze + That lispeth through the young-leaved trees, + New raimented in white and green + Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen;-- + And, as in odorous chorus, all + The orchard-blossoms sweetly call + Even as a singing voice that saith + Elizabeth! Elizabeth! + + II. + + Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair, + In deep, cool shadows of thy hair, + Thy face maintaineth its repose.-- + Is it, O sister of the rose, + So better, sweeter, blooming thus + Than in this briery world with us?-- + Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath + Of biting winter harrieth + With sleeted rains and blighting snows + All fairest blooms--Elizabeth! + + III. + + Nay, then!--So reign, Elizabeth, + Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death! + Put forth the scepter of thy love + In every star-tipped blossom of + The grassy dais of thy throne! + Sadder are we, thus left alone, + But gladder they that thrill to see + Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee. + Bereaved are we by life--not death-- + Elizabeth! Elizabeth! + + + + + SLEEP. + + Orphaned, I cry to thee: + Sweet sleep! O kneel and be + A mother unto me! + Calm thou my childish fears: + Fold--fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly, + And dry my tears. + + Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed + And faint with languor,--slide + Thy dim face down beside + Mine own, and let me rest + And nestle in thy heart, and there abide, + A favored guest. + + Good night to every care, + And shadow of despair! + Good night to all things where + Within is no delight!-- + Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there, + I sob: Good night--good night! + + + + + DAN PAINE. + + Old friend of mine, whose chiming name + Has been the burthen of a rhyme + Within my heart since first I came + To know thee in thy mellow prime; + With warm emotions in my breast + That can but coldly be expressed, + And hopes and wishes wild and vain, + I reach my hand to thee, Dan Paine. + + In fancy, as I sit alone + In gloomy fellowship with care, + I hear again thy cheery tone, + And wheel for thee an easy chair; + And from my hand the pencil falls-- + My book upon the carpet sprawls, + As eager soul and heart and brain, + Leap up to welcome thee, Dan Paine. + + A something gentle in thy mein, + A something tender in thy voice, + Has made my trouble so serene, + I can but weep, from very choice. + And even then my tears, I guess, + Hold more of sweet than bitterness, + And more of gleaming shine than rain, + Because of thy bright smile, Dan Paine. + + The wrinkles that the years have spun + And tangled round thy tawny face, + Are kinked with laughter, every one, + And fashioned in a mirthful grace. + And though the twinkle of thine eyes + Is keen as frost when Summer dies, + It can not long as frost remain + While thy warm soul shines out, Dan Paine. + + And so I drain a health to thee;-- + May merry Joy and jolly Mirth + Like children clamber on thy knee, + And ride thee round the happy earth! + And when, at last, the hand of Fate + Shall lift the latch of Canaan's gate, + And usher me in thy domain, + Smile on me just as now, Dan Paine. + + + + + OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM + + I have jest about decided + It 'ud keep a _town-boy_ hoppin' + Fer to work all winter, choppin' + Fer a' old fire-place, like _I_ did! + Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!-- + Blame backbone o' winter, 'peared-like, + _Wouldn't_ break!--and I wuz skeerd-like + Clean on into _Febuary_! + Nothin' ever made we madder + Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' + On a' extra fore-stick, sayin' + "Groun'hog's out and seed his shadder!" + + + + + AT UTTER LOAF. + + I. + + An afternoon as ripe with heat + As might the golden pippin be + With mellowness if at my feet + It dropped now from the apple-tree + My hammock swings in lazily. + + + II. + + The boughs about me spread a shade + That shields me from the sun, but weaves + With breezy shuttles through the leaves + Blue rifts of skies, to gleam and fade + Upon the eyes that only see + Just of themselves, all drowsily. + + + III. + + Above me drifts the fallen skein + Of some tired spider, looped and blown, + As fragile as a strand of rain, + Across the air, and upward thrown + By breaths of hayfields newly mown-- + So glimmering it is and fine, + I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine. + + + IV. + + Far-off and faint as voices pent + In mines, and heard from underground, + Come murmurs as of discontent, + And clamorings of sullen sound + The city sends me, as, I guess, + To vex me, though they do but bless + Me in my drowsy fastnesses. + + + V. + + I have no care. I only know + My hammock hides and holds me here + In lands of shade a prisoner: + While lazily the breezes blow + Light leaves of sunshine over me, + And back and forth and to and fro + I swing, enwrapped in some hushed glee, + Smiling at all things drowsily. + + + + + A LOUNGER. + + He leant against a lamp-post, lost + In some mysterious reverie: + His head was bowed; his arms were crossed; + He yawned, and glanced evasively: + Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put + Them back again, and scratched his side-- + Shifted his weight from foot to foot, + And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed. + + Grotesque of form and face and dress, + And picturesque in every way-- + A figure that from day to day + Drooped with a limper laziness; + A figure such as artists lean, + In pictures where distress is seen, + Against low hovels where we guess + No happiness has ever been. + + + + + A SONG OF LONG AGO. + + A song of Long Ago: + Sing it lightly--sing it low-- + Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we used to know + When our baby-laughter spilled + From the glad hearts ever filled + With music blithe as robin ever trilled! + + Let the fragrant summer-breeze, + And the leaves of locust-trees, + And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees, + All palpitate with glee, + Till the happy harmony + Brings back each childish joy to you and me. + + Let the eyes of fancy turn + Where the tumbled pippins burn + Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,-- + There let the old path wind + In and out and on behind + The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. + + Blend in the song the moan + Of the dove that grieves alone, + And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone; + And the low of cows that call + Through the pasture-bars when all + The landscape fades away at evenfall. + + Then, far away and clear, + Through the dusky atmosphere, + Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear: + O sad and sweet and low + As the memory may know + Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! + + + + + THE CHANT OF THE CROSS-BEARING CHILD. + + I bear dis cross dis many a mile. + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + I bear dis cross 'long many a road + Wha' de pink ain't bloom' an' de grass done mowed. + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + Hits on my conscience all dese days + Fo' ter bear de cross ut de good Lord lays + On my po' soul, an' ter lif my praise. + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + I 's nigh-'bout weak ez I mos' kin be, + Yit de Marstah call an' He say,--"You 's free + Fo' ter 'cept dis cross, an' ter cringe yo' knee + To no n'er man in de worl' but me!" + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + Says you guess wrong, ef I let you guess-- + Says you 'spec' mo', an'-a you git less:-- + Says you go eas', says you go wes', + An' whense you fine de road ut you like bes' + You betteh take ch'ice er any er de res'! + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + He build my feet, an' He fix de signs + Dat de shoe hit pinch an' de shoe hit bines + Ef I on'y w'ah eights an-a wanter w'ah nines; + I hone fo' de rain, an' de sun hit shines, + An' whilse I hunt de sun, hits de rain I fines.-- + O-a trim my lamp, an-a gyrd my lines! + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + I wade de wet, an' I walk de dry: + I done tromp long, an' I done clim high; + An' I pilgrim on ter de jasper sky, + An' I taken de resk fo' ter cas' my eye + Wha' de Gate swing wide an' de Lord draw nigh, + An' de Trump hit blow, an' I hear de cry,-- + "You lay dat cross down by an' by!-- + O de Cross-bearin' Chile-- + Do Cross-bearin' Chile!" + + + + + THANKSGIVING. + + Let us be thankful--not only because + Since last our universal thanks were told + We have grown greater in the world's applause, + And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old-- + + But thankful for all things that come as alms + From out the open hand of Providence:-- + The winter clouds and storms---the summer calms-- + The sleepless dread--the drowse of indolence. + + Let us be thankful--thankful for the prayers + Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, + That they might fall upon us unawares, + And bless us, as in greater need, we prayed. + + Let us be thankful for the loyal hand + That love held out in welcome to our own, + When love and only love could understand + The need of touches we had never known. + + Let us be thankful for the longing eyes + That gave their secret to us as they wept, + Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise, + Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept. + + And let us, too, be thankful that the tears + Of sorrow have not all been drained away, + That through them still, for all the coming years, + We may look on the dead face of To-day. + + + + + AUTUMN. + + As a harvester, at dusk, + Faring down some woody trail + Leading homeward through the musk + Of may-apple and pawpaw, + Hazel-bush, and spice and haw,-- + So comes Autumn, swart and hale, + Drooped of frame and slow of stride. + But withal an air of pride + Looming up in stature far + Higher than his shoulders are; + Weary both in arm and limb, + Yet the wholesome heart of him + Sheer at rest and satisfied. + + Greet him as with glee of drums + And glad cymbals, as he comes! + Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine. + He the Emperor--the King-- + Royal lord of everything + Sagging Plenty's granary floors + And out-bulging all her doors; + He the god of corn and wine, + Honey, milk, and fruit and oil-- + Lord of feast, as lord of toil-- + Jocund host of yours and mine! + + Ho! the revel of his laugh!-- + Half is sound of winds, and half + Roar of ruddy blazes drawn + Up the throats of chimneys wide, + Circling which, from side to side, + Faces--lit as by the Dawn, + With her highest tintings on + Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin-- + Smile at some old fairy-tale + Of enchanted lovers, in + Silken gown and coat of mail, + With a retinue of elves + Merry as their very selves, + Trooping ever, hand in hand, + Down the dales of Wonderland. + + Then the glory of his song!-- + Lifting up his dreamy eyes-- + Singing haze across the skies; + Singing clouds that trail along + Towering tops of trees that seize + Tufts of them to stanch the breeze; + Singing slanted strands of rain + In between the sky and earth, + For the lyre to mate the mirth + And the might of his refrain: + Singing southward-flying birds + Down to us, and afterwards + Singing them to flight again; + Singing blushes to the cheeks + Of the leaves upon the trees-- + Singing on and changing these + Into pallor, slowly wrought, + Till the little, moaning creeks + Bear them to their last farewell, + As Elaine, the lovable, + Was borne down to Lancelot.-- + Singing drip of tears, and then + Drying them with smiles again. + + Singing apple, peach and grape, + Into roundest, plumpest shape, + Rosy ripeness to the face + Of the pippin; and the grace + Of the dainty stamin-tip + To the huge bulk of the pear, + Pendant in the green caress + Of the leaves, and glowing through + With the tawny laziness + Of the gold that Ophir knew,-- + Haply, too, within its rind + Such a cleft as bees may find, + Bungling on it half aware. + And wherein to see them sip + Fancy lifts an oozy lip, + And the singer's falter there. + + Sweet as swallows swimming through + Eddyings of dusk and dew, + Singing happy scenes of home + Back to sight of eager eyes + That have longed for them to come, + Till their coming is surprise + Uttered only by the rush + Of quick tears and prayerful hush; + Singing on, in clearer key, + Hearty palms of you and me + Into grasps that tingle still + Rapturous, and ever will! + Singing twank and twang of strings-- + Trill of flute and clarinet + In a melody that rings + Like the tunes we used to play, + And our dreams are playing yet! + Singing lovers, long astray, + Each to each, and, sweeter things-- + Singing in their marriage-day, + And a banquet holding all + These delights for festival. + + + + + THE TWINS. + + One 's the pictur' of his Pa, + And the _other_ of her Ma-- + Jes the bossest pair o' babies 'at a mortal ever saw! + And we love 'em as the bees + Loves the blossoms of the trees, + A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze! + + One's got her Mammy's eyes-- + Soft and blue as Apurl-skies-- + With the same sort of a smile, like--Yes, + and mouth about her size,-- + Dimples, too, in cheek and chin, + 'At my lips jes _wallers_ in, + A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin. + + And the _other_--Well, they say + That he's got his Daddy's way + O' bein' ruther soberfied, er ruther extry gay,-- + That he either cries his best, + Er he laughs his howlin'est-- + Like all he lacked was buttons and a vest! + + Look at _her_!--and look at _him_!-- + Talk about yer "Cheru-_bim_!" + Roll 'em up in dreams together, rosy arm and chubby limb! + O we love 'em as the bees + Loves the blossoms of the trees, + A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze! + + + + + BEDOUIN. + + O love is like an untamed steed!-- + So hot of heart and wild of speed, + And with fierce freedom so in love, + The desert is not vast enough, + With all its leagues of glimmering sands, + To pasture it! Ah, that my hands + Were more than human in their strength, + That my deft lariat at length + Might safely noose this splendid thing + That so defies all conquering! + Ho! but to see it whirl and reel-- + The sands spurt forward--and to feel + The quivering tension of the thong + That throned me high, with shriek and song! + To grapple tufts of tossing mane-- + To spurn it to its feet again, + And then, sans saddle, rein or bit, + To lash the mad life out of it! + + + + + TUGG MARTIN. + + I. + + Tugg Martin's tough.--No doubt o' that! + And down there at + The town he come from word's bin sent + Advisin' this-here Settle-ment + To kindo' _humor_ Tugg, and not + To git him hot-- + Jest pass his imperfections by, + And he's as good as pie! + + + II. + + They claim he's _wanted_ back there.--Yit + The officers they mostly quit + _Insistin'_ when + They notice Tugg's so _back'ard_, and + Sorto' gives 'em to understand + He druther not!--A Deputy + (The slickest one you ever see!) + Tackled him _last_--"disguisin' then," + As Tugg says, "as a gentlemen!"-- + You 'd ort o' hear _Tugg_ tell it!--_My_! + I thought I'd _die_! + + III. + + The way it wuz;--Tugg and the rest + The boys wuz jest + A-kindo' gittin' thawed out, down + At "Guss's Place," fur-end o' town, + One night, when, first we knowed, + Some feller rode + Up in a buggy at the door, + And hollered fer some one to come + And fetch him some + Red-licker out--And whirped and swore + That colt he drove wuz "_Thompson's_" shore! + + + IV. + + Guss went out, and come in agin + And filled a pint and tuck it out-- + Stayed quite a spell--then peeked back in, + Half-hid-like where the light wuz dim, + And jieuked his head + At Tugg and said,-- + "Come out a minute--here's a gent + Wants you to take a drink with him." + + + V. + + Well--Tugg laid down his cards and went-- + In fact, _we all_ + Got up, you know, + _Startin'_ to go-- + When in reels Guss aginst the wall, + As white as snow, + Gaspin',--"_He's tuck Tugg!--wher's my gun_?" + And-sir, outside we heerd + The hoss snort and kick up his heels + Like he wuz skeerd, + And then the buggy-wheels + Scrape--and then Tugg's voice hollerun',-- + "I'm bested!--Good-bye, fellers!" . . . 'Peared + S' all-fired suddent, + Nobody couldn't + Jest git it fixed,--tel hoss and man, + Buggy and Tugg, off through the dark + Went like the devil beatin' tan- + Bark! + + + VI. + + What _could_ we do? . . . We filed back to + The bar: And Guss jest _looked_ at us, + And we looked back "The same as you," + Still sayin' nothin'--And the sap + It stood in every eye, + And every hat and cap + Went off, as we teched glasses solemnly, + And Guss says-he: + "Ef it's 'good-bye' with Tugg, fer _shore_,--I say + God bless him!--Er ef they + Aint railly no _need_ to pray, + I'm not reniggin!--board's the play, + And here's God bless him, anyway!" + + + VII. + + It must a-bin an hour er so + We all set there, + Talkin o' pore + Old Tugg, you know, + 'At never, wuz ketched up before-- + When--all slow-like--the door- + Knob turned--and Tugg come shamblin' in, + Hand-cuffed'--'at's what he wuz, I swear!-- + Yit smilin,' like he hadn't bin + Away at all! And when we ast him where + The _Deputy_ wuz at,--"I don't know where," Tugg said,-- + "All _I_ know is--he's dead." + + + + + LET US FORGET. + + Let us forget. What matters it that we + Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago, + And talked of love, and let our voices low, + And ruled for some brief sessions royally? + What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? + It has availed not anything, and so + Let it go by that we may better know + How poor a thing is lost to you and me. + But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet + Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew + From your drenched lids--and missed, with no regret, + Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you; + And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet + With all this waste of tears, let us forget! + + + + + JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY. + + We got up a Christmas-doin's + Last Christmas Eve-- + Kindo' dimonstration + 'At I railly believe + Give more satisfaction-- + Take it up and down-- + Than ary intertainment + Ever come to town! + + Railly was a _theater_-- + That's what it was,-- + But, bein' in the church, you know, + We had a "_Santy Clause_"-- + So 's to git the _old folks_ + To patternize, you see, + And _back_ the institootion up + Kindo' _morally_. + + Schoolteacher writ the thing-- + (Was a friend o' mine), + Got it out o' Longfeller's + Pome "Evangeline"-- + Er some'rs--'bout the _Purituns_--. + _Anyway_, the part + "_John Alden_" fell to _me_-- + And learnt it all by heart! + + Claircy was "_Percilly_"-- + (Schoolteacher 'lowed + Me and her could act them two + Best of all the crowd)-- + Then--blame ef he didn't + Git her Pap, i jing!-- + To take the part o' "_Santy Clause_," + To wind up the thing. + + Law! the fun o' practisun!-- + Was a week er two + Me and Claircy didn't have + Nothin' else to do!-- + Kep' us jes a-meetin' round, + Kindo' here and there, + Ever' night rehearsin'-like, + And gaddin' ever'where! + + Game was wo'th the candle, though!-- + Christmas Eve at last + Rolled around.--And 'tendance jes + Couldn't been surpassed!-- + Neighbors from the country + Come from Clay and Rush-- + Yes, and 'crost the county-line + Clean from Puckerbrush! + + Meetin'-house jes trimbled + As "Old Santy" went + Round amongst the childern, + With their pepperment + And sassafrac and wintergreen + Candy, and "a ball + O' popcorn," the preacher 'nounced, + "Free fer each and all!" + + Schoolteacher suddently + Whispered in my ear,-- + "Guess I got you:--_Christmas-gift_!-- + _Christmas is here_!" + I give _him_ a gold pen, + And case to hold the thing,-- + And _Claircy_ whispered "_Christmas-gift_!" + And I give her a _ring_. + + "And now," says I, "jes watch _me_-- + Christmas-gift," says I, + "_I'm_ a-goin' to git one-- + '_Santy's_' comin' by!"-- + Then I rech and grabbed him: + And, as you'll infer, + 'Course I got the old man's, + And _he_ gimme _her_! + + + + + REACH YOUR HAND TO ME. + + Reach your hand to me, my friend, + With its heartiest caress-- + Sometime there will come an end + To its present faithfulness-- + Sometime I may ask in vain + For the touch of it again, + When between us land or sea + Holds it ever back from me. + + Sometime I may need it so, + Groping somewhere in the night, + It will seem to me as though + Just a touch, however light, + Would make all the darkness day, + And along some sunny way + Lead me through an April-shower + Of my tears to this fair hour. + + O the present is too sweet + To go on forever thus! + Round the corner of the street + Who can say what waits for us?-- + Meeting--greeting, night and day, + Faring each the self-same way-- + Still somewhere the path must end.-- + Reach your hand to me, my friend! + + + + + THE ROSE. + + It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; + And the sun, like a bashful swain, + Beamed on it through the waving frees + With a passion all in vain,-- + For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + The honey-bee came there to sing + His love through the languid hours, + And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king + Might boast of his palace-towers: + But my rose bowed in a mockery, + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, + Dipped down with a dalliant song, + And twanged his wings through the roundelay + Of love the whole day long: + Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + The firefly came in the twilight dim + My red, red rose to woo-- + Till quenched was the flame of love in him, + And the light of his lantern too, + As my rose wept with dew-drops three + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose-- + Some day I will claim as mine + The priceless worth of the flower that knows + No change, but a bloom divine-- + The bloom of a fadeless constancy + That hides in the leaves in wait for me! + + But time passed by in a strange disguise, + And I marked it not, but lay + In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, + Till the summer slipped away, + And a chill wind sang in a minor key: + "Where is the rose that waits for thee?" + + * * * * * + + I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain + Of bloom on a withered stalk, + Pelted down by the autumn rain + In the dust of the garden-walk, + That an Angel-rose in the world to be + Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. + + + + + MY FRIEND. + + "He is my friend," I said,-- + "Be patient!" Overhead + The skies were drear and dim; + And lo! the thought of him + Smited on my heart--and then + The sun shone out again! + + "He is my friend!" The words + Brought summer and the birds; + And all my winter-time + Thawed into running rhyme + And rippled into song, + Warm, tender, brave, and strong. + + And so it sings to-day.-- + So may it sing alway! + Though waving grasses grow + Between, and lilies blow + Their trills of perfume clear + As laughter to the ear, + Let each mute measure end + With "Still he is thy friend." + + + + + SUSPENSE. + + A woman's figure, on a ground of night + Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare + Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there + As in vague hope some alien lance of light + Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight-- + The salt and bitter blood of her despair-- + Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair + And grip toward God with anguish infinite. + And O the carven mouth, with all its great + Intensity of longing frozen fast + In such a smile as well may designate + The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last, + Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate + Throbs Love's eternal lie--"Lo, I can wait!" + + + + + THE PASSING OF A HEART. + + O touch me with your hands-- + For pity's sake! + My brow throbs ever on with such an ache + As only your cool touch may take away; + And so, I pray + You, touch me with your hands! + + Touch--touch me with your hands.-- + Smooth back the hair + You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair + That I did dream its gold would wear alway, + And lo, to-day-- + O touch me with your hands! + + Just touch me with your hands, + And let them press + My weary eyelids with the old caress, + And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, + That Death may say: + He touched her with his hands. + + BY HER WHITE BED. + + By her white bed I muse a little space: + She fell asleep--not very long ago,-- + And yet the grass was here and not the snow-- + The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and--her face!-- + Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace + Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow; + The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low + Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place + In thicker twilight for the roses' scent. + Then _night_.--She slept--in such tranquility, + I walk atiptoe still, nor _dare_ to weep, + Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content-- + That though God stood to wake her for me, she + Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord! Let _him_ so sleep." + + + + + WE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING. + + "Rain and rain! and rain and rain!" + Yesterday we muttered + Grimly as the grim refrain + That the thunders uttered: + All the heavens under cloud-- + All the sunshine sleeping; + All the grasses limply bowed + With their weight of weeping. + + Sigh and sigh! and sigh and sigh! + Never end of sighing; + Rain and rain for our reply-- + Hopes half-drowned and dying; + Peering through the window-pane, + Naught but endless raining-- + Endless sighing, and, as vain, + Endlessly complaining. + + Shine and shine! and shine and shine! + Ah! to-day the splendor!-- + All this glory yours and mine-- + God! but God is tender! + We to sigh instead of sing, + _Yesterday_, in sorrow, + While the Lord was fashioning + This for our To-morrow! + + + + + THE BLOSSOMS ON THE TREES. + + Blossoms crimson, white, or blue, + Purple, pink, and every hue, + From sunny skies, to tintings drowned + In dusky drops of dew, + I praise you all, wherever found, + And love you through and through;-- + _But_, Blossoms On The Trees, + With your breath upon the breeze, + There's nothing all the world around + As half as sweet as you! + + Could the rhymer only wring + All the sweetness to the lees + Of all the kisses clustering + In juicy Used-to-bes, + To dip his rhymes therein and sing + The blossoms on the trees,-- + "O Blossoms on the Trees," + He would twitter, trill and coo, + "However sweet, such songs as these + Are not as sweet as you:-- + For you are _blooming_ melodies + The _eyes_ may listen to!" + + + + + A DISCOURAGING MODEL. + + Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, + With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, + Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, + And a knot of red roses sown in under there + Where the shadows are lost in her hair. + + Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground + Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; + And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint + And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint + Round the lips of their favorite saint! + + And that lace at her throat--and the fluttering hands + Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, + The flakes of their touches--first fluttering at + The bow--then the roses--the hair--and then that + Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. + + O what artist on earth with a model like this, + Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, + Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, + Nor the gold of her smile--O what artist could dare + To expect a result half so fair? + + + + + LAST NIGHT--AND THIS. + + Last night--how deep the darkness was! + And well I knew its depths, because + I waded it from shore to shore, + Thinking to reach the light no more. + + She would not even touch my hand.-- + The winds rose and the cedars fanned + The moon out, and the stars fled back + In heaven and hid--and all was black! + + But ah! To-night a summons came, + Signed with a teardrop for a name,-- + For as I wondering kissed it, lo, + A line beneath it told me so. + + And _now_--the moon hangs over me + A disk of dazzling brilliancy, + And every star-tip stabs my sight + With splintered glitterings of light! + + + + + SEPTEMBER DARK. + + I. + + The air falls chill; + The whip-poor-will + Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: + The dusk grows dense, + The silence tense; + And lo, the katydids commence. + + + II. + + Through shadowy rifts + Of woodland, lifts + The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, + While left and right + The fireflies' light + Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night. + + + III. + + O Cloudland, gray + And level, lay + Thy mists across the face of Day! + At foot and head, + Above the dead, + O Dews, weep on uncomforted! + + + + + A GLIMPSE OF PAN. + + I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here, + And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat + And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, + Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere + Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet + From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer + O'er the grasses, green and sweet. + + And I peered through a vista of leaning trees, + Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept + To the face of a river, that answered these + With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, + Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept + And kissed them, with quavering ecstacies, + And gurgled and laughed and wept. + + And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear + I saw Pan lying,--his limbs in the dew + And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare + Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere, + Over, across, and around him blew + Filmy dragonflies hither and there, + And little white butterflies, two and two, + In eddies of odorous air. + + + + + OUT OF NAZARETH. + + "He shall sleep unscathed of thieves + Who loves Allah and believes." + Thus heard one who shared the tent, + In the far-off Orient, + Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz-- + Nobler never loved the stars + Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim + Dawn his courser neighed to him! + + He said: "Let the sands be swarmed + With such thieves as I, and thou + Shalt at morning rise, unharmed, + Light as eyelash to the brow + Of thy camel, amber-eyed, + Ever munching either side, + Striding still, with nestled knees, + Through the midnight's oases. + + "Who can rob thee an thou hast + More than this that thou hast cast + At my feet--this dust of gold? + Simply this and that, all told! + Hast thou not a treasure of + Such a thing as men call love? + + "Can the dusky band I lead + Rob thee of thy daily need + Of a whiter soul, or steal + What thy lordly prayers reveal? + Who could be enriched of thee + By such hoard of poverty + As thy niggard hand pretends + To dole me--thy worst of friends? + Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless + One indeed who blesses thee; + Robbing thee, I dispossess + But myself.--Pray thou for me!" + + He shall sleep unscathed of thieves + Who loves Allah and believes. + + + + + THE WANDERING JEW. + + The stars are failing, and the sky + Is like a field of faded flowers; + The winds on weary wings go by; + The moon hides, and the temptest lowers; + And still through every clime and age + I wander on a pilgrimage + That all men know an idle quest, + For that the goal I seek is--REST! + + I hear the voice of summer streams, + And, following, I find the brink + Of cooling springs, with childish dreams + Returning as I bend to drink-- + But suddenly, with startled eyes, + My face looks on its grim disguise + Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, + I hasten on, nor taste of rest. + + I come upon a merry group + Of children in the dusky wood, + Who answer back the owlet's whoop, + That laughs as it had understood; + And I would pause a little space, + But that each happy blossom-face + Is like to one His hands have blessed + Who sent me forth in search of rest. + + Sometimes I fain would stay my feet + In shady lanes, where huddled kine + Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, + And lift their patient eyes to mine; + But I, for thoughts that ever then + Go back to Bethlehem again, + Must needs fare on my weary quest, + And weep for very need of rest. + + Is there no end? I plead in vain: + Lost worlds nor living answer me. + Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign + Have I not passed eternity? + Have I not drank the fetid breath + Of every fevered phase of death, + And come unscathed through every pest + And scourge and plague that promised rest? + + Have I not seen the stars go out + That shed their light o'er Galilee, + And mighty kingdoms tossed about + And crumbled clod-like in the sea? + Dead ashes of dead ages blow + And cover me like drifting snow, + And time laughs on as 'twere a jest + That I have any need of rest. + + + + + LONGFELLOW. + + The winds have talked with him confidingly; + The trees have whispered to him; and the night + Hath held him gently as a mother might, + And taught him all sad tones of melody: + The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, + In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, + Hath told him all her sorrow and delight-- + Her legends fair--her darkest mystery. + His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; + Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings + Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, + Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.-- + Nor shall he cease to sing--in every lay + Of Nature's voice he sings--and will alway. + + + + +JOHN MCKEEN. + +John McKeen, in his rusty dress, + His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; +His face unshaven, and none the less, +His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, + And the wealth of a workman's vote! + +Bring him, O Memory, here once more, + And tilt him back in his Windsor chair +By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er +And the light of the hearth is across the floor, + And the crickets everywhere! + +And let their voices be gladly blent + With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, +And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, +And neighborly gossip and merriment, + And old-time fiddle-tunes! + +Tick the clock with a wooden sound, + And fill the hearing with childish glee +Of rhyming riddle, or story found +In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound + Old book of the Used-to-be! + +John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, + To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!-- +To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don +A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone + Out on election days! + +John, ah, John! did it prove your worth + To yield you the office you still maintain? +To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth +Of all the happier things on earth + To the hunger of heart and brain? + +Under the dusk of your villa trees, + Edging the drives where your blooded span +Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,-- +Where are the children about your knees, + And the mirth, and the happy man? + +The blinds of your mansion are battened to; + Your faded wife is a close recluse; +And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do +Dutifully all that is willed of you, + And marry as you shall choose!-- + +But O for the old-home voices, blent + With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, +And the motherly chirrup of glad content +And neighborly gossip and merriment, + And the old-time fiddle-tunes! + + + + +THEIR SWEET SORROW. + +They meet to say farewell: Their way +Of saying this is hard to say.-- + He holds her hand an instant, wholly + Distressed--and she unclasps it slowly. + +He bends his gaze evasively +Over the printed page that she + Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder + Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her. + +The clock, beneath its crystal cup, +Discreetly clicks--"Quick! Act! Speak up!" + A tension circles both her slender + Wrists--and her raised eyes flash in splendor, + +Even as he feels his dazzled own.-- +Then, blindingly, round either thrown, + They feel a stress of arms that ever + Strain tremblingly--and "Never! Never!" + +Is whispered brokenly, with half +A sob, like a belated laugh,-- + While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, + Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. + + + + +SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S. + +Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid +An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, +And cooked 'em on our stove one day +When our hired girl she said I may. + +_Honey's_ the goodest thing--Oo-_ooh_! +And blackberry-pies is goodest, too! +But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet +Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet! + +Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,--an' +She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!-- +An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face-- +An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'! + +I _ruther_ go to the Circus-show; +But, 'cause my _parunts_ told me so, +I ruther go to the Sund'y School, +'Cause there I learn the goldun rule. + +Say, Pa,--what _is_ the goldun rule +'At's allus at the Sund'y School? + + + + +MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. + +They called him Mr. What's-his-name: +From where he was, or why he came, +Or when, or what he found to do, +Nobody in the city knew. + +He lived, it seemed, shut up alone +In a low hovel of his own; +There cooked his meals and made his bed, +Careless of all his neighbors said. + +His neighbors, too, said many things +Expressive of grave wonderings, +Since none of them had ever been +Within his doors, or peered therein. + +In fact, grown watchful, they became +Assured that Mr. What's-his-name +Was up to something wrong--indeed, +Small doubt of it, we all agreed. + +At night were heard strange noises there, +When honest people everywhere +Had long retired; and his light +Was often seen to burn all night. + +He left his house but seldom--then +Would always hurry back again, +As though he feared some stranger's knock, +Finding him gone, might burst the lock. + +Beside, he carried, every day, +At the one hour he went away, +A basket, with the contents hid +Beneath its woven willow lid. + +And so we grew to greatly blame +This wary Mr. What's-his-name, +And look on him with such distrust +His actions seemed to sanction just. + +But when he died--he died one day-- +Dropped in the street while on his way +To that old wretched hut of his-- +You'll think it strange--perhaps it is-- + +But when we lifted him, and past +The threshold of his home at last, +No man of all the crowd but stepped +With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_! + +What was it? Just a shriek of pain +I pray to never hear again-- +A withered woman, old and bowed, +That fell and crawled and cried aloud-- + +And kissed the dead man's matted hair-- +Lifted his face and kissed him there-- +Called to him, as she clutched his hand, +In words no one could understand. + +Insane? Yes.--Well, we, searching, found +An unsigned letter, in a round +Free hand, within the dead man's breast: +"Look to my mother--_I'm_ at rest. + +You'll find my money safely hid +Under the lining of the lid +Of my work-basket. It is hers, +And God will bless her ministers!" + +And some day--though he died unknown-- +If through the City by the Throne +I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame, +I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name. + + + + +WHEN AGE COMES ON. + +When Age comes on!-- +"The deepening dusk is where the dawn + Once glittered splendid, and the dew +In honey-drips, from red rose-lips + Was kissed away by me and you.-- +And now across the frosty lawn +Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on-- + And Age comes on! + And biting wild-winds whistle through +Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on! + +When Age comes on!-- +O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, + Flow back in summer-floods, and fling +Here at our feet our childhood sweet, + And all the songs we used to sing! . . . +Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone-- +Our old faith lost--and Age comes on-- + And Age comes on! + Poor hearts! have we not anything +But longings left when Age comes on? + + + + +ENVOY. + +Just as of old! The world rolls on and on; +The day dies into night--night into dawn-- +Dawn into dusk--through centuries untold.-- + Just as of old. + +Time loiters not. The river ever flows, +Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows; +Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold: + Just as of old. + +Lo! where is the beginning, where the end +Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend!-- +God answers with a silence of pure gold-- + Just as of old. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Fields and Running Brooks, and +Other Poems, by James Whitcomb Riley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREEN FIELDS *** + +***** This file should be named 15079-8.txt or 15079-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/0/7/15079/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/15079-8.zip b/15079-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b55a859 --- /dev/null +++ b/15079-8.zip diff --git a/15079.txt b/15079.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb61db3 --- /dev/null +++ b/15079.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5618 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other +Poems, by James Whitcomb Riley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems + +Author: James Whitcomb Riley + +Release Date: February 16, 2005 [EBook #15079] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREEN FIELDS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS + + + + + +JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + + + + + +INDIANAPOLIS + +THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY + +PUBLISHERS + + + + +COPYRIGHT 1893 + +BY JAMES W. RILEY + + + + + + + + +TO MY SISTERS + +ELVA AND MARY + + + + + CONTENTS. + + PROEM + + Artemus of Michigan, The + As My Uncle Used to Say + At Utter Loaf + August + Autumn + + Bedouin + Being His Mother + Blind + Blossoms on the Trees, The + By Any Other Name + By Her White Bed + + Chant of the Cross-Bearing Child, The + Country Pathway, A + Cup of Tea, A + Curse of the Wandering Foot, The + Cyclone, The + + Dan Paine + Dawn, Noon and Dewfall + Discouraging Model, A + Ditty of No Tone, A + Don Piatt of Mac-o-chee + Dot Leedle Boy + Dream of Autumn, A + + Elizabeth + Envoy + + Farmer Whipple--Bachelor + Full Harvest, A + + Glimpse of Pan, A + Go, Winter + + Her Beautiful Eyes + Hereafter, The + His Mother's Way + His Vigil + Home at Night + Home-Going, The + Hoodoo, The + Hoosier Folk-Child, The + How John Quit the Farm + + Iron Horse, The + Iry and Billy and Jo + + Jack the Giant-Killer + Jap Miller + John Alden and Percilly + John Brown + John McKeen + Judith + June at Woodruff + Just to Be Good + + Last Night--And This + Let Us Forget + Little Fat Doctor, The + Longfellow + Lounger, A + + Monument for the Soldiers, A + Mr. What's-His-Name + My Friend + + Nessmuk + North and South + + Old Retired Sea Captain, The + Old Winters on the Farm + Old Year and the New, The + On the Banks o' Deer Crick + Out of Nazareth + + Passing of A Heart, The + Plaint Human, The + + Quarrel, The + Quiet Lodger, The + + Reach Your Hand to Me + Right Here at Home + Rival, The + Rivals, The; or the Showman's Ruse + Robert Burns Wilson + Rose, The + + September Dark + Shoemaker, The + Singer, The + Sister Jones's Confession + Sleep + Some Scattering Remarks of Bub's + Song of Long Ago, A + Southern Singer, A + Suspense + + Thanksgiving + Their Sweet Sorrow + Them Flowers + To an Importunate Ghost + To Hear Her Sing + Tom Van Arden + To the Serenader + Tugg Martin + Twins, The + + Wandering Jew, The + Watches of the Night, The + Water Color, A + We to Sigh Instead of Sing + What Chris'mas Fetched the Wigginses + When Age Comes On + Where-Away + While the Musician Played + Wife-Blessed, The + Wraith of Summertime, A + + + + + GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS + + + + + GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS + + + + + Ho! green fields and running brooks! + Knotted strings and fishing-hooks + Of the truant, stealing down + Weedy backways of the town. + + Where the sunshine overlooks, + By green fields and running brooks, + All intruding guests of chance + With a golden tolerance, + + Cooing doves, or pensive pair + Of picnickers, straying there-- + By green fields and running brooks, + Sylvan shades and mossy nooks! + + And--O Dreamer of the Days, + Murmurer of roundelays + All unsung of words or books, + Sing green fields and running brooks! + + + + + A COUNTRY PATHWAY. + + I come upon it suddenly, alone-- + A little pathway winding in the weeds + That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, + I wander as it leads. + + Full wistfully along the slender way, + Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, + I take the path that leads me as it may-- + Its every choice is mine. + + A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, + Is startled by my step as on I fare-- + A garter-snake across the dusty trail + Glances and--is not there. + + Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos + And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, + Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose + When autumn winds arise. + + The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts + Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, + And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts + Still onward, beckoning me. + + And though it needs must lure me mile on mile + Out of the public highway, still I go, + My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, + Allure me even so. + + Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went + At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, + And was not found again, though Heaven lent + His mother ail the stars + + With which to seek him through that awful night. + O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise + But well might miss their glitter in the light + Of tears in mother-eyes! + + So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- + My _avant-courier_ must be obeyed! + Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, + Invites me to invade + + A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide + Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, + And stumbles down again, the other side, + To gambol there awhile + + In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead + I see it running, while the clover-stalks + Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- + "You dog our country-walks + + And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- + We will not suffer tamely what you do + And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sic + Our bumble-bees on you!" + + But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- + The more determined on my wayward quest, + As some bright memory a moment dawns + A morning in my breast-- + + Sending a thrill that hurries me along + In faulty similes of childish skips, + Enthused with lithe contortions of a song + Performing on my lips. + + In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- + Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands, + Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, + Put berries in my hands: + + Or, the path climbs a boulder--wades a slough-- + Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, + Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou + On old tree-trunks and snags: + + Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool + Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, + With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool + That its foundation laid. + + I pause a moment here to bend and muse, + With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where + A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, + Or wildly oars the air, + + As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- + The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- + Swings pivoting about, with wary look + Of low and cunning greed. + + Till, filled with other thought, I turn again + To where the pathway enters in a realm + Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign + Of towering oak and elm. + + A puritanic quiet here reviles + The almost whispered warble from the hedge, + And takes a locust's rasping voice and files + The silence to an edge. + + In such a solitude my somber way + Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom + Of his own shadows--till the perfect day + Bursts into sudden bloom, + + And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, + Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, + And where the valley's dint in Nature's face + Dimples a smiling world. + + And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, + I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, + Where, like a gem in costly setting held, + The old log cabin gleams. + + * * * * * + + O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on + Adown your valley way, and run before + Among the roses crowding up the lawn + And thronging at the door,-- + + And carry up the echo there that shall + Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay + The household out to greet the prodigal + That wanders home to-day. + + + + + ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK. + + On the banks o' Deer Crick! There's the place fer me!-- + Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be:-- + See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky, + And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by; + Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees-- + And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze! + Well--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea: + On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me! + + On the banks o' Deer Crick--mild er two from town-- + 'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down,-- + Like to git up in there--'mongst the sycamores-- + And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours: + Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line, + Where the fish is jes so thick you kin see 'em shine + As they flicker round yer bait, _coaxin_' you to jerk, + Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as _work_! + + On the banks o' Deer Crick!--Allus my delight + Jes to be around there--take it day er night!-- + Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day-- + Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way!-- + Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight; + And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at night-- + Stars up through the tree-tops--er in the crick below,-- + And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from the old b'y-o! + + Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to "Johnson's Hole," + And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin' pole; + Have yer "dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut-and-dry"-- + Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye,-- + Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade-- + Like the Good Book tells us--"where there're none to make afraid!" + Well!--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea-- + On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me! + + + + + A DITTY OF NO TONE. + + _Piped to the Spirit of John Keats._ + + I. + + Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise + A fitting melody--an air sublime,-- + A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze-- + The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme: + A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed + With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers + Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of-- + Such thoughts as might be hymned + To thee from this midsummer land of ours + Through shower and sunshine blent for very love. + + + II. + + Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough + Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill + Of best-remembered birds hath something new + In cadence for the hearing--lingering still + Through all the open day that lies beyond; + Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks, + Majestic still in pathos of decay,-- + The road--the wayside pond + Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks + His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away. + + + III. + + And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould, + Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long + Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold, + And braid them in the meshes of my song; + And with them I would tangle wheat and rye, + And wisps of greenest grass the katydid + Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily, + As harvest-hands went by; + And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid, + A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee. + + + + + A WATER-COLOR. + + Low hidden in among the forest trees + An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep + In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these + A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep + Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat-- + A little wicker flask tossed into that. + + A sense of utter carelessness and grace + Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene,-- + As if the June, all hoydenish of face, + Had romped herself to sleep there on the green, + And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream + Were just romantic parcels of her dream. + + + + + THE CYCLONE. + + So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn + In conference with themselves.--Intense--intense + Seemed everything;--the summer splendor on + The sight,--magnificence! + + A babe's life might not lighter fail and die + Than failed the sunlight--Though the hour was noon, + The palm of midnight might not lighter lie + Upon the brow of June. + + With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings + Of swallows--gone the instant afterward-- + While from the elms there came strange twitterings, + Stilled scarce ere they were heard. + + The river seemed to shiver; and, far down + Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores + Lean inward closer, under the vast frown + That weighed above the shores. + + Then was a roar, born of some awful burst!-- + And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path-- + Flung--he or I--out of some space accurst + As of Jehovah's wrath: + + Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer, + Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done, + And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there, + The birds sang in the sun. + + + + + WHERE-AWAY. + + O the Lands of Where-Away! + Tell us--tell us--where are they? + Through the darkness and the dawn + We have journeyed on and on-- + From the cradle to the cross-- + From possession unto loss,-- + Seeking still, from day to day, + For the lands of Where-Away. + + When our baby-feet were first + Planted where the daisies burst, + And the greenest grasses grew + In the fields we wandered through, + On, with childish discontent, + Ever on and on we went, + Hoping still to pass, some day, + O'er the verge of Where-Away. + + Roses laid their velvet lips + On our own, with fragrant sips; + But their kisses held us not, + All their sweetness we forgot;-- + Though the brambles in our track + Plucked at us to hold us back-- + "Just ahead," we used to say, + "Lie the Lands of Where-Away." + + Children at the pasture-bars, + Through the dusk, like glimmering stars, + Waved their hands that we should bide + With them over eventide: + Down the dark their voices failed + Falteringly, as they hailed, + And died into yesterday-- + Night ahead and--Where-Away? + + Twining arms about us thrown-- + Warm caresses, all our own, + Can but stay us for a spell-- + Love hath little new to tell + To the soul in need supreme, + Aching ever with the dream + Of the endless bliss it may + Find in Lands of Where-Away! + + + + + THE HOME-GOING. + + We must get home--for we have been away + So long it seems forever and a day! + And O so very homesick we have grown, + The laughter of the world is like a moan + In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain,-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home: It hurts so, staying here, + Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, + And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, + When most our lack, the least our hope of rest + When most our need of joy, the more our pain-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home: All is so quiet there: + The touch of loving hands on brow and hair-- + Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild--- + The lost love of the mother and the child + Restored in restful lullabies of rain.-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse, + Time humors us and tiptoes through the house, + And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, + With dreams--not tear-drops--brimming our clenched eyes,-- + Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + We must get home; and, unremembering there + All gain of all ambitions otherwhere, + Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown + Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.-- + Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain-- + We must get home--we must get home again! + + + + + HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM. + + Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, + Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on-- + And then, I want to say to you, we _needed_ he'p about, + As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out! + + A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found + Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!-- + The house was small--but plenty-big we found it from the day + That John--our only livin' son--packed up and went way. + + You see, we tuck sich pride in John--his mother more 'n me-- + That's natchurul; but _both_ of us was proud as proud could be; + Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright, + And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight. + + He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart + As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start; + And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up to say-- + "Jest listen, David!--listen!--Johnny's beat the birds to-day!" + + High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,-- + He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn: + He'd ast more plaguey questions in a mortal-minute here + Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year! + + And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell; + And "The Childern of the Abbey"--w'y, he knowed that book as well + At fifteen as his parents!--and "The Pilgrim's Progress," too-- + Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through! + + At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance-- + That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance; + And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on, + Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone. + + But--I missed him--w'y of course I did!--The Fall and Winter through + I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two, + Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin, + But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home agin. + + He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the Sund'y out; + And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about: + But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than before, + And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more. + + And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh, + He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie, + And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone; + And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own. + + But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home + And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come; + But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down, + When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in town. + + "But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course + I will," says he.-- + "This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer me; + I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and gay, + "And town's the place fer me, and I'm a-goin' right away!" + + And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate, + A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight. + I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so, + And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine--and let him go! + + I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about + The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;-- + I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's hand, + And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand. + + And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore! + With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door, + Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more--- + Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store! + + The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write + A letter to his mother, savin' that his work was light, + And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit-- + Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it. + + And sometimes he would write and ast how _I_ was gittin' on, + And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone; + And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock, + And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk. + + And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home, + Fer business would, of course be dull in town.--But _didn't_ come:-- + We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade + They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why he staid. + + And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word-- + Exceptin' what the neighbors brung who'd been to town and heard + What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire + If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher. + + And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away, + And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day! + The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit, + The wind a-howlin' round the house--it makes me creepy yit! + + And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the prongs + Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs, + And Mother sayin', "_David! David!_" in a' undertone, + As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown. + + "I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother said, + A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,-- + "And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh; + And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--" "Who'll eat 'em?" I-says-I. + + "The cramberries is drippin-sweet," says Mother, runnin' on, + P'tendin' not to hear me;--"and somehow I thought of John + All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was + His favour--he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose he does?" + + "Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile-- + "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!" + And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant + And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content. + + "It's _me_," he says--"your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand; + Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand + How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we + Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!" + + * * * * * * + + Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, + Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on; + And then, I want to say to you, we _need_ sich he'p about, + As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out! + + + + + NORTH AND SOUTH. + + Of the North I wove a dream, + All bespangled with the gleam + Of the glancing wings of swallows + Dipping ripples in a stream, + That, like a tide of wine, + Wound through lands of shade and shine + Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine. + + And where orchard-boughs were bent + Till their tawny fruitage blent + With the golden wake that marked the + Way the happy reapers went; + Where the dawn died into noon + As the May-mists into June, + And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon. + + Of the South I dreamed: And there + Came a vision clear and fair + As the marvelous enchantments + Of the mirage of the air; + And I saw the bayou-trees, + With their lavish draperies, + Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees. + + Peering from lush fens of rice, + I beheld the Negro's eyes, + Lit with that old superstition + Death itself can not disguise; + And I saw the palm tree nod + Like an oriental god, + And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod, + + And I dreamed that North and South, + With a sigh of dew and drouth, + Blew each unto the other + The salute of lip and mouth; + And I wakened, awed and thrilled-- + Every doubting murmur stilled + In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled. + + + + + THE IRON HORSE. + + No song is mine of Arab steed-- + My courser is of nobler blood, + And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, + And greater strength and hardihood + Than ever cantered wild and free + Across the plains of Araby. + + Go search the level desert-land + From Sana on to Samarcand-- + Wherever Persian prince has been + Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin, + And I defy you there to point + Me out a steed the half so fine-- + From tip of ear to pastern-joint-- + As this old iron horse of mine. + + You do not know what beauty is-- + You do not know what gentleness + His answer is to my caress!-- + Why, look upon this gait of his,-- + A touch upon his iron rein-- + He moves with such a stately grace + The sunlight on his burnished mane + Is barely shaken in its place; + And at touch he changes pace, + And, gliding backward, stops again. + + And talk of mettle--Ah! my friend, + Such passion smoulders in his breast + That when awakened it will send + A thrill of rapture wilder than + Ere palpitated heart of man + When flaming at its mightiest. + And there's a fierceness in his ire-- + A maddened majesty that leaps + Along his veins in blood of fire, + Until the path his vision sweeps + Spins out behind him like a thread + Unraveled from the reel of time, + As, wheeling on his course sublime, + The earth revolves beneath his tread. + + Then stretch away, my gallant steed! + Thy mission is a noble one: + You bear the father to the son, + And sweet relief to bitter need; + You bear the stranger to his friends; + You bear the pilgrim to the shrine, + And back again the prayer he sends + That God will prosper me and mine,-- + The star that on thy forehead gleams + Has blossomed in our brightest dreams. + Then speed thee on thy glorious race! + The mother waits thy ringing pace; + The father leans an anxious ear + The thunder of thy hoofs to hear; + The lover listens, far away, + To catch thy keen exultant neigh; + And, where thy breathings roll and rise, + The husband strains his eager eyes, + And laugh of wife and baby-glee + Ring out to greet and welcome thee. + Then stretch away! and when at last + The master's hand shall gently check + Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, + The world will pat thee on the neck. + + + + + HIS MOTHER'S WAY + + Tomps 'ud allus haf to say + Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."-- + _He_ lived hard-like--never jined + Any church of any kind.-- + "It was Mother's way," says he, + "To be good enough fer _me_ + And her too,--and certinly + Lord has heerd _her_ pray!" + Propped up on his dyin' bed,-- + "Shore as Heaven's overhead, + I'm a-goin' there," he said--- + "It was Mother's way." + + + + + JAP MILLER. + + Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit! + When _he_ starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!-- + 'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else + But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts: + He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax, + And prove the pore man pays 'em all--and them's about the fac's!-- + Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball-- + Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all. + + And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer + And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer.-- + There's where the feller's strength lays,--he's so + common-like and plain,-- + They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you--nary grain! + They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head, + And did n't make no differunce what anybody said,-- + He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes; + But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes. + + He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last campaign + He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain, + And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust, + And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd! + He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know, + Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show! + And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate + Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State! + + W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun, + Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run! + Do n't matter what _his_ views is, when he states the same to you, + They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two: + You _can't_ take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense + In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.-- + The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does, + And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz! + + + + + A SOUTHERN SINGER. + + Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls." + + Herein are blown from out the South + Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- + As sweet in voice as, in perfume, + The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. + + Such sumptuous languor lures the sense-- + Such luxury of indolence-- + The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, + With water-lilies watching her. + + You waken, thrilling at the trill + Of some wild bird that seems to spill + The silence full of winey drips + Of song that Fancy sips and sips. + + Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough + The chipmunk stripes himself from view, + You pause to lop a creamy spray + Of elder-blossoms by the way. + + Or where the morning dew is yet + Gray on the topmost rail, you set + A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet + Your vaulting shadow in the wheat. + + On lordly swards, of suave incline, + Entessellate with shade and shine, + You shall misdoubt your lowly birth, + Clad on as one of princely worth: + + The falcon on your wrist shall ride-- + Your milk-white Arab side by side + With one of raven-black.--You fain + Would kiss the hand that holds the rein. + + Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer! + Sing us back home--from there to here; + Grant your high grace and wit, but we + Most honor your simplicity.-- + + Herein are blown from out the South + Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- + As sweet in voice as, in perfume, + The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. + + + + + A DREAM OF AUTUMN. + + Mellow hazes, lowly trailing + Over wood and meadow, veiling + Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing + Sailor-like to foreign lands; + And the north-wind overleaping + Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping + Wrecks of roses where the weeping + Willows wring their helpless hands. + + Flared, like Titan torches flinging + Flakes of flame and embers, springing + From the vale the trees stand swinging + In the moaning atmosphere; + While in dead'ning-lands the lowing + Of the cattle, sadder growing, + Fills the sense to overflowing + With the sorrow of the year. + + Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter + Sings the brook in rippled meter + Under boughs that lithely teeter + Lorn birds, answering from the shores + Through the viny, shady-shiny + Interspaces, shot with tiny + Flying motes that fleck the winy + Wave-engraven sycamores. + + Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled + With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled + Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled + Over Harvest's battle-piain; + And the sudden whir and whistle + Of the quail that, like a missile, + Whizzes over thorn and thistle, + And, a missile, drops again. + + Muffled voices, hid in thickets + Where the redbird stops to stick its + Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets + Of the truant's rustic trap; + And the sound of laughter ringing + Where, within the wild-vine swinging, + Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging + Purple clusters in her lap. + + Rich as wine, the sunset flashes + Round the tilted world, and dashes + Up the sloping west and splashes + Red foam over sky and sea-- + Till my dream of Autumn, paling + In the splendor all-prevailing, + Like a sallow leaf goes sailing + Down the silence solemnly. + + + + + TOM VAN ARDEN. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Our warm fellowship is one + Far too old to comprehend + Where its bond was first begun: + Mirage-like before my gaze + Gleams a land of other days, + Where two truant boys, astray, + Dream their lazy lives away. + + There's a vision, in the guise + Of Midsummer, where the Past + Like a weary beggar lies + In the shadow Time has cast; + And as blends the bloom of trees + With the drowsy hum of bees, + Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + All the pleasures we have known + Thrill me now as I extend + This old hand and grasp your own-- + Feeling, in the rude caress, + All affection's tenderness; + Feeling, though the touch be rough, + Our old souls are soft enough. + + So we'll make a mellow hour: + Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- + Warp your face, if it be sour, + I can spare a smile from mine; + If it sharpen up your wit, + Let me feel the edge of it-- + I have eager ears to lend, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? + Are we all that we pretend + In the jolly life we lead?-- + Bachelors, we must confess, + Boast of "single blessedness" + To the world, but not alone-- + Man's best sorrow is his own! + + And the saddest truth is this,-- + Life to us has never proved + What we tasted in the kiss + Of the women we have loved: + Vainly we congratulate + Our escape from such a fate + As their lying lips could send, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend! + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, + Ripen sweetest, I contend, + As the frost falls over them: + Your regard for me to-day + Makes November taste of May, + And through every vein of rhyme + Pours the blood of summertime. + + When our souls are cramped with youth + Happiness seems far away + In the future, while, in truth, + We look back on it to-day + Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- + "Better to have loved and lost!" + Broken hearts are hard to mend, + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + I grow prosy, and you tire; + Fill the glasses while I bend + To prod up the failing fire . . . + You are restless:--I presume + There's a dampness in the room.-- + Much of warmth our nature begs, + With rheumatics in our legs! . . . + + Humph! the legs we used to fling + Limber-jointed in the dance, + When we heard the fiddle ring + Up the curtain of Romance, + And in crowded public halls + Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls.-- + _Feats of mountebanks, depend_!-- + Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + Tom Van Arden, my old friend, + Pardon, then, this theme of mine: + While the fire-light leaps to lend + Higher color to the wine,-- + I propose a health to those + Who have _homes_, and home's repose, + Wife- and child-love without end! + . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend. + + + + + JUST TO BE GOOD. + + Just to be good-- + This is enough--enough! + O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, + Do we not feel how more than any gold + Would be the blameless life we led of old + While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss? + Ah! though we miss + All else but this, + To be good is enough! + + It is enough-- + Enough--just to be good! + To lift our hearts where they are understood; + To let the thirst for worldly power and place + Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face + With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. + Ah! though we miss + All else but this, + To be good is enough! + + + + + HOME AT NIGHT. + + When chirping crickets fainter cry, + And pale stars blossom in the sky, + And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom + And blurred the butterfly: + + When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, + And up the tiger-lily stalk + The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls + And glimmers down the garden-walls: + + When buzzing things, with double wings + Of crisp and raspish flutterings, + Go whizzing by so very nigh + One thinks of fangs and stings:-- + + O then, within, is stilled the din + Of crib she rocks the baby in, + And heart and gate and latch's weight + Are lifted--and the lips of Kate. + + + + + THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. + + The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung-- + Unlettered all of mind and tongue; + Unmastered, unmolested--made + Most wholly frank and unafraid: + Untaught of any school--unvexed + Of law or creed--all unperplexed-- + Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled, + An all imperfect-perfect child-- + A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you + And I do tardy honor to, + And so, profane the sanctities + Of our most sacred memories. + Who, growing thus from boy to man, + That dares not be American? + Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz-- + Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does. + + The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not + Much wider than the stable-lot + Between the house and highway fence + That bounds the home his father rents. + His playmates mostly are the ducks + And chickens, and the boy that "shucks + Corn by the shock," and talks of town, + And whether eggs are "up" or "down," + And prophesies in boastful tone + Of "owning horses of his own," + And "being his own man," and "when + He gets to be, what he'll do then."-- + Takes out his jack-knife dreamily + And makes the Folk-Child two or three + Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span + Of horses and a little man. + + The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise + And wide and round as Brownies' eyes: + The smile they wear is ever blent + With all-expectant wonderment,-- + On homeliest things they bend a look + As rapt as o'er a picture-book, + And seem to ask, whate'er befall, + The happy reason of it all:-- + Why grass is all so glad a green, + And leaves--and what their lispings mean;-- + Why buds grow on the boughs, and why + They burst in blossom by and by-- + As though the orchard in the breeze + Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_, + To lure and whet, as well they might, + Some seven-league giant's appetite! + + The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face + Has scant refinement, caste or grace,-- + From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, + It bears the grimy water-streak + Of rinsings such as some long rain + Might drool across the window-pane + Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, + As some lorn team drives by for town. + His brow is elfed with wispish hair, + With tangles in it here and there, + As though the warlocks snarled it so + At midmirk when the moon sagged low, + And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, + And children moaned themselves awake, + With fingers clutched, and starting sight + Blind as the blackness of the night! + + The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he + In all the wealth of poverty! + He owns nor title nor estate, + Nor speech but half articulate,-- + He owns nor princely robe nor crown;-- + Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, + He owns the bird-songs of the hills-- + The laughter of the April rills; + And his are all the diamonds set. + In Morning's dewy coronet,-- + And his the Dusk's first minted stars + That twinkle through the pasture-bars, + And litter all the skies at night + With glittering scraps of silver light;-- + The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, + In beaten gold, belongs to him. + + + + + JACK THE GIANT KILLER. + + _Bad Boy's Version_. + + Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':-- + Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, + An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap + Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;" + An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows-- + Th' horns an' all--an' pigs an' sows! + But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh! + So awful sharp 'at he could go + An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two + Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do! + An' _one_ ole Gi'nt, he had four + Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"-- + An' he wuz feered o' Jack--'cause he, + _Jack_, he killed six--five--ten--three, + An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him: + An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim + 'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"-- + Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door: + But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum + Clean acrost; an' when he come + To th' uther side, he thist put on + His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone! + You could n't see him at all!--An' so + He slewed the "griffuns"--_boff_, you know! + Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head + High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,-- + "Whoever kin this trumput blow + Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!" + An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed + The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed + Th' castul-gates wide open, an' + Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', + An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore," + An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four + Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!-- + Wisht 'at _I'd_ been Jack!--don't you? + + + + + WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED. + + O it was but a dream I had + While the musician played!-- + And here the sky, and here the glad + Old ocean kissed the glade-- + And here the laughing ripples ran, + And here the roses grew + That threw a kiss to every man + That voyaged with the crew. + + Our silken sails in lazy folds + Drooped in the breathless breeze: + As o'er a field of marigolds + Our eyes swam o'er the seas; + While here the eddies lisped and purled + Around the island's rim, + And up from out the underworld + We saw the mermen swim. + + And it was dawn and middle-day + And midnight--for the moon + On silver rounds across the bay + Had climbed the skies of June-- + And there the glowing, glorious king + Of day ruled o'er his realm, + With stars of midnight glittering + About his diadem. + + The seagull reeled on languid wing + In circles round the mast, + We heard the songs the sirens sing + As we went sailing past; + And up and down the golden sands + A thousand fairy throngs + Flung at us from their flashing hands + The echoes of their songs. + + O it was but a dream I had + While the musician played-- + For here the sky, and here the glad + Old ocean kissed the glade; + And here the laughing ripples ran, + And here the roses grew + That threw a kiss to every man + That voyaged with the crew. + + + + + AUGUST. + + A day of torpor in the sullen heat + Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream + The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, + With drowsy eyes, and dream. + + Long since the winds have died, and in the sky + There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; + The sun glares ever like an evil eye, + And withers flower and leaf. + + Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote + The thresher lies deserted, like some old + Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat + Upon a sea of gold. + + The yearning cry of some bewildered bird + Above an empty nest, and truant boys + Along the river's shady margin heard-- + A harmony of noise-- + + A melody of wrangling voices blent + With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls + Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent + To mimic waterfalls. + + And through the hazy veil the atmosphere + Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, + The sifted glances of the sun appear + In splinterings of spray. + + The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, + Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, + A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on + His journey to the sky. + + And down across the valley's drooping sweep, + Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, + The forest stands in silence, drinking deep + Its purple wine of shade. + + The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; + The sailor-vision voyages the skies + And carries into chaos everything + That freights the weary eyes: + + Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat + Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, + And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, + Within the arms of Night. + + + + + TO HEAR HER SING. + + To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- + It is to hear the birds of Spring + In dewy groves on blooming sprays + Pour out their blithest roundelays. + + It is to hear the robin trill + At morning, or the whip-poor-will + At dusk, when stars are blossoming-- + To hear her sing--to hear her sing! + + To hear her sing--it is to hear + The laugh of childhood ringing clear + In woody path or grassy lane + Our feet may never fare again. + + Faint, far away as Memory dwells, + It is to hear the village bells + At twilight, as the truant hears + Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. + + Such joy it is to hear her sing, + We fall in love with everything-- + The simple things of every day + Grow lovelier than words can say. + + The idle brooks that purl across + The gleaming pebbles and the moss, + We love no less than classic streams-- + The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. + + To hear her sing--with folded eyes, + It is, beneath Venetian skies, + To hear the gondoliers' refrain, + Or troubadours of sunny Spain.-- + + To hear the bulbul's voice that shook + The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: + What wonder we in homage bring + Our hearts to her--to hear her sing! + + + + + BEING HIS MOTHER. + + Being his mother--when he goes away + I would not hold him overlong, and so + Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O + So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay + To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay, + Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although + Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow; + Let his remembered features, as I pray, + Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love + Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: + Its fullest speech ever to be denied + Mine own--being his mother! All thereof + Thou knowest only, looking from the skies + As when not Christ alone was crucified. + + + + + JUNE AT WOODRUFF. + + Out at Woodruff Place--afar + From the city's glare and jar, + With the leafy trees, instead + Of the awnings, overhead; + With the shadows cool and sweet, + For the fever of the street; + With the silence, like a prayer, + Breathing round us everywhere. + + Gracious anchorage, at last, + From the billows of the vast + Tide of life that comes and goes, + Whence and where nobody knows-- + Moving, like a skeptic's thought, + Out of nowhere into naught. + Touch and tame us with thy grace, + Placid calm of Woodruff Place! + + Weave a wreath of beechen leaves + For the brow that throbs and grieves + O'er the ledger, bloody-lined, + 'Neath the sun-struck window-blind! + Send the breath of woodland bloom + Through the sick man's prison room, + Till his old farm-home shall swim + Sweet in mind to hearten him! + + Out at Woodruff Place the Muse + Dips her sandal in the dews, + Sacredly as night and dawn + Baptize lilied grove and lawn: + Woody path, or paven way-- + She doth haunt them night and day,-- + Sun or moonlight through the trees, + To her eyes, are melodies. + + Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear + Through night-scenes, are songs to her-- + Tinted lilts and choiring hues, + Blent with children's glad halloos; + Then belated lays that fade + Into midnight's serenade-- + Vine-like words and zithern-strings + Twined through ali her slumberings. + + Blessed be each hearthstone set + Neighboring the violet! + Blessed every rooftree prayed + Over by the beech's shadel + Blessed doorway, opening where + We may look on Nature--there + Hand to hand and face to face-- + Storied realm, or Woodruff Place. + + + + + FARMER WHIPPLE.--BACHELOR. + + It's a mystery to see me--a man o' fifty-four, + Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more-- + A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say + That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day! + + I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate + A little in beginning so's to set the matter straight + As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife-- + Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life! + + I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five-- + Three brothers and a sister--I'm the only one alive,-- + Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, + You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise. + + The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat-- + We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! + But someway we sort o' _suited_-like! and Mother she'd declare + She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair + + Than _we_ was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', + And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!-- + W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe + Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve! + + I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride + In thinkin' all depended on _me_ now to pervide + Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place + With sleeves rolled up--and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.-- + + Fer _sompin' else_ was workin'! but not a word I said + Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,-- + "Someday I'd mayby marry, and _a brother's_ love was one + Thing--a _lover's_ was another!" was the way the notion run! + + I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done-- + When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one-- + I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day-- + A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way! + + And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane: + I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain + Well--when she turned and _kissed_ me, _with her arm around me--law_! + I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw! + + I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fac', + They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a almanack-- + Er _somers_--'bout "puore happiness"--perhaps some folks'll laugh + At the idy--"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."-- + + But its jest as true as preachin'!--fer that was a sister's kiss, + And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:-- + "_She_ was happy, _bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown_."-- + And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down! + + I don't know how I acted--I don't know _what_ I said, + Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; + And the hosses kind o' glimmered before me in the road, + And the lines fell from my fingers--and that was all I knowed-- + + Fer--well, I don't know how long--They's a dim rememberence + Of a sound o' snortin' bosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence + A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, + And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where + + _I_ was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down + A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round! + And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague + Sort o' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg. + + Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh + As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, + And wonder what was left _me_ worth livin' fer below, + When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know! + + And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind + When Brown and Mary married--Railly must a-been my _mind_ + Was kindo' out o' kilter!--fer I hated Brown, you see, + Worse'n _pizen_--and the feller whittled crutches out fer _me_-- + + And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respec'-- + And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! + My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done + When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one. + + Then I went to work in airnest--I had nothin' much in view + But to drownd out rickollections--and it kep' me busy, too! + But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say + She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. + + Then I'd think how little _money_ was, compared to happiness-- + And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! + But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, + Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near! + + Well!--A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand + Astin' how I 'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land-- + "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, + "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"-- + + And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."-- + I'd never been West, anyhow--a most too wild fer me, + I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town + Said I'd find myself mistakend when I come to look around. + + So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, + A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again-- + And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, + I think it's more 'n likely she'd a-went along with me! + + Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! + But finally they called out my stopping-place at last: + And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train + O' cars, and _skeered_ at sumpin', runnin' down a country lane! + + Well, in the mornin' airly--after huntin' up the man-- + The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land-- + We started fer the country;' and I ast the history + Of the farm--its former owner--and so-forth, etcetery! + + And--well--it was _interestin'_--I su'prised him, I suppose, + By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!-- + But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder more, + When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!-- + + _It was Mary_: They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here-- + Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.-- + It was with us in that meeting I don't want you to fergit! + And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit! + + I _bought_ that farm, and _deeded_ it, afore I left the town, + With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! + And fu'thermore, I took her and _the childern_--fer you see, + They'd never seed their Grandma--and I fetched 'em home with me. + + So _now_ you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, + Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more, + Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!--And I've jest come into town + To git a pair o' license fer to _marry_ Mary Brown. + + + + + DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL. + + I. + + Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin + Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'! + Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin' + I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fishin'! + + + II. + + On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, + Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover: + Fish all out a visitin'--'cept some dratted minnor! + Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner. + + + III. + + Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin' + In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':-- + Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me! + And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me! + + + + + NESSMUK. + + I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone + Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry! + True forester thou art, and still to be, + Even in happier fields than thou hast known. + Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown + Of groves delectable--"preserves" for thee-- + Ranged but by friends of thine--I name thee three:-- + + First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown + With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, + Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; + And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: + These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, + Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise + To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should. + + + + + AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY. + + I've thought a power on men and things, + As my uncle ust to say,-- + And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings! + W'y, they ain't no use to pray! + Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set + A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, + And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_, + As my uncle ust to say. + + They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, + As my uncle ust to say, + And yit don't waste no candle-grease, + Ner whistle their lives away! + But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme + No ringin' song fer to last all time, + They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, + As my uncle ust to say. + + Whoever's Foreman of all things here, + As my uncle ust to say, + He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, + And our round-up, night and day: + And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, + And north and south, and worst and best + I ain't got nothin' to suggest, + As my uncle ust to say. + + + + + THE SINGER. + + While with Ambition's hectic flame + He wastes the midnight oil, + And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, + To rest him from his toil,-- + + Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, + Above him spreads her wings, + And fans the embers of his lips + To ashes as he sings. + + + + + A FULL HARVEST. + + Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day + Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, + In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, + Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say + There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway + Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho', + And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show + More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?-- + And watch that little reaper wadin' thue + That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground-- + Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two + Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around + The field--like it had nothin' else to do + On'y jes' waste it all on me and you! + + + + + BLIND. + + You think it is a sorry thing + That I am blind. Your pitying + Is welcome to me; yet indeed, + I think I have but little need + Of it. Though you may marvel much + That _we_, who see by sense of touch + And taste and hearing, see things _you_ + May never look upon; and true + Is it that even in the scent + Of blossoms _we_ find something meant + No eyes have in their faces read, + Or wept to see interpreted. + + And you might think it strange if now + I told you you were smiling. How + Do I know that? I hold your hand-- + _Its_ language I can understand-- + Give both to me, and I will show + You many other things I know. + Listen: We never met before + Till now?--Well, you are something lower + Than five-feet-eight in height; and you + Are slender; and your eyes are blue-- + + Your mother's eyes--your mother's hair-- + Your mother's likeness everywhere + Save in your walk--and that is quite + Your father's; nervous.--Am I right? + I thought so. And you used to sing, + But have neglected everything + Of vocalism--though you may + Still thrum on the guitar, and play + A little on the violin,-- + I know that by the callous in + The finger-tips of your left hand-- + And, by-the-bye, though nature planned + You as most men, you are, I see, + "_Left_-handed," too,--the mystery + Is clear, though,--your right arm has been + Broken, to "break" the left one in. + And so, you see, though blind of sight, + I still have ways of seeing quite + Too well for you to sympathize + Excessively, with your good eyes.-- + Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere, + Within the whole asylum here, + From cupola to basement hall, + I was the blindest of them all! + + Let us move further down the walk-- + The man here waiting hears my talk, + And is disturbed; besides, he may + Not be quite friendly anyway. + In fact--(this will be far enough; + Sit down)--the man just spoken of + Was once a friend of mine. He came + For treatment here from Burlingame-- + A rich though brilliant student there, + Who read his eyes out of repair, + And groped his way up here, where we + Became acquainted, and where he + Met one of our girl-teachers, and, + If you 'll believe me, asked her hand + In marriage, though the girl was blind + As I am--and the girl _declined_. + Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see + Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he? + And handsome, eloquently wide + And high of brow, and dignified + With every outward grace, his sight + Restored to him, clear and bright + As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still + For the blind girl that never will + Be wife of his. How do I know? + You will recall a while ago + I told you he and I were friends. + In all that friendship comprehends, + I was his friend, I swear! why now, + Remembering his love, and how + His confidence was all my own, + I hear, in fancy, the low tone + Of his deep voice, so full of pride + And passion, yet so pacified + With his affliction, that it seems + An utterance sent out of dreams + Of saddest melody, withal + So sorrowfully musical + It was, and is, must ever be-- + But I'm digressing, pardon me. + _I_ knew not anything of love + In those days, but of that above + All worldly passion,--for my art-- + Music,--and that, with all my heart + And soul, blent in a love too great + For words of mine to estimate. + And though among my pupils she + Whose love my friend sought came to me + I only knew her fingers' touch + Because they loitered overmuch + In simple scales, and needs must be + Untangled almost constantly. + But she was bright in other ways, + And quick of thought, with ready plays + Of wit, and with a voice as sweet + To listen to as one might meet + In any oratorio-- + And once I gravely told her so,-- + And, at my words, her limpid tone + Of laughter faltered to a moan, + And fell from that into a sigh + That quavered all so wearily, + That I, without the tear that crept + Between the keys, had known she wept; + And yet the hand I reached for then + She caught away, and laughed again. + And when that evening I strolled + With my old friend, I, smiling, told + Him I believed the girl and he + Were matched and mated perfectly: + He was so noble; she, so fair + Of speech, and womanly of air; + He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild + And artless even as a child; + And with a nature, I was sure, + As worshipful as it was pure + And sweet, and brimmed with tender things + Beyond his rarest fancyings. + He stopped me solemnly. He knew, + He said, how good, and just, and true + Was all I said of her; but as + For his own virtues, let them pass, + Since they were nothing to the one + That he had set his heart upon; + For but that morning she had turned + Forever from him. Then I learned + That for a month he had delayed + His going from us, with no aid + Of hope to hold him,--meeting still + Her ever firm denial, till + Not even in his new-found sight + He found one comfort or delight. + And as his voice broke there, I felt + The brother-heart within me melt + In warm compassion for his own + That throbbed so utterly alone. + And then a sudden fancy hit + Along my brain; and coupling it + With a belief that I, indeed, + Might help my friend in his great need, + I warmly said that I would go + Myself, if he decided so, + And see her for him--that I knew + My pleadings would be listened to + Most seriously, and that she + Should love him, listening to me. + Go; bless me! And that was the last-- + The last time his warm hand shut fast + Within my own--so empty since, + That the remembered finger-prints + I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet + Them with the tears of all regret! + + I know not how to rightly tell + How fared my quest, and what befell + Me, coming in the presence of + That blind girl, and her blinder love. + I know but little else than that + Above the chair in which she sat + I leant--reached for, and found her hand, + And held it for a moment, and + Took up the other--held them both-- + As might a friend, I will take oath: + Spoke leisurely, as might a man + Praying for no thing other than + He thinks Heaven's justice;--She was blind, + I said, and yet a noble mind + Most truly loved her; one whose fond + Clear-sighted vision looked beyond + The bounds of her infirmity, + And saw the woman, perfectly + Modeled, and wrought out pure and true + And lovable. She quailed, and drew + Her hands away, but closer still + I caught them. "Rack me as you will!" + She cried out sharply--"Call me 'blind'-- + Love ever is--I am resigned! + Blind is your friend; as blind as he + Am I--but blindest of the three-- + Yea, blind as death--you will not see + My love for you is killing me!" + + There is a memory that may + Not ever wholly fade away + From out my heart, so bright and fair + The light of it still glimmers there. + Why, it did seem as though my sight + Flamed back upon me, dazzling white + And godlike. Not one other word + Of hers I listened for or heard, + But I _saw_ songs sung in her eyes + Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, + As my mad lips did strike her own + And we flashed one and one alone! + Ah! was it treachery for me + To kneel there, drinking eagerly + That torrent-flow of words that swept + Out laughingly the tears she wept?-- + Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe, + Than light of day to those that see,-- + God knows, who did the rapture send + To me, and hold it from my friend. + + And we were married half a year + Ago,--and he is--waiting here, + Heedless of that--or anything, + But just that he is lingering + To say good-bye to her, and bow-- + As you may see him doing now,-- + For there's her footstep in the hall; + God bless her!--help him!--save us all! + + + + + RIGHT HERE AT HOME. + + Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom, + Where strangers allus joke us when they come, + And brag o' _their_ old States and interprize-- + Yit _settle_ here; and 'fore they realize, + They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live + Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive! + + Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, + Fer me and you and plain old happiness: + We hear the World's lots grander--likely so,-- + We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.-- + We know _its_ ways aint _our_ ways--so we'll stay + Right here at home, boys, where we know the way. + + Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do + Man's plenty rich enough--and knows it, too, + And's got a' extry dollar, any time, + To boost a feller up 'at _wants_ to climb + And 's got the git-up in him to go in + And _git there_, like he purt'-nigh allus kin! + + Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!-- + Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; + And where a _common_ feller's jes as good + As ary other in the neighborhood: + The World at large don't worry you and me + Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be! + + Right here at home, boys--jes right where we air!-- + Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere: + Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows + Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,-- + All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, + Right here at home, boys, ef we _size_ 'em right. + + Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place + Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, + Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled + And kissed us--dyin' so and rickonciled, + Seein' us all at home here--none astray-- + Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day. + + + + + THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR. + + He seemed so strange to me, every way-- + In manner, and form, and size, + From the boy I knew but yesterday,-- + I could hardly believe my eyes! + + To hear his name called over there, + My memory thrilled with glee + And leaped to picture him young and fair + In youth, as he used to be. + + But looking, only as glad eyes can, + For the boy I knew of yore, + I smiled on a portly little man + I had never seen before!-- + + Grave as a judge in courtliness-- + Professor-like and bland-- + A little fat doctor and nothing less, + With his hat in his kimboed hand. + + But how we talked old times, and "chaffed" + Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"--- + And how the little fat doctor laughed, + And how I laughed with him! + + "And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see + The face of the youth that was, + To know no boy could smile on me + As the little fat doctor does!" + + + + + THE SHOEMAKER. + + Thou Poet, who, like any lark, + Dost whet thy beak and trill + From misty morn till murky dark, + Nor ever pipe thy fill: + Hast thou not, in thy cheery note, + One poor chirp to confer-- + One verseful twitter to devote + Unto the Shoe-ma-ker? + + At early dawn he doth peg in + His noble work and brave; + And eke from cark and wordly sin + He seeketh soles to save; + And all day long, with quip and song, + Thus stitcheth he the way + Our feet may know the right from wrong, + Nor ever go a stray. + + Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker, + Nor slight his lasting fame: + Alway he waxeth tenderer + In warmth of our acclaim;-- + Aye, more than any artisan + We glory in his art + Who ne'er, to help the under man, + Neglects the upper part. + + But toe the mark for him, and heel + Respond to thee in kine-- + Or kid--or calf, shouldst thou reveal + A taste so superfine: + Thus let him jest--join in his laugh-- + Draw on his stock, and be + A shoer'd there's no rival half + Sole liberal as he. + + Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker + For all his goodly deeds,-- + Yea, bless him free for booting thee-- + The first of all thy needs! + And when at last his eyes grow dim, + And nerveless drops his clamp, + In golden shoon pray think of him + Upon his latest tramp. + + + + + THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN. + + The old sea captain has sailed the seas + So long, that the waves at mirth, + Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, + Were as near playmates from birth: + He has loved both the storm and the calm, because + They seemed as his brothers twain,-- + The flapping sail was his soul's applause, + And his rapture, the roaring main. + + But now--like a battered hulk seems he, + Cast high on a foreign strand, + Though he feels "in port," as it need must be, + And the stay of a daughter's hand-- + Yet ever the round of the listless hours,-- + His pipe, in the languid air-- + The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers, + And the strange earth everywhere! + + And so betimes he is restless here + In this little inland town, + With never a wing in the atmosphere + But the wind-mill's, up and down; + His daughter's home in this peaceful vale, + And his grandchild 'twixt his knees-- + But never the hail of a passing sail, + Nor the surge of the angry seas! + + He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck-- + Would speak, though he coughs instead, + Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck + With a reeling mast o'erhead! + Ho! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm, + And his eyes gleam grim and weird, + As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm, + In the cloud of his beetling beard. + + + + + ROBERT BURNS WILSON. + + What intuition named thee?--Through what thrill + Of the awed soul came the command divine + Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine + Should palpitate with his whose raptures will + Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill + Their undulating ways up through the fine + Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line + Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still + The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised + His voice therein, and, quit of every stress + Of earthly ache and longing and despair, + Knew certainly each simple thing he praised + Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, + Than any joy of all the glory There. + + + + + TO THE SERENADER. + + Tinkle on, O sweet guitar, + Let the dancing fingers + Loiter where the low notes are + Blended with the singer's: + Let the midnight pour the moon's + Mellow wine of glory + Down upon him through the tune's + Old romantic story! + + I am listening, my love, + Through the cautious lattice, + Wondering why the stars above + All are blinking at us; + Wondering if his eyes from there + Catch the moonbeam's shimmer + As it lights the robe I wear + With a ghostly glimmer. + + Lilt thy song, and lute away + In the wildest fashion:-- + Pour thy rippling roundelay + O'er the heights of passion!-- + Flash it down the fretted strings + Till thy mad lips, missing + All but smothered whisperings, + Press this rose I'm kissing. + + + + + THE WIFE-BLESSED. + + I. + + In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, + Lorn-faced and long of hair-- + In youth--in youth he painted her + A sister of the air-- + Could clasp her not, but felt the stir + Of pinions everywhere. + + + II. + + She lured his gaze, in braver days, + And tranced him sirenwise; + And he did paint her, through a haze + Of sullen paradise, + With scars of kisses on her face + And embers in her eyes. + + + III. + + And now--nor dream nor wild conceit-- + Though faltering, as before-- + Through tears he paints her, as is meet, + Tracing the dear face o'er + With lilied patience meek and sweet + As Mother Mary wore. + + + + + SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION. + + I thought the deacon liked me, yit + I warn't adzackly shore of it-- + Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, + When jiners 'ud be comin' in, + I'd seed him shakin' hands as free + With all the sistern as with me! + But jurin' last Revival, where + He called on _me_ to lead in prayer, + An' kneeled there with me, side by side, + A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified + Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"-- + That settled things as fur as them- + Thare other wimmin was concerned!-- + And--well!--I know I must a-turned + A dozen colors!--_Flurried_?--_la_!-- + No mortal sinner never saw + A gladder widder than the one + A-kneelin' there and wonderun' + Who'd pray'--So glad, upon my word, + I railly could n't thank the Lord! + + + + + THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT. + + All hope of rest withdrawn me?-- + What dread command hath put + This awful curse upon me-- + The curse of the wandering foot! + Forward and backward and thither, + And hither and yon again-- + Wandering ever! And whither? + Answer them, God! Amen. + + The blue skies are far o'er me--- + The bleak fields near below: + Where the mother that bore me?-- + Where her grave in the snow?-- + Glad in her trough of a coffin-- + The sad eyes frozen shut + That wept so often, often, + The curse of the wandering foot! + + Here in your marts I care not + Whatsoever ye think. + Good folk many who dare not + Give me to eat and drink: + Give me to sup of your pity-- + Feast me on prayers!--O ye, + Met I your Christ in the city + He would fare forth with me-- + + Forward and onward and thither, + And hither again and yon, + With milk for our drink together + And honey to feed upon-- + Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, + Since the one Father put + The blessed curse upon us-- + The curse of the wandering foot. + + + + + A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. + + A monument for the Soldiers! + And what will ye build it of? + Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, + Outlasting the Soldiers' love? + Can ye glorify it with legends + As grand as their blood hath writ + From the inmost shrine of this land of thine + To the outermost verge of it? + + And the answer came: We would build it + Out of our hopes made sure, + And out of our purest prayers and tears, + And out of our faith secure: + We would build it out of the great white truths + Their death hath sanctified, + And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, + And their faces ere they died. + + And what heroic figures + Can the sculptor carve in stone? + Can the marble breast be made to bleed, + And the marble lips to moan? + Can the marble brow be fevered? + And the marble eyes be graved + To look their last, as the flag floats past, + On the country they have saved? + + And the answer came: The figures + Shall all be fair and brave, + And, as befitting, as pure and white + As the stars above their grave! + The marble lips, and breast and brow + Whereon the laurel lies, + Bequeath us right to guard the flight + Of the old flag in the skies! + + A monument for the Soldiers! + Built of a people's love, + And blazoned and decked and panoplied + With the hearts ye build it oft + And see that ye build it stately, + In pillar and niche and gate, + And high in pose as the souls of those + It would commemorate! + + + + + THE RIVAL. + + I so loved once, when Death came by I hid + Away my face, + And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid + To make my hiding-place. + + The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and + I turned me then + To calm my love--kiss down her shielding hand + And comfort her again. + + And lo! she answered not: And she did sit + All fixedly, + With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, + In love with Death, not me. + + + + + IRY AND BILLY AND JO. + + Iry an' Billy an' Jo!-- + Iry an' Billy's _the boys_, + An' _Jo's_ their _dog_, you know,-- + Their pictures took all in a row. + Bet they kin kick up a noise-- + Iry and Billy, the boys, + And that-air little dog Jo! + + _Iry's_ the one 'at stands + Up there a-lookin' so mild + An' meek--with his hat in his hands, + Like such a 'bediant child-- + (_Sakes-alive_!)--An' _Billy_ he sets + In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' _sweats_ + Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good! Ho-ho! + Iry an' Billy an' Jo! + + Yit the way them boys, you know, + Usen to jes turn in + An' fight over that dog Jo + Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin !-- + Iry _he'd_ argy 'at, by gee-whizz! + That-air little Jo-dog wuz _his_!-- + An' Billy _he'd_ claim it wuzn't so-- + 'Cause the dog wuz _his'n_!--An' at it they'd go, + Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know-- + Iry an' Billy an' Jo! + + But their Pa--(He wuz the marshal then) + He 'tended-like 'at he _jerked 'em up_; + An' got a jury o' Brickyard men + An' helt a _trial_ about the pup: + An' _he_ says _he_ jes like to a-died + When the rest o' us town-boys _testified_-- + Regardin', you know, + Iry an' Billy an' Jo.-- + + 'Cause we all knowed, when _the Gypsies_ they + Camped down here by the crick last Fall, + They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away + To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all!-- + So the jury fetched in the _verdick_ so + Jo he ain't _neether_ o' theirn fer _shore_-- + He's _both_ their dog, an' jes no more! + An' so + They've quit quarrelin' long ago, + Iry an' Billy an' Jo. + + + + + A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME. + + In its color, shade and shine, + 'T was a summer warm as wine, + With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine, + And a fragrance and a taste + Of ripe roses gone to waste, + And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced. + + 'Twas a summer such as broods + O'er enchanted solitudes, + Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods, + And with lavish love out-pours + All the wealth of out-of-doors, + And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors. + + 'Twas a summertime long dead,-- + And its roses, white and red, + And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed,-- + O they all are ghostly things-- + For the ripple never sings, + And the rocking lily never even rustles as it rings! + + + + + HER BEAUTIFUL EYES. + + O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew + On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, + And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun + O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run: + As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies-- + So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes. + + And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me, + When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, + And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, + And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet + And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies-- + So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. + + O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own + As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne; + And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar + Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, + And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise-- + So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes. + + + + + DOT LEEDLE BOY. + + Ot's a leedle Christmas story + Dot I told der leedle folks-- + Und I vant you stop dot laughin' + Und grackin' funny jokes'-- + So-help me Peter-Moses! + Ot's no time for monkeyshine', + Ober I vas told you somedings + Of dot leedle boy of mine! + + Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder, + Ven der snow vas all about-- + Dot you have to chop der hatchet + Eef you got der saur kraut! + Und der cheekens on der hind-leg + Vas standin' in der shine + Der sun shmile out dot morning + On dot leedle boy of mine. + + He vas yoost a leedle baby + Not bigger as a doll + Dot time I got acquaintet-- + Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!-- + I grackys! dot's der moosic + Ot make me feel so fine + Ven first I vas been marriet-- + Oh, dot leedle boy of mine! + + He look' yoost like his fader!-- + So, ven der vimmen said + "Vot a purty leedle baby!" + Katrina shake der head. + I dink she must a-notice + Dot der baby vas a-gryin', + Und she cover up der blankets + Of dot leedle boy of mine. + + Vel, ven he vas got bigger, + Dot he grawl und bump his nose, + Und make der table over, + Und molasses on his glothes-- + Dot make 'im all der sveeter,-- + So I say to my Katrine + "Better you vas quit a-shpankin' + Dot leedle boy of mine!" + + I vish you could a-seen id-- + Ven he glimb up on der chair + Und shmash der lookin' glasses + Ven he try to comb his hair + Mit a hammer!--Und Katrina + Say "Dot's an ugly sign!" + But I laugh und vink my fingers + At dot leedle boy of mine. + + But vonce, dot Vinter morning, + He shlip out in der snow + Mitout no stockin's on 'im.-- + He say he "vant to go + Und fly some mit der birdies!" + Und ve give 'im medi-cine + Ven he catch der "parrygoric"-- + Dot leedle boy of mine! + + Und so I set und nurse 'im, + Vile der Christmas vas come roun', + Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle," + How he come der chimbly down: + Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im + Eef he bring 'im someding fine? + "_Nicht besser as mein fader_," + Say dot leedle boy of mine.-- + + Und he put his arms aroun' me + Und hug so close und tight, + I hear der gclock a-tickin' + All der balance of der night! . . . + Someding make me feel so funny + Ven I say to my Katrine + "Let us go und fill der stockin's + Of dot leedle boy of mine." + + Veil.--Ve buyed a leedle horses + Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, + Und a leedle fancy jay-bird-- + Eef you vant to hear 'im sing + You took 'im by der top-knot + Und yoost blow in behine-- + Und dot make much _spectakel_-- + For dot leedle boy of mine! + + Und gandles, nuts and raizens-- + Unt I buy a leedle drum + Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle + Ven der Gristmas morning come! + Und a leedle shmall tin rooster + Dot vould crow so loud und fine + Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning, + Dot leedle boy of mine! + + Und--vile ve vas a-fixin'-- + Dot leedle boy vake out! + I fought he been a-dreamin' + "Kriss Kringle" vas about,-- + For he say--"_Dot's him!--I see 'im_ + _Mit der shtars dot make der shine_!" + Und he yoost keep on a-gryin'-- + Dot leedle boy of mine,-- + + Und gottin' vorse und vorser-- + Und tumble on der bed! + So--ven der doctor seen id, + He kindo' shake his head, + Und feel his pulse--und visper + "Der boy is a-dyin'." + You dink I could _believe_ id?-- + _Dot leedle boy of mine_? + + I told you, friends--dot's someding, + Der last time dot he speak + Und say "_Goot-bye, Kriss Kringle_!" + --Dot make me feel so veak + I yoost kneel down und drimble, + Und bur-sed out a-gryin' + "_Mein Goit, mein Gott im Himmel_!-- + _Dot leedle boy, of mine_!" + + * * * * * + + Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas! + . . . Eef dot leedle boy vould _liff'd_-- + No deefer-en'! for Heaven vas + His leedle Gristmas-gift! . . . + Und der rooster, und der _gandy_, + Und me--und my Katrine-- + Und der jay-bird--is a-vaiting + For dot leedle boy of mine. + + + + + DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE. + + Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,-- + Not the one of History, + Who, with flaming tongue and pen, + Scathes the vanities of men; + Not the one whose biting wit + Cuts pretense and etches it + On the brazen brow that dares + Filch the laurel that it wears: + Not the Donn Piatt whose praise + Echoes in the noisy ways + Of the faction, onward led + By the statesman!--But, instead, + Give the simple man to me,-- + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + II. + + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + Branches of the old oak tree, + Drape him royally in fine + Purple shade and golden shine! + Emerald plush of sloping lawn + Be the throne he sits upon! + And, O Summer sunset, thou + Be his crown, and gild a brow + Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed + By the breezes, mellow-palmed + As Erata's white hand agleam + On the forehead of a dream.-- + So forever rule o'er me, + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + III. + + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee: + Through a lilied memory + Plays the wayward little creek + Round thy home at hide-and-seek-- + As I see and hear it, still + Romping round the wooded hill, + Till its laugh-and-babble blends + With the silence while it sends + Glances back to kiss the sight, + In its babyish delight, + Ere it strays amid the gloom + Of the glens that burst in bloom + Of the rarest rhyme for thee, + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + IV. + + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + What a darling destiny + Has been mine--to meet him there-- + Lolling in an easy chair + On the terrace, while he told + Reminiscences of old-- + Letting my cigar die out, + Hearing poems talked about; + And entranced to hear him say + Gentle things of Thackeray, + Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, + Known to him as host and guest-- + Known to him as he to me-- + Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! + + + + + THEM FLOWERS. + + Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf, + All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore-- + Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself + With a stiff upper-lip any more; + Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room + As dark as the tomb, and as grim, + And then take and send him some roses in bloom, + And you can have fun out o' him! + + You've ketched him 'fore now--when his liver was sound + And his appetite notched like a saw-- + A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round + With a big posy-bunch in yer paw; + But you ketch him, say, when his health is away, + And he's flat on his back in distress, + And _then_ you kin trot out yer little bokay + And not be insulted, I guess! + + You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is,-- + Them flowers makes him think of the days + Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his, + And the roses that _she_ us't to raise:-- + So here, all alone with the roses you send-- + Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint,-- + My eyes is--my eyes is--my eyes is--old friend-- + Is a-leakin'--I'm blamed ef they ain't! + + + + + THE QUIET LODGER. + + The man that rooms next door to me: + Two weeks ago, this very night, + He took possession quietly, + As any other lodger might-- + But why the room next mine should so + Attract him I was vexed to know,-- + Because his quietude, in fine, + Was far superior to mine. + + "Now, I like quiet, truth to tell, + A tranquil life is sweet to me-- + But _this_," I sneered, "suits me too well.-- + He shuts his door so noiselessly, + And glides about so very mute, + In each mysterious pursuit, + His silence is oppressive, and + Too deep for me to understand." + + Sometimes, forgetting book or pen, + I've found my head in breathless poise + Lifted, and dropped in shame again, + Hearing some alien ghost of noise-- + Some smothered sound that seemed to be + A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly, + Or the crisp writhings of some quire + Of manuscript thrust in the fire. + + Then I have climbed, and closed in vain + My transom, opening in the hall; + Or close against the window-pane + Have pressed my fevered face,--but all + The day or night without held not + A sight or sound or counter-thought + To set my mind one instant free + Of this man's silent mastery. + + And often I have paced the floor + With muttering anger, far at night, + Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er, + The muffled noises, and the light + And tireless movements of this guest + Whose silence raged above my rest + Hoarser than howling storms at sea-- + The man that rooms next door to me. + + But twice or thrice, upon the stair, + I've seen his face--most strangely wan,-- + Each time upon me unaware + He came--smooth'd past me, and was gone. + So like a whisper he went by, + I listened after, ear and eye, + Nor could my chafing fancy tell + The meaning of one syllable. + + Last night I caught him, face to face,-- + He entering his room, and I + Glaring from mine: He paused a space + And met my scowl all shrinkingly, + But with full gentleness: The key + Turned in his door--and I could see + It tremblingly withdrawn and put + Inside, and then--the door was shut. + + Then silence. _Silence_!--why, last night + The silence was tumultuous, + And thundered on till broad daylight;-- + O never has it stunned me thus!-- + It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet.-- + Ah, God! how loud may silence get + When man mocks at a brother man + Who answers but as silence can! + + The silence grew, and grew, and grew, + Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard + Throughout the house; and men flocked through + The echoing halls, with faces blurred + With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe, + And shuddering at what they saw-- + The quiet lodger, as he lay + Stark of the life he cast away. + + * * * * * + + So strange to-night--those voices there, + Where all so quiet was before; + They say the face has not a care + Nor sorrow in it any more-- + His latest scrawl:--"Forgive me--You + Who prayed, 'they know not what they do!'" + My tears wilt never let me see + This man that rooms next door to me! + + + + + THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. + + O the waiting in the watches of the night! + In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright; + The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight: + The ever weary memory that ever weary goes + Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows-- + The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose-- + In the dreary, weary watches of the night! + + Dark--stifling dark--the watches of the night! + With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white + With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight!-- + What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought + that may not be redressed-- + Of tears we did not brush away--of lips we left unpressed, + And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed! + Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night! + + What solace in the watches of the night?-- + What frailest staff of hope to stay--what faintest shaft of light? + Do we _dream_ and dare _believe_ it, that by never weight of right + Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last-- + Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past, + In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom + that flees aghast-- + Shall we survive the watches of the night? + + One leads us through the watches of the night-- + By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight + He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might;-- + With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears, + Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears, + And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears + In the waning of the watches of the night. + + + + + HIS VIGIL. + + Close the book and dim the light, + I shall read no more to-night. + No--I am not sleepy, dear-- + Do not go: sit by me here + In the darkness and the deep + Silence of the watch I keep. + Something in your presence so + Soothes me--as in long ago + I first felt your hand--as now-- + In the darkness touch my brow; + I've no other wish than you + Thus should fold mine eyelids to, + Saying nought of sigh or tear-- + Just as God were sitting here. + + + + + THE PLAINT HUMAN + + Season of snows, and season of flowers, + Seasons of loss and gain!-- + Since grief and joy must alike be ours, + Why do we still complain? + + Ever our failing, from sun to sun, + O my intolerent brother:-- + We want just a little too little of one, + And much too much of the other. + + + + + BY ANY OTHER NAME. + + First the teacher called the roll, + Clos't to the beginnin', + "Addeliney Bowersox!" + Set the school a-grinnin'. + Wintertime, and stingin'-cold + When the session took up-- + Cold as _we_ all looked at _her_, + Though _she_ couldn't look up! + + Total stranger to us, too-- + Country-folks ain't allus + Nigh so shameful unpolite + As some people call us!-- + But the honest facts is, _then_, + Addeliney Bower- + Sox's feelin's was so hurt + She cried half an hour! + + My dest was acrost from her 'n: + Set and watched her tryin' + To p'tend she didn't keer, + And a kind o' dryin' + Up her tears with smiles---tel I + Thought, "Well, '_Addeliney + Bowersox_' is plain, but _she's_ + Purty as a piney!" + + It's be'n many of a year + Sence that most oncommon + Cur'ous name o' _Bowersox_ + Struck me so abomin- + Nubble and outlandish-like!-- + I changed it to Adde- + Liney _Daubenspeck_--and _that_ + Nearly killed her Daddy! + + + + + TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST. + + Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost! + Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin + Impalpable transparency of grin; + And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost + Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast + Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin, + And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, + Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast + That I am _helpless_ to combat thee! Well, + Have at thee, then! Yet if a doom most dire + Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst!--Revile + Me not, Miasmic Mist!--Rank Air! _retire_! + One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll + _Inhale_ thee, O thou wraith despicable! + + + + + THE QUARREL. + + They faced each other: Topaz-brown + And lambent burnt her eyes and shot + Sharp flame at his of amethyst.-- + "I hate you! Go, and be forgot + As death forgets!" their glitter _hissed_ + (So _seemed_ it) in their hatred. Ho! + Dared any mortal front her so?-- + Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down-- + Tense nostril, mouth--no muscle slack,-- + And black--the suffocating black-- + The stifling blackness of her frown! + + Ah! but the lifted face of her! + And the twitched lip and tilted head! + Yet he did neither wince nor stir,-- + Only--his hands clenched; and, instead + Of words, he answered with a stare + That stammered not in aught it said, + As might his voice if trusted there. + + And what--what spake his steady gaze?-- + Was there a look that harshly fell + To scoff her?--or a syllable + Of anger?--or the bitter phrase + That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, + Or curdles blood as poison drips? + What made their breasts to heave and swell + As billows under bows of ships + In broken seas on stormy days? + We may not know--nor _they_ indeed-- + What mercy found them in their need. + + A sudden sunlight smote the gloom; + And round about them swept a breeze, + With faint breaths as of clover-bloom; + A bird was heard, through drone of bees,-- + Then, far and clear and eerily, + A child's voice from an orchard-tree-- + Then laughter, sweet as the perfume + Of lilacs, could the hearing see. + And he--O Love! he fed thy name + On bruised kisses, while her dim + Deep eyes, with all their inner flame, + Like drowning gems were turned on him. + + + + + THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. + + I. + + As one in sorrow looks upon + The dead face of a loyal friend, + By the dim light of New Year's dawn + I saw the Old Year end. + + Upon the pallid features lay + The dear old smile--so warm and bright + Ere thus its cheer had died away + In ashes of delight. + + The hands that I had learned to love + With strength of passion half divine, + Were folded now, all heedless of + The emptiness of mine. + + The eyes that once had shed their bright + Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, + And ever lidded from the light + That made them beautiful. + + + II. + + The chimes of bells were in the air, + And sounds of mirth in hall and street, + With pealing laughter everywhere + And throb of dancing feet: + + The mirth and the convivial din + Of revelers in wanton glee, + With tunes of harp and violin + In tangled harmony. + + But with a sense of nameless dread, + I turned me, from the merry face + Of this newcomer, to my dead; + And, kneeling there a space, + + I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:-- + By this dear face so fixed and cold, + O Lord, let not this New Year be + As happy as the old! + + + + + THE HEREAFTER. + + Hereafter! O we need not waste + Our smiles or tears, whatever befall: + No happiness but holds a taste + Of something sweeter, after all;-- + No depth of agony but feels + Some fragment of abiding trust,-- + Whatever death unlocks or seals, + The mute beyond is just. + + + + + JOHN BROWN. + + Writ in between the lines of his life-deed + We trace the sacred service of a heart + Answering the Divine command, in every part + Bearing on human weal: His love did feed + The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead + The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart + Of other wounds than rankled at the dart + In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed. + He served the lowliest first--nay, them alone-- + The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath + In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat + Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.-- + For these doomed there it was he went to death. + God! how the merest man loves one like that! + + + + + A CUP OF TEA. + + I have sipped, with drooping lashes, + Dreamy draughts of Verzenay; + I have flourished brandy-smashes + In the wildest sort of way; + I have joked with "Tom and Jerry" + Till wee hours ayont the twal'-- + But I've found my tea the very + Safest tipple of them all! + + 'Tis a mystical potation + That exceeds in warmth of glow + And divine exhilaration + All the drugs of long ago-- + All of old magicians' potions-- + Of Medea's filtered spells-- + Or of fabled isles and oceans + Where the Lotos-eater dwells! + + Though I've reveled o'er late lunches + With _blase_ dramatic stars, + And absorbed their wit and punches + And the fumes of their cigars-- + Drank in the latest story, + With a cock-tail either end,-- + I have drained a deeper glory + In a cup of tea, my friend. + + Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa, + Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey-- + No odds the name it knows--ah! + Fill a cup of it for me! + And, as I clink my china + Against your goblet's brim, + My tea in steam shall twine a + Fragrant laurel round its rim. + + + + + JUDITH. + + O her eyes are amber-fine-- + Dark and deep as wells of wine, + While her smile is like the noon + Splendor of a day of June. + If she sorrow--lo! her face + It is like a flowery space + In bright meadows, overlaid + With light clouds and lulled with shade + If she laugh--it is the trill + Of the wayward whippoorwill + Over upland pastures, heard + Echoed by the mocking-bird + In dim thickets dense with bloom + And blurred cloyings of perfume. + If she sigh--a zephyr swells + Over odorous asphodels + And wan lilies in lush plots + Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. + Then, the soft touch of her hand-- + Takes all breath to understand + What to liken it thereto!-- + Never roseleaf rinsed with dew + Might slip soother-suave than slips + Her slow palm, the while her lips + Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss + Sweet as heated honey is. + + + + + THE ARTEMUS OF MICHIGAN. + + Grand Haven is in Michigan, and in possession, too, + Of as many rare attractions as our party ever knew:-- + The fine hotel, the landlord, and the lordly bill of fare, + And the dainty-neat completeness of the pretty waiters there; + The touch on the piano in the parlor, and the trill + Of the exquisite soprano, in our fancy singing still; + Our cozy room, its comfort, and our thousand grateful tho'ts, + And at our door the gentle face + Of + H. + Y. + Potts! + + His artless observations, and his drollery of style, + Bewildered with that sorrowful serenity of smile-- + The eye's elusive twinkle, and the twitching of the lid, + Like he didn't go to say it and was sorry that he did. + O Artemus of Michigan! so worthy of the name, + Our manager indorses it, and Bill Nye does the same-- + You tickled our affection in so many tender spots + That even Recollection laughs + At + H. + Y. + Potts! + + And hark ye! O Grand Haven! count your rare attractions o'er-- + The commerce of your ships at sea, and ships along the shore; + Your railroads, and your industries, and interests untold, + Your Opera House--our lecture, and the gate-receipts in gold!-- + Ay, Banner Town of Michigan! count all your treasures through-- + Your crowds of summer tourists, and your Sanitarium, too; + Your lake, your beach, your drives, your breezy groves + and grassy plots, + But head the list of all of these + With + H. + Y. + Potts! + + + + + THE HOODOO. + + Owned a pair o' skates onc't.--Traded + Fer 'em,--stropped 'em on and waded + Up and down the crick, a-waitin' + Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'. + Mildest winter I remember-- + More like Spring- than Winter-weather!-- + Did n't _frost_ tel bout December- + Git up airly ketch a' feather + Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder-- + Sunshine swinge it like a cinder! + + Well--I _waited_--and _kep_' waitin'! + Couldn't see my money's w'oth in + Them-air skates and was no skatin', + Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin'! + So, one day--along in airly + Spring--I swopped 'em off--and barely + Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather + Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet, + And crick--tail-race--all together, + Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it! + + + + + THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE + + A TRAGI-COMEDY, IN ONE ACT. + + PERSONS REPRESENTED. + + BILLY MILLER ) The Rivals + JOHNNY WILLIAMS ) + + TOMMY WELLS Conspirator + + TIME--Noon: SCENE--Country Town--Rear-view of the + Miller Mansion, showing Barn, with practical loft-window + opening on alley-way, with colored-crayon poster beneath, + announcing:--"BILLY MILLER'S Big Show and Monstur Circus + and Equareum! A shour-bath fer Each and All fer 20 pins. + This Afternoon! Don't fer git the date!" Enter TOMMY + WELLS and JOHNNY WILLIAMS, who gaze awhile at poster, + TOMMY secretly smiling and winking at BILLY MILLER, + concealed at loft-window above. + + TOMMY (to JOHNNY). + Guess 'at Billy haint got back,-- + Can't see nothin' through the crack--- + Can't hear nothin' neither--No! + . . . Thinks he's got the dandy show, + Don't he? + + JOHNNY (scornfully)-- + 'Course' but what _I_ care?-- + He haint got no show in there!-- + What's _he_ got in there but that + Old hen, cooped up with a cat + An' a turkle, an' that thing + 'At he calls his "circus-ring?" + "_What a circus-ring_!" I'd _quit_! + Bet mine's twic't as big as it! + + TOMMY-- + Yes, but _you_ got no machine + Wat you bathe with, painted green, + With a string to work it, guess! + + JOHNNY (contemptuously)-- + Folks don't _bathe_ in _circuses_!-- + _Ladies_ comes to _mine_, you bet! + I' got seats where girls can set; + An' a dressin'-room, an' all, + Fixed up in my pony's stall-- + Yes, an' I' got _carpet_, too, + Fer the tumblers, and a blue + Center-pole! + + TOMMY-- + Well, Billy, he's + Got a tight-rope an' trapeze, + An' a hoop 'at he jumps through + Head-first! + + JOHNNY-- + Well, what's _that_ to do-- + Lightin' on a pile o' hay? + Haint no _actin_' thataway! + + TOMMY-- + Don't care what you say, he draws + Bigger crowds than you do, 'cause + Sense he started up, I know + All the fellers says his show + Is the best-un! + + JOHNNY-- + Yes, an' he + Better not tell things on me! + His old circus haint no good!-- + 'Cause he's got the neighborhood + Down on me he thinks 'at I'm + Goin' to stand it all the time; + Thinks ist 'cause my Pa don't 'low + Me to fight, he's got me now. + An' can say I lie, an' call + Me ist anything at all! + Billy Miller thinks I am + 'Feared to say 'at he says "dam"-- + Yes, and worser ones! and I'm + Goin' to tell his folks sometime!-- + An' ef he don't shet his head + I'll tell worse 'an _that_ he said + When he fighted Willie King-- + An' got licked like ever'thing!-- + Billy Miller better shin + Down his Daddy's lane agin, + Like a cowardy-calf, an' climb + In fer home another time! + Better-- + + [Here BILLY leaps down from the loft upon his unsuspecting + victim; and two minutes, later, JOHNNY, with the half of a + straw hat, a bleeding nose, and a straight rent across one + trouser-knee, makes his inglorious--exit.] + + + + + WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE WIGGINSES. + + Wintertime, er Summertime, + Of late years I notice I'm, + Kindo'-like, more subjec' to + What the _weather_ is. Now, you + Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose, + Thinks its bully when it snows; + But the chap 'at chops and hauls + Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls, + And snapps tuggs and swingletrees, + And then has to walk er freeze, + Haint so much "stuck on" the snow + As stuck _in_ it--Bless ye, no!-- + When its packed, and sleighin's good, + And _church_ in the neighborhood, + Them 'at's _got_ their girls, I guess, + Takes 'em, likely, more er less, + Tell the plain facts o' the case, + No men-folks about our place + On'y me and Pap--and he + 'Lows 'at young folks' company + Allus made him sick! So I + Jes don't want, and jes don't try! + Chinkypin, the dad-burn town, + 'S too fur off to loaf aroun' + Either day er night--and no + Law compellin' me to go!-- + 'Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day, + Er big-doin's thataway-- + _Then_, to tell the p'inted fac', + I've went more so's to come back + By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where + Minors _has_ got licker there-- + That's pervidin' we could show 'em + Old folks sent fer it from home! + Visit roun' the neighbors some, + When the boys wants me to come.-- + Coon-hunt with 'em; er set traps + Fer mussrats; er jes, perhaps, + Lay in roun' the stove, you know, + And parch corn, and let her snow! + Mostly, nights like these, you'll be + (Ef you' got a writ fer _me_) + Ap' to skeer me up, I guess, + In about the Wigginses. + Nothin' roun' _our_ place to keep + Me at home--with Pap asleep + 'Fore it's dark; and Mother in + Mango pickles to her chin; + And the girls, all still as death, + Piecin' quilts.--Sence I drawed breath + Twenty year' ago, and heerd + Some girls whispern' so's it 'peared + Like they had a row o' pins + In their mouth--right there begins + My first rickollections, built + On that-air blame old piece-quilt! + + Summertime, it's jes the same-- + 'Cause I've noticed,--and I claim, + As I said afore, I'm more + Subjec' to the weather, _shore_, + 'Proachin' my majority, + Than I ever ust to be! + Callin' back _last_ Summer, say,-- + Don't seem hardly past away-- + With night closin' in, and all + S' lonesome-like in the dew-fail: + Bats--ad-drat their ugly muggs!-- + Flickern' by; and lightnin'-bugs + Huckstern' roun' the airly night + Little sickly gasps o' light;-- + Whip-poor-wills, like all possessed, + Moanin' out their mournfullest;-- + Frogs and katydids and things + Jes clubs in and sings and sings + Their _ding-dangdest_!--Stock's all fed, + And Pap's washed his feet fer bed;-- + Mother and the girls all down + At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'-- + No wunder 'at I git blue, + And lite out--and so would you! + I caint stay aroun' no place + Whur they haint no livin' face:-- + 'Crost the fields and thue the gaps + Of the hills they's friends, perhaps, + Waitin' somers, 'at kin be + Kindo' comfertin' to me! + + Neighbors all 'is plenty good, + Scattered thue this neighberhood; + Yit, of all, I like to jes + Drap in on the Wigginses.-- + Old man, and old lady too, + 'Pear-like, makes so much o' you--, + Least, they've allus pampered me + Like one of the fambily.-- + The boys, too, 's all thataway-- + Want you jes to come and stay;-- + Price, and Chape, and Mandaville, + Poke, Chasteen, and "Catfish Bill"-- + Poke's the runt of all the rest, + But he's jes the beatinest + Little schemer, fer fourteen, + Anybody ever seen!-- + "Like his namesake," old man claims, + "Jeems K. Poke, the first o' names! + Full o' tricks and jokes--and you + Never know what _Poke's_ go' do!" + Genius, too, that-air boy is, + With them awk'ard hands o' his: + Gits this blame pokeberry-juice, + Er some stuff, fer ink--and goose- + Quill pen-p'ints: And then he'll draw + Dogdest pictures yevver saw! + Er make deers and eagles good + As a writin'-teacher could! + Then they's two twin boys they've riz + Of old Coonrod Wigginses + 'At's deceast--and glad of it, + 'Cause his widder's livin' yit! + + Course _the boys_ is mostly jes' + Why I go to Wigginses.--- + Though _Melviney_, sometimes, _she_ + Gits her slate and algebry + And jes' sets there ciphern' thue + Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do!-- + Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair + Forreds tel, 'pear-like, her hair + Jes' _spills_ in her lap--and then + She jes' dips it up again + With her hands, as white, I swan, + As the apern she's got on! + + Talk o' hospitality!-- + Go to Wigginses with me-- + Overhet, or froze plum thue, + You'll find welcome waitin' you:-- + Th'ow out yer tobacker 'fore + You set foot acrost that floor,-- + "Got to eat whatever's set-- + Got to drink whatever's wet!" + Old man's sentimuns--them's his--- + And means jes the best they is! + Then he lights his pipe; and she, + The old lady, presen'ly + She lights her'n; and Chape and Poke. + I haint got none, ner don't smoke,-- + (In the crick afore their door-- + Sorto so's 'at I'd be shore-- + Drownded mine one night and says + "I won't smoke at _Wigginses_!") + Price he's mostly talkin' 'bout + Politics, and "thieves turned out"-- + What he's go' to be, ef he + Ever "gits there"--and "we'll see!"-- + Poke he 'lows they's blame few men + Go' to hold their breath tel then! + Then Melviney smiles, as she + Goes on with her algebry, + And the clouds clear, and the room's + Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms! + (That Melviney, she' got some + Most surprisin' ways, I gum!-- + Don't 'pear like she ever _says_ + Nothin', yit you'll _listen_ jes + Like she was a-talkin', and + Half-way seem to understand, + But not quite,--_Poke_ does, I know, + 'Cause he good as told me so,-- + Poke's her favo-rite; and he-- + That is, confidentially-- + He's _my_ favo-rite--and I + Got my whurfore and my why!) + + I haint never ben no hand + Much at talkin', understand, + But they's _thoughts_ o' mine 'at's jes + Jealous o' them Wigginses!-- + Gift o' talkin 's what they got, + Whether they want to er not-- + F'r instunce, start the old man on + Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone, + 'Way back in the Forties, when + Bears stold pigs right out the pen, + Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm + With a bee-hive on their arm!-- + And--sir, _ping_! the old man's gun + Has plumped-over many a one, + Firin' at him from afore + That-air very cabin-door! + Yes--and _painters_, prowlin' 'bout, + Allus darkest nights.--Lay out + Clost yer cattle.--Great, big red + Eyes a-blazin' in their head, + Glittern' 'long the timber-line-- + Shine out some, and then _un_-shine, + And shine back--Then, stiddy! whizz! + 'N there yer Mr. Painter is + With a hole bored spang between + Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen, + Say, on blooded racin'-stock, + Ef you want to hear him talk; + Er tobacker--how to raise, + Store, and k-yore it, so's she pays: + The old lady--and she'll cote + Scriptur' tel she'll git yer vote! + + Prove to you 'at wrong is right, + Jes as plain as black is white: + Prove when you're asleep in bed + You're a-standin' on yer head, + And yer train 'at's goin' West, + 'S goin' East its level best; + And when bees dies, it's their wings + Wears out--and a thousand things! + And the boys is "chips," you know; + "Off the old block"--So I go + To the Wigginses, 'cause--jes + 'Cause I _like_ the Wigginses-- + Even ef Melviney _she_ + Hardly 'pears to notice me! + + Rid to Chinkypin this week-- + Yisterd'y.--No snow to speak + Of, and didn't have no sleigh + Anyhow; so, as I say, + I rid in--and froze one ear + And both heels--and I don't keer!-- + "Mother and the girls kin jes + Bother 'bout their Chris'mases + _Next_ time fer _theirse'vs_, I jack!" + Thinks-says-I, a-startin' back,-- + Whole durn meal-bag full of things + Wrapped in paper-sacks, and strings + Liable to snap their holt + Jes at any little jolt! + That in front o' me, and _wind_ + With _nicks_ in it, 'at jes skinned + Me alive!--I'm here to say + Nine mile' hossback thataway + Would a-walked my log! But, as + Somepin' allus comes to pass, + As I topped old Guthrie's hill. + Saw a buggy, front the 'Still, + P'inted home'ards, and a thin + Little chap jes climbin' in. + Six more minutes I were there + On the groun's'--And course it were-- + It were little Poke--and he + Nearly fainted to see me!-- + "You ben in to Chinky, too?" + "Yes; and go' ride back with you," + I-says-I. He he'pped me find + Room fer my things in behind-- + Stript my hoss's reins down, and + Put his mitt' on the right hand + So's to lead--"Pile in!" says he, + "But you 've struck pore company!" + Noticed he was pale--looked sick, + Kindo-like, and had a quick + Way o' flickin' them-air eyes + 0' his roun' 'at didn't size + Up right with his usual style-- + s' I, "You well?" He tried to smile, + But his chin shuck and tears come.-- + "_I've run 'Viney 'way from home_!" + + Don't know jes what all occurred + Next ten seconds--Nary word, + But my heart jes drapt, stobbed thue, + And whirlt over and come to.-- + Wrenched a big quart bottle from + That fool-boy!--and cut my thumb + On his little fiste-teeth--helt + Him snug in one arm, and felt + That-air little heart o' his + Churn the blood o' Wigginses + Into that old bead 'at spun + Roun' her, spilt at Lexington! + His k'niptions, like enough, + He'pped us both,--though it was rough-- + Rough on him, and rougher on + Me when last his nerve was gone, + And he laid there still, his face + Fishin' fer some hidin'-place + Jes a leetle lower down + In my breast than he 'd yit foun'! + + Last I kindo' soothed him, so's + He could talk.--And what you s'pose + Them-air revelations of + Poke's was? . . . He'd ben writin' love- + Letters to Melviney, and + Givin her to understand + They was from "a young man who + Loved her," and--"the violet's blue + 'N sugar's sweet"--and Lord knows what! + Tel, 'peared-like, Melviney got + S' interested in "the young + Man," Poke _he_ says, 'at she brung + A' answer onc't fer him to take, + Statin' "she'd die fer his sake," + And writ fifty xs "fer + Love-kisses fer him from her!" + I was standin' in the road + By the buggy, all I knowed + When Poke got that fer.--"That's why," + Poke says, "I 'fessed up the lie-- + _Had_ to--'cause I see," says he, + "'Viney was in airnest--she + Cried, too, when I told her.--Then + She swore me, and smiled again, + And got Pap and Mother to + Let me hitch and drive her thue + Into Chinkypin, to be + At Aunt 'Rindy's Chris'mas-tree-- + That's to-night." Says I, "Poke--durn + Your lyin' soul!--'s that beau o' hern-- + That--_she_--loves--Does _he_ live in + That hellhole o' Chinkypin?" + "No," says Poke, "er 'Viney would + Went some _other_ neighborhood." + "Who _is_ the blame whelp?" says I. + "Promised 'Viney, hope I'd die + Ef I ever told!" says Poke, + Pittiful and jes heart-broke-- + "'Sides that's why she left the place,-- + 'She caint look him in the face + Now no more on earth!' she says.--" + And the child broke down and jes + Sobbed! Says I, "Poke, I p'tend + T' be _your_ friend, and your _Pap's_ friend, + And your _Mother's_ friend, and all + The _boys_' friend, little, large and small-- + The _whole fambily's_ friend--and you + Know that means _Melviney_, too.-- + Now--you hush yer troublin!'--I'm + Go' to he'p friends ever' time-- + On'y in _this_ case, _you_ got + To he'p _me_--and, like as not + I kin he'p Melviney then, + And we'll have her home again. + And now, Poke, with your consent, + I'm go' go to that-air gent + She's in love with, and confer + With _him_ on his views o' _her_.-- + Blast him! give the man _some_ show.-- + Who is he?--_I'm go' to know_!" + Somepin' struck the little chap + Funny, 'peared-like.--Give a slap + On his leg--laughed thue the dew + In his eyes, and says: "It's you!" + + Yes, and--'cordin' to the last + Love-letters of ours 'at passed + Thue his hands--we was to be + Married Chris'mas.--"Gee-mun-_nee_! + Poke," says I, "it's _suddent_--yit + We _kin_ make it! You're to git + Up tomorry, say, 'bout _three_-- + Tell your folks you're go' with me:-- + We'll hitch up, and jes drive in + 'N take the town o' Chinkypin!" + + + + + GO, WINTER! + + Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again + The twitter of the bluebird and the wren; + Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine + Of Summer's sun--not thine.-- + + Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love + And all the heartening fervencies thereof, + It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin + Pathetic yearnings in. + + So get thee from us! We are cold, God wot, + Even as _thou_ art.--We remember not + How blithe we hailed thy coming.--That was O + Too long--too long ago! + + Get from us utterly! Ho! Summer then + Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been, + And thy last icy footprint melt and mold + In her first marigold. + + + + + ELIZABETH. + + _May 1, 1891_. + + I. + + Elizabeth! Elizabeth! + The first May-morning whispereth + Thy gentle name in every breeze + That lispeth through the young-leaved trees, + New raimented in white and green + Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen;-- + And, as in odorous chorus, all + The orchard-blossoms sweetly call + Even as a singing voice that saith + Elizabeth! Elizabeth! + + II. + + Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair, + In deep, cool shadows of thy hair, + Thy face maintaineth its repose.-- + Is it, O sister of the rose, + So better, sweeter, blooming thus + Than in this briery world with us?-- + Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath + Of biting winter harrieth + With sleeted rains and blighting snows + All fairest blooms--Elizabeth! + + III. + + Nay, then!--So reign, Elizabeth, + Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death! + Put forth the scepter of thy love + In every star-tipped blossom of + The grassy dais of thy throne! + Sadder are we, thus left alone, + But gladder they that thrill to see + Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee. + Bereaved are we by life--not death-- + Elizabeth! Elizabeth! + + + + + SLEEP. + + Orphaned, I cry to thee: + Sweet sleep! O kneel and be + A mother unto me! + Calm thou my childish fears: + Fold--fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly, + And dry my tears. + + Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed + And faint with languor,--slide + Thy dim face down beside + Mine own, and let me rest + And nestle in thy heart, and there abide, + A favored guest. + + Good night to every care, + And shadow of despair! + Good night to all things where + Within is no delight!-- + Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there, + I sob: Good night--good night! + + + + + DAN PAINE. + + Old friend of mine, whose chiming name + Has been the burthen of a rhyme + Within my heart since first I came + To know thee in thy mellow prime; + With warm emotions in my breast + That can but coldly be expressed, + And hopes and wishes wild and vain, + I reach my hand to thee, Dan Paine. + + In fancy, as I sit alone + In gloomy fellowship with care, + I hear again thy cheery tone, + And wheel for thee an easy chair; + And from my hand the pencil falls-- + My book upon the carpet sprawls, + As eager soul and heart and brain, + Leap up to welcome thee, Dan Paine. + + A something gentle in thy mein, + A something tender in thy voice, + Has made my trouble so serene, + I can but weep, from very choice. + And even then my tears, I guess, + Hold more of sweet than bitterness, + And more of gleaming shine than rain, + Because of thy bright smile, Dan Paine. + + The wrinkles that the years have spun + And tangled round thy tawny face, + Are kinked with laughter, every one, + And fashioned in a mirthful grace. + And though the twinkle of thine eyes + Is keen as frost when Summer dies, + It can not long as frost remain + While thy warm soul shines out, Dan Paine. + + And so I drain a health to thee;-- + May merry Joy and jolly Mirth + Like children clamber on thy knee, + And ride thee round the happy earth! + And when, at last, the hand of Fate + Shall lift the latch of Canaan's gate, + And usher me in thy domain, + Smile on me just as now, Dan Paine. + + + + + OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM + + I have jest about decided + It 'ud keep a _town-boy_ hoppin' + Fer to work all winter, choppin' + Fer a' old fire-place, like _I_ did! + Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!-- + Blame backbone o' winter, 'peared-like, + _Wouldn't_ break!--and I wuz skeerd-like + Clean on into _Febuary_! + Nothin' ever made we madder + Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' + On a' extra fore-stick, sayin' + "Groun'hog's out and seed his shadder!" + + + + + AT UTTER LOAF. + + I. + + An afternoon as ripe with heat + As might the golden pippin be + With mellowness if at my feet + It dropped now from the apple-tree + My hammock swings in lazily. + + + II. + + The boughs about me spread a shade + That shields me from the sun, but weaves + With breezy shuttles through the leaves + Blue rifts of skies, to gleam and fade + Upon the eyes that only see + Just of themselves, all drowsily. + + + III. + + Above me drifts the fallen skein + Of some tired spider, looped and blown, + As fragile as a strand of rain, + Across the air, and upward thrown + By breaths of hayfields newly mown-- + So glimmering it is and fine, + I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine. + + + IV. + + Far-off and faint as voices pent + In mines, and heard from underground, + Come murmurs as of discontent, + And clamorings of sullen sound + The city sends me, as, I guess, + To vex me, though they do but bless + Me in my drowsy fastnesses. + + + V. + + I have no care. I only know + My hammock hides and holds me here + In lands of shade a prisoner: + While lazily the breezes blow + Light leaves of sunshine over me, + And back and forth and to and fro + I swing, enwrapped in some hushed glee, + Smiling at all things drowsily. + + + + + A LOUNGER. + + He leant against a lamp-post, lost + In some mysterious reverie: + His head was bowed; his arms were crossed; + He yawned, and glanced evasively: + Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put + Them back again, and scratched his side-- + Shifted his weight from foot to foot, + And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed. + + Grotesque of form and face and dress, + And picturesque in every way-- + A figure that from day to day + Drooped with a limper laziness; + A figure such as artists lean, + In pictures where distress is seen, + Against low hovels where we guess + No happiness has ever been. + + + + + A SONG OF LONG AGO. + + A song of Long Ago: + Sing it lightly--sing it low-- + Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we used to know + When our baby-laughter spilled + From the glad hearts ever filled + With music blithe as robin ever trilled! + + Let the fragrant summer-breeze, + And the leaves of locust-trees, + And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees, + All palpitate with glee, + Till the happy harmony + Brings back each childish joy to you and me. + + Let the eyes of fancy turn + Where the tumbled pippins burn + Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,-- + There let the old path wind + In and out and on behind + The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. + + Blend in the song the moan + Of the dove that grieves alone, + And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone; + And the low of cows that call + Through the pasture-bars when all + The landscape fades away at evenfall. + + Then, far away and clear, + Through the dusky atmosphere, + Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear: + O sad and sweet and low + As the memory may know + Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! + + + + + THE CHANT OF THE CROSS-BEARING CHILD. + + I bear dis cross dis many a mile. + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + I bear dis cross 'long many a road + Wha' de pink ain't bloom' an' de grass done mowed. + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + Hits on my conscience all dese days + Fo' ter bear de cross ut de good Lord lays + On my po' soul, an' ter lif my praise. + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + I 's nigh-'bout weak ez I mos' kin be, + Yit de Marstah call an' He say,--"You 's free + Fo' ter 'cept dis cross, an' ter cringe yo' knee + To no n'er man in de worl' but me!" + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + Says you guess wrong, ef I let you guess-- + Says you 'spec' mo', an'-a you git less:-- + Says you go eas', says you go wes', + An' whense you fine de road ut you like bes' + You betteh take ch'ice er any er de res'! + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + He build my feet, an' He fix de signs + Dat de shoe hit pinch an' de shoe hit bines + Ef I on'y w'ah eights an-a wanter w'ah nines; + I hone fo' de rain, an' de sun hit shines, + An' whilse I hunt de sun, hits de rain I fines.-- + O-a trim my lamp, an-a gyrd my lines! + O de cross-bearin' chile-- + De cross-bearin' chile! + + I wade de wet, an' I walk de dry: + I done tromp long, an' I done clim high; + An' I pilgrim on ter de jasper sky, + An' I taken de resk fo' ter cas' my eye + Wha' de Gate swing wide an' de Lord draw nigh, + An' de Trump hit blow, an' I hear de cry,-- + "You lay dat cross down by an' by!-- + O de Cross-bearin' Chile-- + Do Cross-bearin' Chile!" + + + + + THANKSGIVING. + + Let us be thankful--not only because + Since last our universal thanks were told + We have grown greater in the world's applause, + And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old-- + + But thankful for all things that come as alms + From out the open hand of Providence:-- + The winter clouds and storms---the summer calms-- + The sleepless dread--the drowse of indolence. + + Let us be thankful--thankful for the prayers + Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, + That they might fall upon us unawares, + And bless us, as in greater need, we prayed. + + Let us be thankful for the loyal hand + That love held out in welcome to our own, + When love and only love could understand + The need of touches we had never known. + + Let us be thankful for the longing eyes + That gave their secret to us as they wept, + Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise, + Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept. + + And let us, too, be thankful that the tears + Of sorrow have not all been drained away, + That through them still, for all the coming years, + We may look on the dead face of To-day. + + + + + AUTUMN. + + As a harvester, at dusk, + Faring down some woody trail + Leading homeward through the musk + Of may-apple and pawpaw, + Hazel-bush, and spice and haw,-- + So comes Autumn, swart and hale, + Drooped of frame and slow of stride. + But withal an air of pride + Looming up in stature far + Higher than his shoulders are; + Weary both in arm and limb, + Yet the wholesome heart of him + Sheer at rest and satisfied. + + Greet him as with glee of drums + And glad cymbals, as he comes! + Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine. + He the Emperor--the King-- + Royal lord of everything + Sagging Plenty's granary floors + And out-bulging all her doors; + He the god of corn and wine, + Honey, milk, and fruit and oil-- + Lord of feast, as lord of toil-- + Jocund host of yours and mine! + + Ho! the revel of his laugh!-- + Half is sound of winds, and half + Roar of ruddy blazes drawn + Up the throats of chimneys wide, + Circling which, from side to side, + Faces--lit as by the Dawn, + With her highest tintings on + Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin-- + Smile at some old fairy-tale + Of enchanted lovers, in + Silken gown and coat of mail, + With a retinue of elves + Merry as their very selves, + Trooping ever, hand in hand, + Down the dales of Wonderland. + + Then the glory of his song!-- + Lifting up his dreamy eyes-- + Singing haze across the skies; + Singing clouds that trail along + Towering tops of trees that seize + Tufts of them to stanch the breeze; + Singing slanted strands of rain + In between the sky and earth, + For the lyre to mate the mirth + And the might of his refrain: + Singing southward-flying birds + Down to us, and afterwards + Singing them to flight again; + Singing blushes to the cheeks + Of the leaves upon the trees-- + Singing on and changing these + Into pallor, slowly wrought, + Till the little, moaning creeks + Bear them to their last farewell, + As Elaine, the lovable, + Was borne down to Lancelot.-- + Singing drip of tears, and then + Drying them with smiles again. + + Singing apple, peach and grape, + Into roundest, plumpest shape, + Rosy ripeness to the face + Of the pippin; and the grace + Of the dainty stamin-tip + To the huge bulk of the pear, + Pendant in the green caress + Of the leaves, and glowing through + With the tawny laziness + Of the gold that Ophir knew,-- + Haply, too, within its rind + Such a cleft as bees may find, + Bungling on it half aware. + And wherein to see them sip + Fancy lifts an oozy lip, + And the singer's falter there. + + Sweet as swallows swimming through + Eddyings of dusk and dew, + Singing happy scenes of home + Back to sight of eager eyes + That have longed for them to come, + Till their coming is surprise + Uttered only by the rush + Of quick tears and prayerful hush; + Singing on, in clearer key, + Hearty palms of you and me + Into grasps that tingle still + Rapturous, and ever will! + Singing twank and twang of strings-- + Trill of flute and clarinet + In a melody that rings + Like the tunes we used to play, + And our dreams are playing yet! + Singing lovers, long astray, + Each to each, and, sweeter things-- + Singing in their marriage-day, + And a banquet holding all + These delights for festival. + + + + + THE TWINS. + + One 's the pictur' of his Pa, + And the _other_ of her Ma-- + Jes the bossest pair o' babies 'at a mortal ever saw! + And we love 'em as the bees + Loves the blossoms of the trees, + A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze! + + One's got her Mammy's eyes-- + Soft and blue as Apurl-skies-- + With the same sort of a smile, like--Yes, + and mouth about her size,-- + Dimples, too, in cheek and chin, + 'At my lips jes _wallers_ in, + A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin. + + And the _other_--Well, they say + That he's got his Daddy's way + O' bein' ruther soberfied, er ruther extry gay,-- + That he either cries his best, + Er he laughs his howlin'est-- + Like all he lacked was buttons and a vest! + + Look at _her_!--and look at _him_!-- + Talk about yer "Cheru-_bim_!" + Roll 'em up in dreams together, rosy arm and chubby limb! + O we love 'em as the bees + Loves the blossoms of the trees, + A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze! + + + + + BEDOUIN. + + O love is like an untamed steed!-- + So hot of heart and wild of speed, + And with fierce freedom so in love, + The desert is not vast enough, + With all its leagues of glimmering sands, + To pasture it! Ah, that my hands + Were more than human in their strength, + That my deft lariat at length + Might safely noose this splendid thing + That so defies all conquering! + Ho! but to see it whirl and reel-- + The sands spurt forward--and to feel + The quivering tension of the thong + That throned me high, with shriek and song! + To grapple tufts of tossing mane-- + To spurn it to its feet again, + And then, sans saddle, rein or bit, + To lash the mad life out of it! + + + + + TUGG MARTIN. + + I. + + Tugg Martin's tough.--No doubt o' that! + And down there at + The town he come from word's bin sent + Advisin' this-here Settle-ment + To kindo' _humor_ Tugg, and not + To git him hot-- + Jest pass his imperfections by, + And he's as good as pie! + + + II. + + They claim he's _wanted_ back there.--Yit + The officers they mostly quit + _Insistin'_ when + They notice Tugg's so _back'ard_, and + Sorto' gives 'em to understand + He druther not!--A Deputy + (The slickest one you ever see!) + Tackled him _last_--"disguisin' then," + As Tugg says, "as a gentlemen!"-- + You 'd ort o' hear _Tugg_ tell it!--_My_! + I thought I'd _die_! + + III. + + The way it wuz;--Tugg and the rest + The boys wuz jest + A-kindo' gittin' thawed out, down + At "Guss's Place," fur-end o' town, + One night, when, first we knowed, + Some feller rode + Up in a buggy at the door, + And hollered fer some one to come + And fetch him some + Red-licker out--And whirped and swore + That colt he drove wuz "_Thompson's_" shore! + + + IV. + + Guss went out, and come in agin + And filled a pint and tuck it out-- + Stayed quite a spell--then peeked back in, + Half-hid-like where the light wuz dim, + And jieuked his head + At Tugg and said,-- + "Come out a minute--here's a gent + Wants you to take a drink with him." + + + V. + + Well--Tugg laid down his cards and went-- + In fact, _we all_ + Got up, you know, + _Startin'_ to go-- + When in reels Guss aginst the wall, + As white as snow, + Gaspin',--"_He's tuck Tugg!--wher's my gun_?" + And-sir, outside we heerd + The hoss snort and kick up his heels + Like he wuz skeerd, + And then the buggy-wheels + Scrape--and then Tugg's voice hollerun',-- + "I'm bested!--Good-bye, fellers!" . . . 'Peared + S' all-fired suddent, + Nobody couldn't + Jest git it fixed,--tel hoss and man, + Buggy and Tugg, off through the dark + Went like the devil beatin' tan- + Bark! + + + VI. + + What _could_ we do? . . . We filed back to + The bar: And Guss jest _looked_ at us, + And we looked back "The same as you," + Still sayin' nothin'--And the sap + It stood in every eye, + And every hat and cap + Went off, as we teched glasses solemnly, + And Guss says-he: + "Ef it's 'good-bye' with Tugg, fer _shore_,--I say + God bless him!--Er ef they + Aint railly no _need_ to pray, + I'm not reniggin!--board's the play, + And here's God bless him, anyway!" + + + VII. + + It must a-bin an hour er so + We all set there, + Talkin o' pore + Old Tugg, you know, + 'At never, wuz ketched up before-- + When--all slow-like--the door- + Knob turned--and Tugg come shamblin' in, + Hand-cuffed'--'at's what he wuz, I swear!-- + Yit smilin,' like he hadn't bin + Away at all! And when we ast him where + The _Deputy_ wuz at,--"I don't know where," Tugg said,-- + "All _I_ know is--he's dead." + + + + + LET US FORGET. + + Let us forget. What matters it that we + Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago, + And talked of love, and let our voices low, + And ruled for some brief sessions royally? + What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? + It has availed not anything, and so + Let it go by that we may better know + How poor a thing is lost to you and me. + But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet + Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew + From your drenched lids--and missed, with no regret, + Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you; + And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet + With all this waste of tears, let us forget! + + + + + JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY. + + We got up a Christmas-doin's + Last Christmas Eve-- + Kindo' dimonstration + 'At I railly believe + Give more satisfaction-- + Take it up and down-- + Than ary intertainment + Ever come to town! + + Railly was a _theater_-- + That's what it was,-- + But, bein' in the church, you know, + We had a "_Santy Clause_"-- + So 's to git the _old folks_ + To patternize, you see, + And _back_ the institootion up + Kindo' _morally_. + + Schoolteacher writ the thing-- + (Was a friend o' mine), + Got it out o' Longfeller's + Pome "Evangeline"-- + Er some'rs--'bout the _Purituns_--. + _Anyway_, the part + "_John Alden_" fell to _me_-- + And learnt it all by heart! + + Claircy was "_Percilly_"-- + (Schoolteacher 'lowed + Me and her could act them two + Best of all the crowd)-- + Then--blame ef he didn't + Git her Pap, i jing!-- + To take the part o' "_Santy Clause_," + To wind up the thing. + + Law! the fun o' practisun!-- + Was a week er two + Me and Claircy didn't have + Nothin' else to do!-- + Kep' us jes a-meetin' round, + Kindo' here and there, + Ever' night rehearsin'-like, + And gaddin' ever'where! + + Game was wo'th the candle, though!-- + Christmas Eve at last + Rolled around.--And 'tendance jes + Couldn't been surpassed!-- + Neighbors from the country + Come from Clay and Rush-- + Yes, and 'crost the county-line + Clean from Puckerbrush! + + Meetin'-house jes trimbled + As "Old Santy" went + Round amongst the childern, + With their pepperment + And sassafrac and wintergreen + Candy, and "a ball + O' popcorn," the preacher 'nounced, + "Free fer each and all!" + + Schoolteacher suddently + Whispered in my ear,-- + "Guess I got you:--_Christmas-gift_!-- + _Christmas is here_!" + I give _him_ a gold pen, + And case to hold the thing,-- + And _Claircy_ whispered "_Christmas-gift_!" + And I give her a _ring_. + + "And now," says I, "jes watch _me_-- + Christmas-gift," says I, + "_I'm_ a-goin' to git one-- + '_Santy's_' comin' by!"-- + Then I rech and grabbed him: + And, as you'll infer, + 'Course I got the old man's, + And _he_ gimme _her_! + + + + + REACH YOUR HAND TO ME. + + Reach your hand to me, my friend, + With its heartiest caress-- + Sometime there will come an end + To its present faithfulness-- + Sometime I may ask in vain + For the touch of it again, + When between us land or sea + Holds it ever back from me. + + Sometime I may need it so, + Groping somewhere in the night, + It will seem to me as though + Just a touch, however light, + Would make all the darkness day, + And along some sunny way + Lead me through an April-shower + Of my tears to this fair hour. + + O the present is too sweet + To go on forever thus! + Round the corner of the street + Who can say what waits for us?-- + Meeting--greeting, night and day, + Faring each the self-same way-- + Still somewhere the path must end.-- + Reach your hand to me, my friend! + + + + + THE ROSE. + + It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; + And the sun, like a bashful swain, + Beamed on it through the waving frees + With a passion all in vain,-- + For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + The honey-bee came there to sing + His love through the languid hours, + And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king + Might boast of his palace-towers: + But my rose bowed in a mockery, + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, + Dipped down with a dalliant song, + And twanged his wings through the roundelay + Of love the whole day long: + Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + The firefly came in the twilight dim + My red, red rose to woo-- + Till quenched was the flame of love in him, + And the light of his lantern too, + As my rose wept with dew-drops three + And hid in the leaves in wait for me. + + And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose-- + Some day I will claim as mine + The priceless worth of the flower that knows + No change, but a bloom divine-- + The bloom of a fadeless constancy + That hides in the leaves in wait for me! + + But time passed by in a strange disguise, + And I marked it not, but lay + In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, + Till the summer slipped away, + And a chill wind sang in a minor key: + "Where is the rose that waits for thee?" + + * * * * * + + I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain + Of bloom on a withered stalk, + Pelted down by the autumn rain + In the dust of the garden-walk, + That an Angel-rose in the world to be + Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. + + + + + MY FRIEND. + + "He is my friend," I said,-- + "Be patient!" Overhead + The skies were drear and dim; + And lo! the thought of him + Smited on my heart--and then + The sun shone out again! + + "He is my friend!" The words + Brought summer and the birds; + And all my winter-time + Thawed into running rhyme + And rippled into song, + Warm, tender, brave, and strong. + + And so it sings to-day.-- + So may it sing alway! + Though waving grasses grow + Between, and lilies blow + Their trills of perfume clear + As laughter to the ear, + Let each mute measure end + With "Still he is thy friend." + + + + + SUSPENSE. + + A woman's figure, on a ground of night + Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare + Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there + As in vague hope some alien lance of light + Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight-- + The salt and bitter blood of her despair-- + Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair + And grip toward God with anguish infinite. + And O the carven mouth, with all its great + Intensity of longing frozen fast + In such a smile as well may designate + The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last, + Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate + Throbs Love's eternal lie--"Lo, I can wait!" + + + + + THE PASSING OF A HEART. + + O touch me with your hands-- + For pity's sake! + My brow throbs ever on with such an ache + As only your cool touch may take away; + And so, I pray + You, touch me with your hands! + + Touch--touch me with your hands.-- + Smooth back the hair + You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair + That I did dream its gold would wear alway, + And lo, to-day-- + O touch me with your hands! + + Just touch me with your hands, + And let them press + My weary eyelids with the old caress, + And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, + That Death may say: + He touched her with his hands. + + BY HER WHITE BED. + + By her white bed I muse a little space: + She fell asleep--not very long ago,-- + And yet the grass was here and not the snow-- + The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and--her face!-- + Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace + Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow; + The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low + Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place + In thicker twilight for the roses' scent. + Then _night_.--She slept--in such tranquility, + I walk atiptoe still, nor _dare_ to weep, + Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content-- + That though God stood to wake her for me, she + Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord! Let _him_ so sleep." + + + + + WE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING. + + "Rain and rain! and rain and rain!" + Yesterday we muttered + Grimly as the grim refrain + That the thunders uttered: + All the heavens under cloud-- + All the sunshine sleeping; + All the grasses limply bowed + With their weight of weeping. + + Sigh and sigh! and sigh and sigh! + Never end of sighing; + Rain and rain for our reply-- + Hopes half-drowned and dying; + Peering through the window-pane, + Naught but endless raining-- + Endless sighing, and, as vain, + Endlessly complaining. + + Shine and shine! and shine and shine! + Ah! to-day the splendor!-- + All this glory yours and mine-- + God! but God is tender! + We to sigh instead of sing, + _Yesterday_, in sorrow, + While the Lord was fashioning + This for our To-morrow! + + + + + THE BLOSSOMS ON THE TREES. + + Blossoms crimson, white, or blue, + Purple, pink, and every hue, + From sunny skies, to tintings drowned + In dusky drops of dew, + I praise you all, wherever found, + And love you through and through;-- + _But_, Blossoms On The Trees, + With your breath upon the breeze, + There's nothing all the world around + As half as sweet as you! + + Could the rhymer only wring + All the sweetness to the lees + Of all the kisses clustering + In juicy Used-to-bes, + To dip his rhymes therein and sing + The blossoms on the trees,-- + "O Blossoms on the Trees," + He would twitter, trill and coo, + "However sweet, such songs as these + Are not as sweet as you:-- + For you are _blooming_ melodies + The _eyes_ may listen to!" + + + + + A DISCOURAGING MODEL. + + Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, + With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, + Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, + And a knot of red roses sown in under there + Where the shadows are lost in her hair. + + Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground + Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; + And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint + And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint + Round the lips of their favorite saint! + + And that lace at her throat--and the fluttering hands + Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, + The flakes of their touches--first fluttering at + The bow--then the roses--the hair--and then that + Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. + + O what artist on earth with a model like this, + Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, + Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, + Nor the gold of her smile--O what artist could dare + To expect a result half so fair? + + + + + LAST NIGHT--AND THIS. + + Last night--how deep the darkness was! + And well I knew its depths, because + I waded it from shore to shore, + Thinking to reach the light no more. + + She would not even touch my hand.-- + The winds rose and the cedars fanned + The moon out, and the stars fled back + In heaven and hid--and all was black! + + But ah! To-night a summons came, + Signed with a teardrop for a name,-- + For as I wondering kissed it, lo, + A line beneath it told me so. + + And _now_--the moon hangs over me + A disk of dazzling brilliancy, + And every star-tip stabs my sight + With splintered glitterings of light! + + + + + SEPTEMBER DARK. + + I. + + The air falls chill; + The whip-poor-will + Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: + The dusk grows dense, + The silence tense; + And lo, the katydids commence. + + + II. + + Through shadowy rifts + Of woodland, lifts + The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, + While left and right + The fireflies' light + Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night. + + + III. + + O Cloudland, gray + And level, lay + Thy mists across the face of Day! + At foot and head, + Above the dead, + O Dews, weep on uncomforted! + + + + + A GLIMPSE OF PAN. + + I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here, + And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat + And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, + Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere + Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet + From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer + O'er the grasses, green and sweet. + + And I peered through a vista of leaning trees, + Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept + To the face of a river, that answered these + With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, + Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept + And kissed them, with quavering ecstacies, + And gurgled and laughed and wept. + + And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear + I saw Pan lying,--his limbs in the dew + And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare + Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere, + Over, across, and around him blew + Filmy dragonflies hither and there, + And little white butterflies, two and two, + In eddies of odorous air. + + + + + OUT OF NAZARETH. + + "He shall sleep unscathed of thieves + Who loves Allah and believes." + Thus heard one who shared the tent, + In the far-off Orient, + Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz-- + Nobler never loved the stars + Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim + Dawn his courser neighed to him! + + He said: "Let the sands be swarmed + With such thieves as I, and thou + Shalt at morning rise, unharmed, + Light as eyelash to the brow + Of thy camel, amber-eyed, + Ever munching either side, + Striding still, with nestled knees, + Through the midnight's oases. + + "Who can rob thee an thou hast + More than this that thou hast cast + At my feet--this dust of gold? + Simply this and that, all told! + Hast thou not a treasure of + Such a thing as men call love? + + "Can the dusky band I lead + Rob thee of thy daily need + Of a whiter soul, or steal + What thy lordly prayers reveal? + Who could be enriched of thee + By such hoard of poverty + As thy niggard hand pretends + To dole me--thy worst of friends? + Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless + One indeed who blesses thee; + Robbing thee, I dispossess + But myself.--Pray thou for me!" + + He shall sleep unscathed of thieves + Who loves Allah and believes. + + + + + THE WANDERING JEW. + + The stars are failing, and the sky + Is like a field of faded flowers; + The winds on weary wings go by; + The moon hides, and the temptest lowers; + And still through every clime and age + I wander on a pilgrimage + That all men know an idle quest, + For that the goal I seek is--REST! + + I hear the voice of summer streams, + And, following, I find the brink + Of cooling springs, with childish dreams + Returning as I bend to drink-- + But suddenly, with startled eyes, + My face looks on its grim disguise + Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, + I hasten on, nor taste of rest. + + I come upon a merry group + Of children in the dusky wood, + Who answer back the owlet's whoop, + That laughs as it had understood; + And I would pause a little space, + But that each happy blossom-face + Is like to one His hands have blessed + Who sent me forth in search of rest. + + Sometimes I fain would stay my feet + In shady lanes, where huddled kine + Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, + And lift their patient eyes to mine; + But I, for thoughts that ever then + Go back to Bethlehem again, + Must needs fare on my weary quest, + And weep for very need of rest. + + Is there no end? I plead in vain: + Lost worlds nor living answer me. + Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign + Have I not passed eternity? + Have I not drank the fetid breath + Of every fevered phase of death, + And come unscathed through every pest + And scourge and plague that promised rest? + + Have I not seen the stars go out + That shed their light o'er Galilee, + And mighty kingdoms tossed about + And crumbled clod-like in the sea? + Dead ashes of dead ages blow + And cover me like drifting snow, + And time laughs on as 'twere a jest + That I have any need of rest. + + + + + LONGFELLOW. + + The winds have talked with him confidingly; + The trees have whispered to him; and the night + Hath held him gently as a mother might, + And taught him all sad tones of melody: + The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, + In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, + Hath told him all her sorrow and delight-- + Her legends fair--her darkest mystery. + His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; + Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings + Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, + Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.-- + Nor shall he cease to sing--in every lay + Of Nature's voice he sings--and will alway. + + + + +JOHN MCKEEN. + +John McKeen, in his rusty dress, + His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; +His face unshaven, and none the less, +His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, + And the wealth of a workman's vote! + +Bring him, O Memory, here once more, + And tilt him back in his Windsor chair +By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er +And the light of the hearth is across the floor, + And the crickets everywhere! + +And let their voices be gladly blent + With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, +And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, +And neighborly gossip and merriment, + And old-time fiddle-tunes! + +Tick the clock with a wooden sound, + And fill the hearing with childish glee +Of rhyming riddle, or story found +In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound + Old book of the Used-to-be! + +John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, + To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!-- +To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don +A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone + Out on election days! + +John, ah, John! did it prove your worth + To yield you the office you still maintain? +To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth +Of all the happier things on earth + To the hunger of heart and brain? + +Under the dusk of your villa trees, + Edging the drives where your blooded span +Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,-- +Where are the children about your knees, + And the mirth, and the happy man? + +The blinds of your mansion are battened to; + Your faded wife is a close recluse; +And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do +Dutifully all that is willed of you, + And marry as you shall choose!-- + +But O for the old-home voices, blent + With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, +And the motherly chirrup of glad content +And neighborly gossip and merriment, + And the old-time fiddle-tunes! + + + + +THEIR SWEET SORROW. + +They meet to say farewell: Their way +Of saying this is hard to say.-- + He holds her hand an instant, wholly + Distressed--and she unclasps it slowly. + +He bends his gaze evasively +Over the printed page that she + Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder + Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her. + +The clock, beneath its crystal cup, +Discreetly clicks--"Quick! Act! Speak up!" + A tension circles both her slender + Wrists--and her raised eyes flash in splendor, + +Even as he feels his dazzled own.-- +Then, blindingly, round either thrown, + They feel a stress of arms that ever + Strain tremblingly--and "Never! Never!" + +Is whispered brokenly, with half +A sob, like a belated laugh,-- + While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, + Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. + + + + +SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S. + +Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid +An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, +And cooked 'em on our stove one day +When our hired girl she said I may. + +_Honey's_ the goodest thing--Oo-_ooh_! +And blackberry-pies is goodest, too! +But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet +Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet! + +Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,--an' +She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!-- +An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face-- +An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'! + +I _ruther_ go to the Circus-show; +But, 'cause my _parunts_ told me so, +I ruther go to the Sund'y School, +'Cause there I learn the goldun rule. + +Say, Pa,--what _is_ the goldun rule +'At's allus at the Sund'y School? + + + + +MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. + +They called him Mr. What's-his-name: +From where he was, or why he came, +Or when, or what he found to do, +Nobody in the city knew. + +He lived, it seemed, shut up alone +In a low hovel of his own; +There cooked his meals and made his bed, +Careless of all his neighbors said. + +His neighbors, too, said many things +Expressive of grave wonderings, +Since none of them had ever been +Within his doors, or peered therein. + +In fact, grown watchful, they became +Assured that Mr. What's-his-name +Was up to something wrong--indeed, +Small doubt of it, we all agreed. + +At night were heard strange noises there, +When honest people everywhere +Had long retired; and his light +Was often seen to burn all night. + +He left his house but seldom--then +Would always hurry back again, +As though he feared some stranger's knock, +Finding him gone, might burst the lock. + +Beside, he carried, every day, +At the one hour he went away, +A basket, with the contents hid +Beneath its woven willow lid. + +And so we grew to greatly blame +This wary Mr. What's-his-name, +And look on him with such distrust +His actions seemed to sanction just. + +But when he died--he died one day-- +Dropped in the street while on his way +To that old wretched hut of his-- +You'll think it strange--perhaps it is-- + +But when we lifted him, and past +The threshold of his home at last, +No man of all the crowd but stepped +With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_! + +What was it? Just a shriek of pain +I pray to never hear again-- +A withered woman, old and bowed, +That fell and crawled and cried aloud-- + +And kissed the dead man's matted hair-- +Lifted his face and kissed him there-- +Called to him, as she clutched his hand, +In words no one could understand. + +Insane? Yes.--Well, we, searching, found +An unsigned letter, in a round +Free hand, within the dead man's breast: +"Look to my mother--_I'm_ at rest. + +You'll find my money safely hid +Under the lining of the lid +Of my work-basket. It is hers, +And God will bless her ministers!" + +And some day--though he died unknown-- +If through the City by the Throne +I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame, +I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name. + + + + +WHEN AGE COMES ON. + +When Age comes on!-- +"The deepening dusk is where the dawn + Once glittered splendid, and the dew +In honey-drips, from red rose-lips + Was kissed away by me and you.-- +And now across the frosty lawn +Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on-- + And Age comes on! + And biting wild-winds whistle through +Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on! + +When Age comes on!-- +O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, + Flow back in summer-floods, and fling +Here at our feet our childhood sweet, + And all the songs we used to sing! . . . +Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone-- +Our old faith lost--and Age comes on-- + And Age comes on! + Poor hearts! have we not anything +But longings left when Age comes on? + + + + +ENVOY. + +Just as of old! The world rolls on and on; +The day dies into night--night into dawn-- +Dawn into dusk--through centuries untold.-- + Just as of old. + +Time loiters not. The river ever flows, +Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows; +Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold: + Just as of old. + +Lo! where is the beginning, where the end +Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend!-- +God answers with a silence of pure gold-- + Just as of old. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Fields and Running Brooks, and +Other Poems, by James Whitcomb Riley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREEN FIELDS *** + +***** This file should be named 15079.txt or 15079.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/0/7/15079/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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