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diff --git a/31874.txt b/31874.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb61501 --- /dev/null +++ b/31874.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5208 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, by Eugene Field + +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: Second Book of Verse + +Author: Eugene Field + +Release Date: April 3, 2010 [EBook #31874] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + + + + + + + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + + + + +BY EUGENE FIELD + + + Second Book of Tales. + Songs and Other Verse. + The Holy Cross and Other Tales. + The House. + The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac. + A Little Book Of Profitable Tales. + A Little Book of Western Verse. + Second Book of Verse. + Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25 + A Little Book of Profitable Tales. + Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25. + Echoes from the Sabine Farm. + 4to, $2.00 + With Trumpet and Drum. + 16mo, $1.00. + Love Songs of Childhood. + 16mo, $1.00. + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + +BY + +EUGENE FIELD + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + 1896 + + + + + _Copyright, 1892_, + + BY JULIA SUTHERLAND FIELD. + + + _A little bit of a woman came + Athwart my path one day; + So tiny was she that she seemed to be + A pixy strayed from the misty sea, + Or a wandering greenwood fay._ + + _"Oho, you little elf!" I cried, + "And what are you doing here? + So tiny as you will never do + For the brutal rush and hullaballoo + Of this practical world, I fear."_ + + _"Voice have I, good sir," said she.-- + "'Tis soft as an Angel's sigh, + But to fancy a word of yours were heard + In all the din of this world's absurd!" + Smiling, I made reply._ + + _"Hands have I, good sir" she quoth.-- + "Marry, and that have you! + But amid the strife and the tumult rife + In all the struggle and battle for life, + What can those wee hands do?"_ + + _"Eyes have I, good sir," she said.-- + "Sooth, you have," quoth I, + "And tears shall flow therefrom, I trow, + And they betimes shall dim with woe, + As the hard, hard years go by!"_ + + _That little bit of a woman cast + Her two eyes full on me, + And they smote me sore to my inmost core, + And they hold me slaved forevermore,-- + Yet would I not be free!_ + + _That little bit of a woman's hands + Reached up into my breast + And rent apart my scoffing heart,-- + And they buffet it still with such sweet art + As cannot be expressed._ + + _That little bit of a woman's voice + Hath grown most wondrous dear; + Above the blare of all elsewhere + (An inspiration that mocks at care) + It riseth full and clear._ + + _Dear one, I bless the subtle power + That makes me wholly thine; + And I'm proud to say that I bless the day + When a little woman wrought her way + Into this life of mine!_ + + + + +The Verse in this Second Book. + + + PAGE + + FATHER'S WAY 1 + + TO MY MOTHER 5 + + KOeRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER 7 + + GOSLING STEW 9 + + CATULLUS TO LESBIA 12 + + JOHN SMITH 13 + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE 22 + + THE SINGING IN GOD'S-ACRE 25 + + DEAR OLD LONDON 28 + + CORSICAN LULLABY (Folk-Song) 33 + + THE CLINK OF THE ICE 35 + + BELLS OF NOTRE DAME 39 + + LOVER'S LANE, ST. JO 41 + + CRUMPETS AND TEA 44 + + AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS 47 + + INTRY-MINTRY 48 + + MODJESKY AS CAMEEL 51 + + TELLING THE BEES 60 + + THE TEA-GOWN 62 + + DOCTORS 64 + + BARBARA 69 + + THE CAFE MOLINEAU 72 + + HOLLY AND IVY 75 + + THE BOLTONS, 22 77 + + DIBDIN'S GHOST 83 + + THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 87 + + THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD 91 + + AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL 96 + + PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 103 + + ASHES ON THE SLIDE 106 + + THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS 110 + + CHRISTMAS EVE 113 + + CARLSBAD 115 + + THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 120 + + RED 122 + + JEWISH LULLABY 124 + + AT CHEYENNE 126 + + THE NAUGHTY DOLL 128 + + THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 131 + + TEENY-WEENY 134 + + TELKA 137 + + PLAINT OF A MISSOURI 'COON 146 + + ARMENIAN LULLABY 151 + + THE PARTRIDGE 153 + + CORINTHIAN HALL 156 + + THE RED, RED WEST 162 + + THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE 165 + + IPSWICH 167 + + BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS 170 + + FIDUCIT (from the German) 175 + + THE "ST. JO GAZETTE" 177 + + IN AMSTERDAM 183 + + TO THE PASSING SAINT 186 + + THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST 188 + + NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT (Slumber Song) 191 + + THE ONION TART 193 + + GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE 197 + + RARE ROAST BEEF 203 + + GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT 208 + + OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE 211 + + OUR WHIPPINGS 213 + + BION'S SONG OF EROS 218 + + MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 220 + + POET AND KING 222 + + LYDIA DICK 225 + + LIZZIE 229 + + LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE 231 + + ALWAYS RIGHT 233 + + "TROT, MY GOOD STEED" (Volkslied) 235 + + PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG 237 + + GETTIN' ON 242 + + THE SCHNELLEST ZUG 245 + + BETHLEHEM-TOWN 250 + + THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 252 + + DOINGS OF DELSARTE 254 + + BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 259 + + + + +Second Book of Verse. + + + + +FATHER'S WAY. + + + MY father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,-- + Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth. + He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,-- + I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song; + But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue, + He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,-- + +[Illustration: Music] + + Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so, + Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know; + He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way + But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay." + And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth + There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth. + + When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down + To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town. + A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break, + And all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _William's_ sake! + But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, + Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low. + + And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West, + Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. + She was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say + It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away; + But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears, + Poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers. + + When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot, + He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not; + And when came death and bore away the one he worshipped so, + How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe! + You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,-- + He'd always stopped his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it. + + I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,-- + To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow-men. + Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong, + And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song! + Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago, + When he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know! + + + + +TO MY MOTHER. + + + HOW fair you are, my mother! + Ah, though 't is many a year + Since you were here, + Still do I see your beauteous face, + And with the glow + Of your dark eyes cometh a grace + Of long ago. + So gentle, too, my mother! + Just as of old, upon my brow, + Like benedictions now, + Falleth your dear hand's touch; + And still, as then, + A voice that glads me over-much + Cometh again, + My fair and gentle mother! + + How you have loved me, mother, + I have not power to tell, + Knowing full well + That even in the rest above + It is your will + To watch and guard me with your love, + Loving me still. + And, as of old, my mother, + I am content to be a child, + By mother's love beguiled + From all these other charms; + So to the last + Within thy dear, protecting arms + Hold thou me fast, + My guardian angel, mother! + + + + +KOeRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER. + + + FATHER, I cry to Thee! + Round me the billows of battle are pouring, + Round me the thunders of battle are roaring; + Father on high, hear Thou my cry,-- + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + Lead me, o'er Death and its terrors victorious,-- + See, I acknowledge Thy will as all-glorious; + Point Thou the way, lead where it may,-- + God, I acknowledge Thee! + + God, I acknowledge Thee! + As when the dead leaves of autumn whirl round me, + So, when the horrors of war would confound me, + Laugh I at fear, knowing Thee near,-- + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + Living or dying, waking or sleeping, + Such as I am, I commit to Thy keeping: + Frail though I be, Lord, bless Thou me! + Father, I worship Thee! + + Father, I worship Thee! + Not for the love of the riches that perish, + But for the freedom and justice we cherish, + Stand we or fall, blessing Thee, all-- + God, I submit to Thee! + + God, I submit to Thee! + Yea, though the terrors of Death pass before me, + Yea, with the darkness of Death stealing o'er me, + Lord, unto Thee bend I the knee,-- + Father, I cry to Thee! + + + + +GOSLING STEW. + + + IN Oberhausen, on a time, + I fared as might a king; + And now I feel the muse sublime + Inspire me to embalm in rhyme + That succulent and sapid thing + Behight of gentile and of Jew + A gosling stew! + + The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best,-- + Soup, cutlet, salad, roast,-- + And I partook with hearty zest, + And fervently anon I blessed + That generous and benignant host, + When suddenly dawned on my view + A gosling stew! + + I sniffed it coming on apace, + And as its odors filled + The curious little dining-place, + I felt a glow suffuse my face, + I felt my very marrow thrilled + With rapture altogether new,-- + 'Twas gosling stew! + + These callow birds had never played + In yonder village pond; + Had never through the gateway strayed, + And plaintive spissant music made + Upon the grassy green beyond: + Cooped up, they simply ate and grew + For gosling stew! + + My doctor said I mustn't eat + High food and seasoned game; + But surely gosling is a meat + With tender nourishment replete. + Leastwise I gayly ate this same; + I braved dyspepsy--wouldn't you + For gosling stew? + + I've feasted where the possums grow, + Roast turkey have I tried, + The joys of canvasbacks I know, + And frequently I've eaten crow + In bleak and chill Novembertide; + I'd barter all that native crew + For gosling stew! + + And when from Rhineland I adjourn + To seek my Yankee shore, + Back shall my memory often turn, + And fiercely shall my palate burn + For sweets I'll taste, alas! no more,-- + Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew + A gosling stew! + + Vain are these keen regrets of mine, + And vain the song I sing; + Yet would I quaff a stoup of wine + To Oberhausen auf der Rhine, + Where fared I like a very king: + And here's a last and fond adieu + To gosling stew! + + + + +CATULLUS TO LESBIA. + + + COME, my Lesbia, no repining; + Let us love while yet we may! + Suns go on forever shining; + But when we have had our day, + Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us, + And no morrow's dawn awake us. + + Come, in yonder nook reclining, + Where the honeysuckle climbs, + Let us mock at Fate's designing, + Let us kiss a thousand times! + And if they shall prove too few, dear, + When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear! + + And should any chance to see us, + Goodness! how they'll agonize! + How they'll wish that they could be us, + Kissing in such liberal wise! + Never mind their envious whining; + Come, my Lesbia, no repining! + + + + +JOHN SMITH. + + + TO-DAY I strayed in Charing Cross, as wretched as could be, + With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; + There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed, + And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. + This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by; + Not one in all the crowd knew me, and not a one knew I. + "Oh for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh for a friendly face! + Oh for a hearty hand-clasp in this teeming, desert place!" + And so soliloquizing, as a homesick creature will, + Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill, + And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, + Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. + The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight + A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight,-- + The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day,-- + The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U. S. A." + + Wildly I clutched the register, and brooded on that name; + I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. + I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West; + I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. + His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue; + And when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; + Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde, and a + brunette,-- + Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet! + I see you yet; and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem + To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream. + Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme + Appropriate to your character, your politics, and clime. + So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"? your pedigree confess + In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess." + Let fall your telltale dialect, that instantly I may + Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A." + + It's like as not you air the John that lived aspell ago + Deown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd _bona-fide_ schoolma'ams grow; + Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills, + And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs 'nd trills; + Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, + And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; + Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond, + And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; + Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent + Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; + Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir, + Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire; + Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, + And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak; + And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say; + And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U. S. A." + + Or, mebbe, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know + In the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow; + Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawn + Is utilized for Burbon, and true awters are bawn. + You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott; + Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; + And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true + As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue, + Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, + Whar the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night, + Whar blooms the furtive possum,--pride an' glory of the South! + And anty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth, + Whar all night long the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees, + And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, + Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay,-- + H'yar's lookin' at yo', Col. "John Smith, U. S. A." + + Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West,-- + That part of our Republic I shall always love the best! + Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of '69 + In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine? + Oh, how I'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side, + And talked about the good old days beyond the Big Divide,-- + Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, + Of the conversazzhyony, 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, + And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago,-- + Three-fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom, and Parson Jim, you know! + Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat + high again, + And we'd see the snow-top mountains like we used to see 'em then; + The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, + And we'd hear the pines a-singin' in the ragged gulch below; + And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, + Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play. + You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall; + And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! + For when a man sojourns abroad awhile, as I have done, + He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one. + And so they are,--for well you know there's nothing in a name; + Our Browns, our Joneses, and our Smiths are happily the same,-- + All represent the spirit of the land across the sea; + All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free. + Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East, + So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least; + Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword, or pine, + His is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine. + Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known, + Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone; + And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day + Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U. S. A." + + + + +ST. MARTIN'S LANE. + + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE winds up the hill, + And trends a devious way; + I walk therein amid the din + Of busy London day: + I walk where wealth and squalor meet, + And think upon a time + When others trod this saintly sod, + And heard St. Martin's chime. + + But when those solemn bells invoke + The midnight's slumbrous grace, + The ghosts of men come back again + To haunt that curious place: + The ghosts of sages, poets, wits, + Come back in goodly train; + And all night long, with mirth and song, + They walk St. Martin's Lane. + + There's Jerrold paired with Thackeray, + Maginn and Thomas Moore, + And here and there and everywhere + Fraserians by the score; + And one wee ghost that climbs the hill + Is welcomed with a shout,-- + No king could be revered as he,-- + The _padre_, Father Prout! + + They banter up and down the street, + And clamor at the door + Of yonder inn, which once has been + The scene of mirth galore: + 'Tis now a lonely, musty shell, + Deserted, like to fall; + And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks, + And iterates their call. + + Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host, + From Pluto's misty shore; + Renew to-night the keen delight + Of by-gone years once more; + Brew for this merry, motley horde, + And serve the steaming cheer; + And grant that I may lurk hard by, + To see the mirth, and hear. + + Ah, me! I dream what things may seem + To others childish vain, + And yet at night 'tis my delight + To walk St. Martin's Lane; + For, in the light of other days, + I walk with those I love, + And all the time St. Martin's chime + Makes piteous moan above. + + + + +THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE. + + + OUT yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies, + Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies. + Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low, + As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd guardeth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight, + And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night; + And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong + The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + He that guardeth His flock the best + Hath folded them to His loving breast; + So sleep ye now, and take your rest,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song, + And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along; + So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify, + God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + + + +DEAR OLD LONDON. + + + WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89, + I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign,-- + "A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to look + Upon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book! + A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see,-- + The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be; + And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89! + + Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day, + A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may,-- + A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago, + Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know). + A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob,-- + That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob; + But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore, + And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store. + Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command, + But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand. + Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,-- + It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot; + Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline? + For I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heap + That Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap; + And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass, + And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass! + And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates, + The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates! + Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,-- + The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the + eye,-- + The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime, + The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time, + The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play, + And other costly relics of malodorous decay,-- + Ye only can appreciate what agony was mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward, + Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record; + Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue, + Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung; + But in plain Anglo-Saxon--that he may know who seeks + What agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks-- + Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line: + "Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89." + + + + +CORSICAN LULLABY. + + + BAMBINO in his cradle slept; + And by his side his grandam grim + Bent down and smiled upon the child, + And sung this lullaby to him,-- + This "ninna and anninia": + + "When thou art older, thou shalt mind + To traverse countries far and wide, + And thou shalt go where roses blow + And balmy waters singing glide-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, + A famous jacket edged in red, + And, more than that, a peaked hat, + All decked in gold, upon thy head-- + Ah! ninna and anninia! + + "Then shalt thou carry gun and knife. + Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; + Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, + A mighty bandit thou shalt be-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "No woman yet of our proud race + Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; + The brazen churl that eyed a girl + Bought her the ring or paid his head-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "But once came spies (I know the thieves!) + And brought disaster to our race; + God heard us when our fifteen men + Were hanged within the market-place-- + But ninna and anninia! + + "Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- + Right worthy fellows all, and strong; + Live thou and be for them and me + Avenger of that deadly wrong-- + So ninna and anninia!" + + + + +THE CLINK OF THE ICE. + + + NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone + Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known. + When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head + Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed; + When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside, + And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a + buffalo hide,-- + How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall + At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall! + + Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name, + That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame? + Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire, + That presently by combustion setteth us all afire? + Or is it the cheery magnum?--nay, I'll not chide the cup + That makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up: + Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,-- + Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for + all. + + I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame, + And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same; + And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desire + To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire; + I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and + screamed,-- + In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human + dreamed: + But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a wink + When the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink. + + Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup? + Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up! + See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly strove + To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen + stove! + The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and + through: + An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.! + And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fret + That its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat. + + May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drink + That happens along at five A. M. with its rapturous clinkety-clink! + I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throat + But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote; + So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gem + For the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five A. M., + But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrall + Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall. + + + + +THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME. + + + WHAT though the radiant thoroughfare + Teems with a noisy throng? + What though men bandy everywhere + The ribald jest and song? + Over the din of oaths and cries + Broodeth a wondrous calm, + And mid that solemn stillness rise + The bells of Notre Dame. + + "Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say, + "Thy weak and erring child; + And thou, O gentle Mother, pray + That God be reconciled; + And on mankind, O Christ, our King, + Pour out Thy gracious balm,"-- + 'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing, + Those bells of Notre Dame. + + And so, methinks, God, bending down + To ken the things of earth, + Heeds not the mockery of the town + Or cries of ribald mirth; + For ever soundeth in His ears + A penitential psalm,-- + 'T is thy angelic voice He hears, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice + May still forever be + An intercession to rejoice + Benign divinity; + And that thy tuneful grace may fall + Like dew, a quickening balm, + Upon the arid hearts of all, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + + + +LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO. + + + SAINT JO, Buchanan County, + Is leagues and leagues away; + And I sit in the gloom of this rented room, + And pine to be there to-day. + Yes, with London fog around me + And the bustling to and fro, + I am fretting to be across the sea + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + I would have a brown-eyed maiden + Go driving once again; + And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along, + That I sung to that maiden then: + I purposely say, "as we _snailed_ along," + For a proper horse goes slow + In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles, + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + From her boudoir in the alders + Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush, + And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way, + To the noisy cricket, "Hush!" + To think that the curious creature + Should crane her neck to know + The various things one says and sings + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + But the maples they should shield us + From the gossips of the place; + Nor should the sun, except by pun, + Profane the maiden's face; + And the girl should do the driving, + For a fellow can't, you know, + Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectful + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Ah! sweet the hours of springtime, + When the heart inclines to woo, + And it's deemed all right for the callow wight + To do what he wants to do; + But cruel the age of winter, + When the way of the world says no + To the hoary men who would woo again + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + In the Union Bank of London + Are forty pounds or more, + Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end, + In an antiquarian store; + But I'd give it all, and gladly, + If for an hour or so + I could feel the grace of a distant place,-- + Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Let us sit awhile, beloved, + And dream of the good old days,-- + Of the kindly shade which the maples made + Round the stanch but squeaky chaise; + With your head upon my shoulder, + And my arm about you so, + Though exiles, we shall seem to be + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + + + +CRUMPETS AND TEA. + + + THERE are happenings in life that are destined to rise + Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes; + And the passage of years shall not dim in the least + The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,-- + The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us three,-- + My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh, + And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea. + + There are cynics who say with invidious zest + That a crumpet's a thing that will never digest; + But I happen to _know_ that a crumpet is prime + For digestion, if only you give it its time. + Or if, by a chance, it should _not_ quite agree, + Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee + For plying his trade upon crumpets and tea? + + To toast crumpets quite _a la mode_, I require + A proper long fork and a proper quick fire; + And when they are browned, without further ado, + I put on the butter, that soaks through and through. + And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh, + Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three; + And so we sit down to our crumpets--and tea. + + A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,-- + Confound those Italians! I wish they would quit + Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs, + Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs. + (It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree, + That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when we + Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!) + + The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speak + Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week; + Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell + Announcing the man who has crumpets to sell; + Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee, + And purchase for sixpence enough for us three, + Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea. + + But soon--ah! too soon--I must bid a farewell + To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell, + Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shore + That's filled me with colic and--yearnings for more! + Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless sea + Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh + And the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea. + + Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes + That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise. + My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change, + Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range; + But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be + In London again with Teresa and Leigh, + Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea! + + + + +AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS. + + + THROUGH all my life the poor shall find + In me a constant friend; + And on the meek of every kind + My mercy shall attend. + + The dumb shall never call on me + In vain for kindly aid; + And in my hands the blind shall see + A bounteous alms displayed. + + In all their walks the lame shall know + And feel my goodness near; + And on the deaf will I bestow + My gentlest words of cheer. + + 'Tis by such pious works as these, + Which I delight to do, + That men their fellow-creatures please, + And please their Maker too. + + + + +INTRY-MINTRY. + + + WILLIE and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Once as these children were hard at play, + An old man, hoary and tottering, came + And watched them playing their pretty game. + He seemed to wonder, while standing there, + What the meaning thereof could be. + Aha, but the old man yearned to share + Of the little children's innocent glee, + As they circled around with laugh and shout, + And told this rhyme at counting out: + "Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest." + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Ah, the mirth of that summer day! + 'Twas Father Time who had come to share + The innocent joy of those children there. + He learned betimes the game they played, + And into their sport with them went he,-- + How _could_ the children have been afraid, + Since little they recked who he might be? + They laughed to hear old Father Time + Mumbling that curious nonsense rhyme + Of intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest. + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, + And joy of summer,--where are they? + The grim old man still standeth near, + Crooning the song of a far-off year; + And into the winter I come alone, + Cheered by that mournful requiem, + Soothed by the dolorous monotone + That shall count me off as it counted them,-- + The solemn voice of old Father Time, + Chanting the homely nursery rhyme + He learned of the children a summer morn, + When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn," + Life was full of the dulcet cheer + That bringeth the grace of heaven anear: + The sound of the little ones hard at play,-- + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. + + + + +MODJESKY AS CAMEEL. + + + AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand, + Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land; + And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81, + Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun, + We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth, + And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health. + You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago; + (An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!) + Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a deal + Ez how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel. + + Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther go + To call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show. + "The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen, + And I reckon there is more for _me_ in some other kind uv queen." + "Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never find + A pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind? + You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more, + An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score, + Only to come down here among us _tong_ an' say you feel + You'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!" + + But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play, + With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both de_kolly_tay. + A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' + wealthy,-- + She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy. + She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind, + And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kind + Until his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break, + And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake. + "Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor, + And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more. + + At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game, + And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same. + I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt,-- + Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!" + He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen, + And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men; + Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer, + An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear; + And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel, + An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel. + + A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three, + And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see. + He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lick + Three Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' Crick + To clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said. + He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red, + But good to helpless folks and weak,--a brave and manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + "Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow, + But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow; + So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight,-- + Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate,-- + I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow night + To the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white, + Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true, + Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you, + Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts, + Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't no _onter acts_." + + I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shout + That the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect, + Ez I perduced a argument I thought they might respect,-- + A long an' harnsome weepon I'd pre-empted when I come + Out West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum), + Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to sway + The popular opinion in a most persuasive way. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I didn't say no more, + Observin' that there wuz a ginral movement towards the door. + + First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to go + And see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low; + An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he'd jine the Dock, + An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the block; + John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write, + And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight; + Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too; + And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do. + Somehow or other every one wuz full of business then; + Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and didn't bother us again. + + I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in, + A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!" + I reckollect that they allowed we'd made a big mistake,-- + They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break! + An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base, + I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face. + I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrong + In throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long. + I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay,-- + And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day! + + I haven't seen Modjesky since; I'm hopin' to again. + She's goin' to show in Denver soon; I'll go to see her then. + An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill be + About the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,-- + A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel; + He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal; + Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + + + +TELLING THE BEES. + + + OUT of the house where the slumberer lay + Grandfather came one summer day, + And under the pleasant orchard trees + He spake this wise to the murmuring bees: + "The clover-bloom that kissed her feet + And the posie-bed where she used to play + Have honey store, but none so sweet + As ere our little one went away. + O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low; + For she is gone who loved you so." + + A wonder fell on the listening bees + Under those pleasant orchard trees, + And in their toil that summer day + Ever their murmuring seemed to say: + "Child, O child, the grass is cool, + And the posies are waking to hear the song + Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool, + Waiting for one that tarrieth long." + 'Twas so they called to the little one then, + As if to call her back again. + + O gentle bees, I have come to say + That grandfather fell asleep to-day, + And we know by the smile on grandfather's face + He has found his dear one's biding-place. + So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low, + As over the honey-fields you sweep,-- + To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow + Sing of grandfather fast asleep; + And ever beneath these orchard trees + Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees. + + + + +THE TEA-GOWN. + + + MY lady has a tea-gown + That is wondrous fair to see,-- + It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, + As a tea-gown ought to be; + And I thought she must be jesting + Last night at supper when + She remarked, by chance, that it came from France, + And had cost but two pounds ten. + + Had she told me fifty shillings, + I might (and wouldn't you?) + Have referred to that dress in a way folks express + By an eloquent dash or two; + But the guileful little creature + Knew well her tactics when + She casually said that that dream in red + Had cost but two pounds ten. + + Yet our home is all the brighter + For that dainty, sensient thing, + That floats away where it properly may, + And clings where it ought to cling; + And I count myself the luckiest + Of all us married men + That I have a wife whose joy in life + Is a gown at two pounds ten. + + It isn't the gown compels me + Condone this venial sin; + It's the pretty face above the lace, + And the gentle heart within. + And with her arms about me + I say, and say again, + "'Twas wondrous cheap,"--and I think a heap + Of that gown at two pounds ten! + + + + +DOCTORS. + + + 'Tis quite the thing to say and sing + Gross libels on the doctor,-- + To picture him an ogre grim + Or humbug-pill concocter; + Yet it's in quite another light + My friendly pen would show him, + Glad that it may with verse repay + Some part of what I owe him. + + When one's all right, he's prone to spite + The doctor's peaceful mission; + But when he's sick, it's loud and quick + He bawls for a physician. + With other things, the doctor brings + Sweet babes, our hearts to soften: + Though I have four, I pine for more,-- + Good doctor, pray come often! + + What though he sees death and disease + Run riot all around him? + Patient and true, and valorous too, + Such have I always found him. + Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes; + And when skill's unavailing, + And death is near, his words of cheer + Support our courage failing. + + In ancient days they used to praise + The godlike art of healing,-- + An art that then engaged all men + Possessed of sense and feeling. + Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be + Famed for a quack elixir; + And Digby sold, as we are told, + A charm for folk lovesick, sir. + + Napoleon knew a thing or two, + And clearly _he_ was partial + To doctors, for in time of war + He chose one for a marshal. + In our great cause a doctor was + The first to pass death's portal, + And Warren's name at once became + A beacon and immortal. + + A heap, indeed, of what we read + By doctors is provided; + For to those groves Apollo loves + Their leaning is decided. + Deny who may that Rabelais + Is first in wit and learning, + And yet all smile and marvel while + His brilliant leaves they're turning. + + How Lever's pen has charmed all men! + How touching Rab's short story! + And I will stake my all that Drake + Is still the schoolboy's glory. + A doctor-man it was began + Great Britain's great museum,-- + The treasures there are all so rare + It drives me wild to see 'em! + + There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are + Big monuments to learning. + To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!) + We all are fondly turning. + Tomes might be writ of that keen wit + Which Abernethy's famed for; + With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills + Most doctors now get blamed for. + + In modern times the noble rhymes + Of Holmes, a great physician, + Have solace brought and wisdom taught + To hearts of all condition. + The sailor, bound for Puget Sound, + Finds pleasure still unfailing, + If he but troll the barcarole + Old Osborne wrote on Whaling. + + If there were need, I could proceed + _Ad naus._ with this prescription, + But, _inter nos_, a larger dose + Might give you fits conniption; + Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend + I'd hold before these others, + For he and I in years gone by + Have chummed around like brothers. + + Together we have sung in glee + The songs old Horace made for + Our genial craft, together quaffed + What bowls that doctor paid for! + I love the rest, but love him best; + And, were not times so pressing, + I'd buy and send--you smile, old friend? + Well, then, here goes my blessing. + + + + +BARBARA. + + + BLITHE was the youth that summer day, + As he smote at the ribs of earth, + And he plied his pick with a merry click, + And he whistled anon in mirth; + And the constant thought of his dear one's face + Seemed to illumine that ghostly place. + + The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy, + And she moved, and closed on his head: + With no one nigh and with never a cry + The beautiful boy lay dead; + And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair + Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair. + + Fifty years is a mighty space + In the human toil for bread; + But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath, + A dream that is quickly sped,-- + Fifty years, and the fair lad lay + Just as he fell that summer day. + + At last came others in quest of gold, + And hewed in that mountain place; + And deep in the ground one time they found + The boy with the smiling face: + All uncorrupt by the pitiless air, + He lay, with his crown of golden hair. + + They bore him up to the sun again, + And laid him beside the brook, + And the folk came down from the busy town + To wonder and prate and look; + And so, to a world that knew him not, + The boy came back to the old-time spot. + + Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,-- + Wrinkled and bowed was she,-- + And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh, + "At last he is come to me!" + And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there, + And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair. + + "Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one! + And better it is 'tis so, + Else thou mightst see how harsh with me + Dealt Life thou couldst not know: + Kindlier Death has kept _thee_ fair; + The sorrow of Life hath been _my_ share." + + Barbara bowed her aged face, + And fell on the breast of her dead; + And the golden hair of her dear one there + Caressed her snow-white head. + Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain; + But sweeter the Death that joined those twain. + + + + +THE CAFE MOLINEAU. + + + THE Cafe Molineau is where + A dainty little minx + Serves God and man as best she can + By serving meats and drinks. + Oh, such an air the creature has, + And such a pretty face! + I took delight that autumn night + In hanging round the place. + + I know but very little French + (I have not long been here); + But when she spoke, her meaning broke + Full sweetly on my ear. + Then, too, she seemed to understand + Whatever I'd to say, + Though most I knew was "oony poo," + "Bong zhoor," and "see voo play." + + The female wit is always quick, + And of all womankind + 'Tis here in France that you, perchance, + The keenest wits shall find; + And here you'll find that subtle gift, + That rare, distinctive touch, + Combined with grace of form and face, + That glads men overmuch. + + "Our girls at home," I mused aloud, + "Lack either that or this; + They don't combine the arts divine + As does the Gallic miss. + Far be it from me to malign + Our belles across the sea, + And yet I'll swear none can compare + With this ideal She." + + And then I praised her dainty foot + In very awful French, + And parleyvood in guileful mood + Until the saucy wench + Tossed back her haughty auburn head, + And froze me with disdain: + "There are on me no flies," said she, + "For I come from Bangor, Maine!" + + + + +HOLLY AND IVY. + + + HOLLY standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Evermore at ye door + Standeth Ivy, shivering sore + In ye night wind bleak and drear; + And, as weary hours go by, + Doth ye one to other cry. + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "What is that within you see? + To and fro doth ye glow + Of ye yule-log flickering go; + Would its warmth did cherish me! + Where thou bidest is it warm; + I am shaken of ye storm." + + "Sister Ivy," Holly quoth, + "Brightly burns the yule-log here, + And love brings beauteous things, + While a guardian angel sings + To the babes that slumber near; + But, O Ivy! tell me now, + What without there seest thou?" + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "With fair music comes ye Morn, + And afar burns ye Star + Where ye wondering shepherds are, + And the Shepherd King is born: + 'Peace on earth, good-will to men,' + Angels cry, and cry again." + + Holly standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Clambering o'er yonder door, + Ivy standeth evermore; + And to them that rightly hear + Each one speaketh of ye love + That outpoureth from Above. + + + + +THE BOLTONS, 22. + + + WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog + Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog; + When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell, + Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell; + When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along, + Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,-- + When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, + and more, + To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore, + There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do: + Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22. + + The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend + My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend. + One sees _chefs d'oeuvre_ of masters in profusion on the walls, + And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls; + There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please, + And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease: + But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,-- + The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace; + Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through, + It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22. + + My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor; + And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore. + The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare + On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,-- + A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device + To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice, + A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite + Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light; + But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do + For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22. + + Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit, + And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit; + And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse) + Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse. + And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars, + He smokes his modest pipe, and I--I smoke his choice cigars! + For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,-- + The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size; + And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,--and so will you, + If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22. + + But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived: + 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived. + A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then + A cordial invitation to us both to come again. + So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog, + On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,-- + The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace, + Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place; + And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew + In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22. + + God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife; + May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life; + And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within, + Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been. + So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup; + Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up, + That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine, + Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine: + "May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew + Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!" + + + + +DIBDIN'S GHOST. + + + DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read + The tomes you so despise, + A spectre rose beside the bed, + And spake in this true wise: + "From Canaan's beatific coast + I've come to visit thee, + For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost," + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + + I bade him welcome, and we twain + Discussed with buoyant hearts + The various things that appertain + To bibliomaniac arts. + "Since you are fresh from t' other side, + Pray tell me of that host + That treasured books before they died," + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "They've entered into perfect rest; + For in the life they've won + There are no auctions to molest, + No creditors to dun. + Their heavenly rapture has no bounds + Beside that jasper sea; + It is a joy unknown to Lowndes," + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + Much I rejoiced to hear him speak + Of biblio-bliss above, + For I am one of those who seek + What bibliomaniacs love. + "But tell me, for I long to hear + What doth concern me most, + Are wives admitted to that sphere?" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "The women folk are few up there; + For 'twere not fair, you know, + That they our heavenly joy should share + Who vex us here below. + The few are those who have been kind + To husbands such as we; + They knew our fads, and didn't mind," + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + "But what of those who scold at us + When we would read in bed? + Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss + If we buy books instead? + And what of those who've dusted not + Our motley pride and boast,-- + Shall they profane that sacred spot?" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "Oh, no! they tread that other path, + Which leads where torments roll, + And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath + Upon the guilty soul. + Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, + That saveth such as we, + They wallow in that dreadful place," + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + "To my dear wife will I recite + What things I've heard you say; + She'll let me read the books by night + She's let me buy by day. + For we together by and by + Would join that heavenly host; + She's earned a rest as well as I," + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + + + +THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN. + + + THE Hawthorne children, seven in all, + Are famous friends of mine; + And with what pleasure I recall + How, years ago, one gloomy fall + I took a tedious railway line, + And journeyed by slow stages down + Unto that soporiferous town + (Albeit one worth seeing) + Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, + And Beatrix and Gwendolen, + And she that was the baby then,-- + These famous seven, as aforesaid, + Lived, moved, and had their being. + + The Hawthorne children gave me such + A welcome by the sea + That the eight of us were soon in touch, + And, though their mother marvelled much, + Happy as larks were we. + Egad, I was a boy again + With Henry, John, and Gwendolen; + And oh the funny capers + I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! + And oh the pranks we children played; + And oh the deafening noise we made-- + 'Twould shock my family if they read + About it in the papers! + + The Hawthorne children all were smart: + The girls, as I recall, + Had comprehended every art + Appealing to the head and heart; + The boys were gifted, all. + 'Twas Hildegarde who showed me how + To hitch a horse and milk a cow + And cook the best of suppers; + With Beatrix upon the sands + I sprinted daily, and was beat; + 'Twas Henry trained me to the feat + Of walking round upon my hands + Instead of on my uppers. + + The Hawthorne children liked me best + Of evenings, after tea, + For then, by general request, + I spun them yarns about the West,-- + Yarns all involving Me! + I represented how I'd slain + The bison on his native plain; + And divers tales of wonder + I told of how I'd fought and bled + In Indian scrimmages galore, + Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more," + And packed her darlings off to bed, + To dream of blood and thunder. + + They must have changed a deal since then; + The misses, tall and fair, + And those three handsome, lusty men,-- + Would they be girls and boys again, + Were I to happen there, + Down in that spot beside the sea + Where we made such tumultuous glee + That dull autumnal weather? + Ah, me! the years go swiftly by; + And yet how fondly I recall + The week when we were children all, + Dear Hawthorne children, you and I, + Just eight of us together! + + + + +THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD. + + + ONCE on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go + To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show; + And after we had revelled in the saltatory sights, + We sought a neighboring _cafe_ for more tangible delights. + When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, + He quoth: "A large cold bottle, and a small hot bird!" + + Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies + Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! + There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine, + A certain inspiration which I cannot well define! + How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: + "Come! on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!" + + But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate,-- + How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate! + You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches + That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; + To me, at least, (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred + What horror was encompassed in that small hot bird. + + Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day, + And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay! + What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied + To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! + And oh the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then + Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again! + + The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, + But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! + The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said, + Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head, + And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred, + Was the large cold bottle,--_not_ the small hot bird. + + Of course I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right + If ever it has been your wont to train around at night. + How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, + And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! + How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast, + And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest! + + But you, O noxious, pygmy bird! whether it be you fly, + Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering festering lie,-- + I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong, + Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song; + Go, get thee hence! and never more discomfit me and mine,-- + I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine! + + So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the telltale day,-- + Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths of posies gay; + We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine + Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine, + And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard + Of the large cold bottle,--_not_ the small hot bird! + + + + +AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL. + + [The exile Meliboeus finds Tityrus in possession + of his own farm, restored to him by the Emperor + Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The poem is + in praise of Augustus, peace, and pastoral life.] + + +MELIBOEUS. + + Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech-tree reclining, + Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and + slender; + Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless + repining, + As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender. + + +TITYRUS. + + A god--yes, a god, I declare--vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions, + And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar; + He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions, + While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and of + halter. + + +MELIBOEUS. + + I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confounded + To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle. + To exile and hardship devote, and by merciless enemies hounded, + I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle. + Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me-- + But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who _is_ this good deity, tell me! + + +TITYRUS (reminiscently). + + The city--the city called Rome, with my head full of herding and + tillage, + I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now + wander; + But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the village + As the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out + yonder. + + +MELIBOEUS. + + Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city? + + +TITYRUS. + + Liberty! which on a day regarded my lot with compassion; + My age and distresses, forsooth, compelled that proud mistress to + pity, + That had snubbed the attentions of youth in most reprehensible + fashion. + Oh, happy, thrice happy, the day when the cold Galatea forsook me; + And equally happy, I say, the hour when that other girl took me! + + +MELIBOEUS (slyly, as if addressing the damsel). + + So now, Amaryllis, the truth of your ill-disguised grief I discover! + You pined for a favorite youth with cityfied damsels hobnobbing; + And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your recusant + lover,-- + The pine-trees, the copse and the brook, for Tityrus ever went + sobbing. + + +TITYRUS. + + Meliboeus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity; + My toil was all vain the year through, no matter how earnest or + clever, + Till, at last, came that god among men, that king from that wonderful + city, + And quoth: "Take your homesteads again; they are yours and your + assigns forever!" + + +MELIBOEUS. + + Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what 's better than money,-- + Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere listening; + Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey, + Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are + glistening-- + Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices,-- + The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely repining, + The plash of the sacred cascade,--ah, restful, indeed, are these + voices, + Tityrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree + reclining! + + +TITYRUS. + + And he who insures this to me--oh, craven I were not to love him! + Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim in, + The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above him, + While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women! + + +MELIBOEUS (suddenly recalling his own misery). + + But we who are exiled must go; and whither--ah, whither--God knoweth! + Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reigneth + only; + Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth; + And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely. + Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress thee? + Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the + alien be squandered? + Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest possess + thee, + Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I've + wandered? + My flock! nevermore shall you graze on that furze-covered hillside + above me; + Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance to + sorrow! + Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones + that love me,-- + Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow! + + +TITYRUS. + + But rest you this night with me here; my bed,--we will share it + together, + As soon as you've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and + cheeses; + The evening already is nigh,--the shadows creep over the heather, + And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the + breezes. + + + + +PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE. + + + ALL day long they come and go,-- + Pittypat and Tippytoe; + Footprints up and down the hall, + Playthings scattered on the floor, + Finger-marks along the wall, + Tell-tale streaks upon the door,-- + By these presents you shall know + Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + How they riot at their play! + And, a dozen times a day, + In they troop, demanding bread,-- + Only buttered bread will do, + And that butter must be spread + Inches thick with sugar too! + Never yet have I said, "No, + Pittypat and Tippytoe!" + + Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, + Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; + For--I much regret to say-- + Tippytoe and Pittypat + Sometimes interrupt their play + With an internecine spat; + Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + Oh, the thousand worrying things + Every day recurrent brings! + Hands to scrub and hair to brush, + Search for playthings gone amiss, + Many a murmuring to hush, + Many a little bump to kiss; + Life's indeed a fleeting show, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + And when day is at an end, + There are little duds to mend; + Little frocks are strangely torn, + Little shoes great holes reveal, + Little hose, but one day worn, + Rudely yawn at toe or heel! + Who but you could work such woe, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + But when comes this thought to me, + "Some there are that childless be," + Stealing to their little beds, + With a love I cannot speak, + Tenderly I stroke their heads, + Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. + God help those who do not know + A Pittypat or Tippytoe! + + On the floor, along the hall, + Rudely traced upon the wall, + There are proofs in every kind + Of the havoc they have wrought; + And upon my heart you'd find + Just such trademarks, if you sought. + Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + + + +ASHES ON THE SLIDE. + + + WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago. + How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow! + Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright, + Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight + As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill + Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still. + + Ah, coasting in those days--those good old days--was fun indeed! + Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed! + And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then + We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again; + But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside + When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide! + + The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums, + And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs, + And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew + The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue! + The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide; + And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!" + + Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy + Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ + To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite + In interfering with the play wherein we found delight; + And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride: + "Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!" + + But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest, + His money well invested in farm mortgages out West; + Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife + That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life; + That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide + Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide! + + And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now. + Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou! + Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go; + The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe; + And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died, + He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide! + + + + +THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS. + + + "CUPID!" Venus went a-crying; + "Cupid, whither dost thou stray? + Tell me, people, hither hieing, + Have you seen my runaway? + Speak,--my kiss shall be your pay! + Yes, and sweets more gratifying, + If you bring him back to-day. + + "Cupid," Venus went a-calling, + "Is a rosy little youth, + But his beauty is inthralling. + He will speak you fair, in sooth, + Wheedle you with glib untruth,-- + Honey-like his words; but galling + Are his deeds, and full of ruth! + + "Cupid's hair is curling yellow, + And he hath a saucy face; + With his chubby hands the fellow + Shooteth into farthest space, + Heedless of all time and place; + King and squire and punchinello + He delighteth to abase! + + "Nude and winged the prankish blade is, + And he speedeth everywhere, + Vexing gentlemen and ladies, + Callow youths and damsels fair + Whom he catcheth unaware,-- + Venturing even into Hades, + He hath sown his torments there! + + "For that bow, that bow and quiver,-- + Oh, they are a cruel twain! + Thinking of them makes me shiver. + Oft, with all his might and main, + Cupid sends those darts profane + Whizzing through my heart and liver, + Setting fire to every vein! + + "And the torch he carries blazing,-- + Truly 'tis a tiny one; + Yet, that tiny torch upraising, + Cupid scarifies the sun! + Ah, good people, there is none + Knows what mischief most amazing + Cupid's evil torch hath done! + + "Show no mercy when you find him! + Spite of every specious plea + And of all his whimpering, bind him! + Full of flatteries is he; + Armed with treachery, _cap-a-pie_, + He'll play 'possum; never mind him,-- + March him straightway back to me! + + "Bow and arrows and sweet kisses + He will offer you, no doubt; + But beware those proffered blisses,-- + They are venomous throughout! + Seize and bind him fast about; + Mind you,--most important this is: + Bind him, bring him, but--watch out!" + + + + +CHRISTMAS EVE. + + + OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + The evening shades are falling,-- + Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear + The voice of the Master calling? + + Deep lies the snow upon the earth, + But all the sky is ringing + With joyous song, and all night long + The stars shall dance, with singing. + + Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + And close thine eyes in dreaming, + And angels fair shall lead thee where + The singing stars are beaming. + + A shepherd calls his little lambs, + And he longeth to caress them; + He bids them rest upon his breast, + That his tender love may bless them. + + So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + Whilst evening shades are falling, + And above the song of the heavenly throng + Thou shalt hear the Master calling. + + + + +CARLSBAD. + + + DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure, + Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure; + To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,-- + You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three! + The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean; + The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien; + And though it's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,-- + All skin and feathers,--what of that? The cure takes time, you know. + + The Carlsbad scenery is sublime,--that's what the guide-books say; + We did not think so at that time, nor think _I_ so to-day! + The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views, + But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues. + With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen, + We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between; + And constantly we made our moan,--ah, none so drear as we, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane, + And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain; + And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force, + Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse. + Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink, + Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink; + Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie, + But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry; + Then, too, that water twice a day,--one swallow was enough + To take one's appetite away,--the tepid, awful stuff! + Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I'd little else to do + Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you. + The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date! + When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate. + The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away, + And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day,-- + To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale, + To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale! + And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then, + With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again! + + And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes, + I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies; + I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar,-- + To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more; + And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours, + For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures! + So I am happy to have known that time across the sea + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + + + +THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE. + + + HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? + 'Tis a marvel of great renown! + It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; + The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet + (As those who have tasted it say) + That good little children have only to eat + Of that fruit to be happy next day. + + When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time + To capture the fruit which I sing; + The tree is so tall that no person could climb + To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! + But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, + And a gingerbread dog prowls below; + And this is the way you contrive to get at + Those sugar-plums tempting you so: + + You say but the word to that gingerbread dog, + And he barks with such terrible zest + That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, + As her swelling proportions attest. + And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around + From _this_ leafy limb unto _that_, + And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground,-- + Hurrah for that chocolate cat! + + There are marshmallows, gum-drops, and peppermint canes, + With stripings of scarlet or gold, + And you carry away of the treasure that rains + As much as your apron can hold! + So come, little child, cuddle closer to me + In your dainty white nightcap and gown, + And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. + + + + +RED. + + + ANY color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best, + Though I will allow there is much to be said + For yellow and green and the rest; + But the feeble tints which some affect + In the things they make or buy + Have never--I say it with all respect-- + Appealed to my critical eye. + + There's that in red that warmeth the blood, + And quickeneth a man within, + And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud + The germs of original sin; + So, though I'm properly born and bred, + I'll own, with a certain zest, + That any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best. + + For where is a color that can compare + With the blush of a buxom lass; + Or where such warmth as of the hair + Of the genuine white horse class? + And, lo! reflected within this cup + Of cheery Bordeaux I see + What inspiration girdeth me up,-- + Yes, red is the color for me! + + Through acres and acres of art I've strayed + In Italy, Germany, France; + On many a picture a master has made + I've squandered a passing glance: + Marines I hate, madonnas and + Those Dutch freaks I detest; + But the peerless daubs of my native land,-- + They're red, and I like them best. + + 'Tis little I care how folk deride,-- + I'm backed by the West, at least; + And we are free to say that we can't abide + The tastes that obtain down East; + And we're mighty proud to have it said + That here in the versatile West + Most any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits us best. + + + + +JEWISH LULLABY. + + + MY harp is on the willow-tree, + Else would I sing, O love, to thee + A song of long ago,-- + Perchance the song that Miriam sung + Ere yet Judaea's heart was wrung + By centuries of woe. + + The shadow of those centuries lies + Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes; + But, hush! and close them now, + And in the dreams that thou shalt dream + The light of other days shall seem + To glorify thy brow. + + I ate my crust in tears to-day, + As, scourged, I went upon my way, + And yet my darling smiled,-- + Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed; + My anguish curdled not the draught, + 'Twas sweet with love, my child. + + Our harp is on the willow-tree: + I have no song to sing to thee, + As shadows round us roll; + But, hush! and sleep, and thou shalt hear + Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer + Judaea's fainting soul. + + + + +AT CHEYENNE. + + + YOUNG Lochinvar came in from the west, + With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; + The width of his hat brim could nowhere be beat, + His No. 10 brogans were chock full of feet, + His girdle was horrent with pistols and things, + And he nourished a handful of aces on kings. + + The fair Mariana sate watching a star, + When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar! + Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow, + And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!" + Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin, + And modestly asked if he mightn't step in. + + With presence of mind that was marvellous quite, + The fair Mariana replied that he might; + So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar, + Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar. + Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame, + He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same. + + + + +THE NAUGHTY DOLL. + + + MY dolly is a dreadful care,-- + Her name is Miss Amandy; + I dress her up and curl her hair, + And feed her taffy candy. + Yet, heedless of the pleading voice + Of her devoted mother, + She will not wed her mother's choice, + But says she'll wed another. + + I'd have her wed the china vase,-- + There is no Dresden rarer; + You might go searching every place + And never find a fairer. + He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- + Of that there's no denying; + Yet when I speak of him, forsooth! + Amandy falls to crying. + + She loves the drum,--that's very plain,-- + And scorns the vase so clever, + And, weeping, vows she will remain + A spinster doll forever! + The protestations of the drum + I am convinced are hollow; + When once distressing times should come + How soon would ruin follow! + + Yet all in vain the Dresden boy + From yonder mantel woos her; + A mania for that vulgar toy, + The noisy drum, imbues her. + In vain I wheel her to and fro, + And reason with her mildly: + Her waxen tears in torrents flow, + Her sawdust heart beats wildly. + + I'm sure that when I'm big and tall, + And wear long trailing dresses, + I sha'n't encourage beaux at all + Till mamma acquiesces; + Our choice will be a suitor then + As pretty as this vase is,-- + Oh, how we'll hate the noisy men + With whiskers on their faces! + + + + +THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE. + + + UPON an average, twice a week, + When anguish clouds my brow, + My good physician friend I seek + To know "what ails me now." + He taps me on the back and chest, + And scans my tongue for bile, + And lays an ear against my breast + And listens there awhile; + Then is he ready to admit + That all he can observe + Is something wrong inside, to wit: + My pneumogastric nerve! + + Now, when these Latin names within + Dyspeptic hulks like mine + Go wrong, a fellow should begin + To draw what's called the line. + It seems, however, that this same, + Which in my hulk abounds, + Is not, despite its awful name, + So fatal as it sounds; + Yet of all torments known to me, + I'll say without reserve, + There is no torment like to thee, + Thou pneumogastric nerve! + + This subtle, envious nerve appears + To be a patient foe,-- + It waited nearly forty years + Its chance to lay me low; + Then, like some blithering blast of hell, + It struck this guileless bard, + And in that evil hour I fell + Prodigious far and hard. + Alas! what things I dearly love-- + Pies, puddings, and preserves-- + Are sure to rouse the vengeance of + All pneumogastric nerves! + + Oh that I could remodel man! + I'd end these cruel pains + By hitting on a different plan + From that which now obtains. + The stomach, greatly amplified, + Anon should occupy + The all of that domain inside + Where heart and lungs now lie. + But, first of all, I should depose + That diabolic curve + And author of my thousand woes, + The pneumogastric nerve! + + + + +TEENY-WEENY. + + + EVERY evening, after tea, + Teeny-Weeny comes to me, + And, astride my willing knee, + Plies his lash and rides away; + Though that palfrey, all too spare, + Finds his burden hard to bear, + Teeny-Weeny doesn't care,-- + He commands, and I obey! + + First it's trot; and gallop then,-- + Now it's back to trot again; + Teeny-Weeny likes it when + He is riding fierce and fast! + Then his dark eyes brighter grow + And his cheeks are all aglow,-- + "More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!" + Till the horse breaks down at last! + + Oh, the strange and lovely sights + Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, + As he makes those famous flights + On that wondrous horse of his! + Oftentimes, before he knows, + Wearylike his eyelids close, + And, still smiling, off he goes + Where the land of By-low is. + + There he sees the folk of fay + Hard at ring-a-rosie play, + And he hears those fairies say, + "Come, let's chase him to and fro!" + But, with a defiant shout, + Teeny puts that host to rout,-- + Of this tale I make no doubt,-- + Every night he tells it so! + + So I feel a tender pride + In my boy who dares to ride + (That fierce horse of his astride) + Off into those misty lands; + And as on my breast he lies, + Dreaming in that wondrous wise, + I caress his folded eyes,-- + Pat his little dimpled hands. + + On a time he went away, + Just a little while to stay, + And I'm not ashamed to say + I was very lonely then; + Life without him was so sad, + You can fancy I was glad + And made merry when I had + Teeny-Weeny back again! + + So of evenings, after tea, + When he toddles up to me + And goes tugging at my knee, + You should hear his palfrey neigh! + You should see him prance and shy, + When, with an exulting cry, + Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, + Plies his lash and rides away! + + + + +TELKA. + + + THROUGH those golden summer days + Our twin flocks were wont to graze + On the hillside, which the sun + Rested lovingly upon,-- + Telka's flock and mine; and we + Sung our songs in rapturous glee, + Idling in the pleasant shade + Which the solemn Yew-tree made, + While the Brook anear us played, + And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew + In the shadow of the Yew. + + Telka loved me passing well; + How I loved her none can tell! + How I love her none may know,-- + Oh that man love woman so! + When she was not at my side, + Loud my heart in anguish cried, + And my lips, till she replied. + Yet they think to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Still I wend my lonely way, + "Telka," evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the weary years go by. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And the glory of her hair + Was such glory as the sun + With his blessing casts upon + Yonder lonely mountain height, + Lifting up to bid good-night + To her sovereign in the west, + Sinking wearily to rest, + Drowsing in that golden sea + Where the realms of Dreamland be. + + So our love to fulness grew, + Whilst beneath the solemn Yew + Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, + As it were some fancied sight + Blanched it with a dread affright. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And our peace was perfect there + Till, enchanted by her smile, + Lurked the South Wind there awhile, + Underneath that hillside tree + Where with singing idled we, + And I heard the South Wind say + Flattering words to her that day + Of a city far away. + But the Yew-tree crouched as though + It were like to whisper No + To the words the South Wind said + As he smoothed my Telka's head. + And the Brook, all pleading, cried + To the dear one at my side: + "Linger always where I am; + Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! + Wander not where shadows deep + On the treacherous quicksands sleep, + And the haunted waters leap; + Be thou ware the waves that flow + Toward the prison pool below, + Where, beguiled from yonder sky, + Captive moonbeams shivering lie, + And at dawn of morrow die." + So the Brook to Telka cried, + But my Telka naught replied; + And, as in a strange affright, + Paled the Rose a ghostlier white. + + When anon the North Wind came,-- + Rudely blustering Telka's name, + And he kissed the leaves that grew + Round about the trembling Yew,-- + Kissed and romped till, blushing red, + All one day in terror fled, + And the white Rose hung her head; + Coming to our trysting spot, + Long I called; she answered not. + "Telka!" pleadingly I cried + Up and down the mountain-side + Where we twain were wont to bide. + + There were those who thought that I + Could be silenced with a lie, + And they told me Telka's name + Should be spoken now with shame: + "She is lost to us and thee,"-- + That is what they said to me. + + "Is my Telka lost?" quoth I. + "On this hilltop shall I cry, + So that she may hear and then + Find her way to me again. + The South Wind spoke a lie that day; + All deceived, she lost her way + Yonder where the shadows sleep + 'Mongst the haunted waves that leap + Over treacherous quicksands deep, + And where captive moonbeams lie + Doomed at morrow's dawn to die + She is lost, and that is all; + I will search for her, and call." + + Summer comes and winter goes, + Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; + All the others are anear,-- + Only Telka is not here! + Gone the peace and love I knew + Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; + And the Rose, that mocks me so, + I had crushed it long ago + But that Telka loved it then, + And shall soothe its terror when + She comes back to me again. + Call I, seek I everywhere + For my Telka, passing fair. + It is, oh, so many a year + I have called! She does not hear, + Yet nor feared nor worn am I; + For I know that if I cry + She shall sometime hear my call. + She is lost, and that is all,-- + She is lost in some far spot; + I have searched, and found it not. + Could she hear me calling, then + Would she come to me again; + For she loved me passing well,-- + How I love her none can tell! + That is why these years I've cried + "Telka!" on this mountain-side. + "Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the lonely years go by. + + On an evening dark and chill + Came a shadow up the hill,-- + Came a spectre, grim and white + As a ghost that walks the night, + Grim and bowed, and with the cry + Of a wretch about to die,-- + Came and fell and cried to me: + "It is Telka come!" said she. + So she fell and so she cried + On that lonely mountain-side + Where was Telka wont to bide. + + "Who hath bribed those lips to lie? + Telka's face was fair," quoth I; + "Thine is furrowed with despair. + There is winter in thy hair; + But upon her beauteous head + Was there summer glory shed,-- + Such a glory as the sun, + When his daily course is run, + Smiles upon this mountain height + As he kisses it good-night. + There was music in her tone, + Misery in thy voice alone. + They have bid thee lie to me. + Let me pass! Thou art not she! + Let my sorrow sacred be + Underneath this trysting tree!" + + So in wrath I went my way, + And they came another day,-- + Came another day, and said: + "Hush thy cry, for she is dead, + Yonder on the mountain-side + She is buried where she died, + Where you twain were wont to bide, + Where she came and fell and cried + Pardon that thy wrath denied; + And above her bosom grows + As in mockery the Rose: + It was white; but now 'tis red, + And in shame it bows its head + Over sinful Telka dead." + + So they thought to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Scornfully I went my way, + And upon the mountain-side + "Telka!" evermore I cried. + "Telka!" evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky: + So the lonely years go by. + + She is lost, and that is all; + Sometime she shall hear my call, + Hear my pleading call, and then + Find her way to me again. + + + + +PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. + + + FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, + And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow. + I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fate + Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble State; + And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree, + Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. + Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near, + While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear. + + My pedigree is noble: they used my grandsire's skin + To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within,-- + Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compare + With the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear. + Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County Cole + All up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole. + We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings, + As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things. + + And when the darkness fell around, a mocking-bird was nigh, + Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; + And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night + That nary 'coon could wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight. + We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know + That ary 'coon can best a dog, if the coon gets half a show; + But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n, + And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n. + + Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days; + I cannot get acclimated, or used to German ways. + The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine + For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine. + The 'coon that's been accustomed to stanch democratic cheer + Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer! + No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, + But send _me_ back from whence I came, and let me grub for worms! + + They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons, + And wonder what I am,--alas, there are no German 'coons! + For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree, + The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, and free. + And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, + For _I_ have tasted liberty, these others _they_ have not; + So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels + Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels. + + Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill, + To Jasper Burke and Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; + My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest, + Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest. + Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at all + To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall; + And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here + By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer. + + + + +ARMENIAN LULLABY. + + + IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, + My mulberry one, my golden son, + The rose shall sing thee lullabies, + My pretty cosset lambkin! + And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, + With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,-- + A silver boat in a golden sea,-- + My velvet love, my nestling dove, + My own pomegranate-blossom! + + The stork shall guard thee passing well + All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet, + And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, + My gentle rain-of-springtime; + And for thy slumber-play shall twine + The diamond stars with an emerald vine, + To trail in the waves of ruby wine, + My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume, + My cooing little turtle! + + And when the morn wakes up to see + My apple-bright, my soul's delight, + The partridge shall come calling thee, + My jar of milk-and-honey! + Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies + In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, + If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, + You wakeful one, you naughty son, + You chirping little sparrow! + + + + +THE PARTRIDGE. + + + AS beats the sun from mountain crest, + With "Pretty, pretty," + Cometh the partridge from her nest. + The flowers threw kisses sweet to her + (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); + Yet hasteneth she to mine and me,-- + Ah, pretty, pretty! + Ah, dear little partridge! + + And when I hear the partridge cry + So pretty, pretty, + Upon the house-top breakfast I. + She comes a-chirping far and wide, + And swinging from the mountain-side + I see and hear the dainty dear,-- + Ah, pretty, pretty! + Ah, dear little partridge! + + Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare, + And pretty, pretty; + Bloom violet, rose, and lily there; + The place is full of balmy dew + (The tears of flowers in love with you!); + And one and all, impassioned, call, + "O pretty, pretty! + O dear little partridge!" + + Thy feathers they are soft and sleek,-- + So pretty, pretty! + Long is thy neck, and small thy beak, + The color of thy plumage far + More bright than rainbow colors are. + Sweeter than dove is she I love,-- + My pretty, pretty! + My dear little partridge! + + When comes the partridge from the tree, + So pretty, pretty, + And sings her little hymn to me, + Why, all the world is cheered thereby, + The heart leaps up into the eye, + And Echo then gives back again + Our "Pretty, pretty!" + Our "Dear little partridge!" + + Admitting thee most blest of all, + And pretty, pretty, + The birds come with thee at thy call; + In flocks they come, and round thee play, + And this is what they seem to say,-- + They say and sing, each feathered thing, + "Ah, pretty, pretty! + Ah, dear little partridge!" + + + + +CORINTHIAN HALL. + + + CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace; + But once was a time when Corinthian Hall + Excited the rapture and plaudits of all, + With its carpeted stairs, + And its new yellow chairs, + And its stunning _ensemble_ of citified airs. + Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best + Of Thespian temples extant in the West. + + It was new, and was ours,--that was ages ago, + Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,-- + It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers + Our rivals had launched at our city for years. + Corinthian Hall! + Why, it discounted all + Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall + The night of the opening; from near and afar + Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar. + + Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again + Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then; + For actors were actors, and each one knew how + To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow. + He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair; + And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare. + Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,--in fact, never could + When liquor was handy and walking was good. + + And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall + The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall! + Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime; + And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime; + And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare + With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair; + While in passionate roles it was patent to us + That the great John A. Stevens was _ne ultra plus_. + + And was there demand for the tribute of tears, + We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years, + And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow + That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now. + What artist to-day have we equal to Rae, + Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say! + And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette" + Opined that the sun of our drama had set. + + Corinthian Hall was devoted to song + When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along, + Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown, + Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town; + But the one special card + That hit us all hard + Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard; + And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears; + And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years! + + The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days, + And our critics accorded them columns of praise; + They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings, + And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things; + They gave a parade, and sweet music they made + Every evening in front of the house where they played. + 'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog + For Primrose and West in their great statue clog. + + Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain + That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne; + Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth + That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth: + While in roles that were thrillin', involving much killin', + Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain; + Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,--they all + Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall. + + But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell + On the spot I revere and remember so well, + Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint, + And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint; + So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold + Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould, + And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall, + Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall. + + When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night, + And the music goes floating on billows of light, + Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man, + And I pine to be back where my mission began, + And I'm fain to recall + Reminiscences all + That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,-- + To hear and to see what delighted me then, + And to revel in raptures of boyhood again. + + Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace, + There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they, + Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day, + Would surrender what gold + He's amassed to behold + A tithe of the wonderful doings of old, + A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall + Our _creme de la creme_ in Corinthian Hall. + + + + +THE RED, RED WEST. + + + I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art, + Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so + smart; + And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show + That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go. + + I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve, + And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve; + I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green, + And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen. + + The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal + Dutch, + The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised + overmuch, + The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,-- + All, _ad infin._, have I taken in a hundred thousand times. + + Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught + Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is + fraught; + For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker + grows, + And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes. + + Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, + And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know; + It answers every purpose that this is manifest: + The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West. + + Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, + No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; + But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, + Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still! + + + + +THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE. + + + FROM out Cologne there came three kings + To worship Jesus Christ, their King. + To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, + And many a beauteous golden thing; + They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, + And in that manger set them down. + + Then spake the first king, and he said: + "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair! + I bring this crown to Bethlehem town + For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; + So give a heavenly crown to me + When I shall come at last to Thee!" + + The second, then. "I bring Thee here + This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; + "Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one + There is not in the world beside; + So in the day of doom requite + Me with a heavenly robe of white!" + + The third king gave his gift, and quoth: + "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, + And with these twain would I most fain + Anoint the body of my King; + So may their incense sometime rise + To plead for me in yonder skies!" + + Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, + That gave their gifts, and went their way; + And now kneel I in prayer hard by + The cradle of the Child to-day; + Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring + As offering unto Christ, my King. + + Yet have I brought a gift the Child + May not despise, however small; + For here I lay my heart to-day, + And it is full of love to all. + Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, + My only tribute, Christ, my King! + + + + +IPSWICH. + + + IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, + And the voice that comes from the yonder sea + Sings to the quaint old mansions there + Of "the time, the time that used to be;" + And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, + And they seem to say in an undertone, + With half a sigh and with half a moan: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich witches weave at night + Their magic, spells with impish glee; + They shriek and laugh in their demon flight + From the old Main House to the frightened sea. + And ghosts of eld come out to weep + Over the town that is fast asleep; + And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill + Over against the calling sea; + And through the nights so deep and chill + Watcheth a maiden constantly,-- + Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear + Over the roar of the waves anear + The pitiful cry of a far-off year: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich once a witch I knew,-- + An artless Saxon witch was she; + By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, + Sweet was the spell she cast on me. + Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, + And the heart that is old and battered and chill + Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill + What was, but never again can be. + + Dear Anna, I would not conjure down + The ghost that cometh to solace me; + I love to think of old Ipswich town, + Where somewhat better than friends were we; + For with every thought of the dear old place + Cometh again the tender grace + Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, + As it was, and is, and ever shall be. + + + + +BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS. + + + BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall; + I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all; + Clothes would never seem to set so nice on _me_ as _him_,-- + Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,-- + But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall; + And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir,-- + Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire! + She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard,-- + Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird; + Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er, + A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place, + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat,-- + _She_ sung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat; + Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew, + One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"! + But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that; + On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face + When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then, + Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when + We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days, + And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise. + Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again! + For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace + When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be, + Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me. + Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year, + Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer + When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D! + The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race + 'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass. + + Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54, + And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more; + Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell, + And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell + That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store; + And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace + Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea, + I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me; + And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day, + I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away. + Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be; + "Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face, + "When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass." + + + + +FIDUCIT. + + + THREE comrades on the German Rhine, + Defying care and weather, + Together quaffed the mellow wine, + And sung their songs together. + What recked they of the griefs of life, + With wine and song to cheer them? + Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, + It would not come anear them. + + Anon one comrade passed away, + And presently another, + And yet unto the tryst each day + Repaired the lonely brother; + And still, as gayly as of old, + That third one, hero-hearted, + Filled to the brim each cup of gold, + And called to the departed,-- + + "O comrades mine! I see ye not, + Nor hear your kindly greeting, + Yet in this old, familiar spot + Be still our loving meeting! + Here have I filled each bouting-cup + With juices red and cheery; + I pray ye drink the portion up, + And as of old make merry!" + + And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, + All in the haunted gloaming, + He saw two ghostly figures rise, + And quaff the beakers foaming; + He heard two spirit voices call, + "Fiducit, jovial brother!" + And so forever from that hall + Went they with one another. + + + + +THE "ST. JO GAZETTE." + + + WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette," + I was upon familiar terms with every one I met; + For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time, + Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme,-- + Before I found in verses + Those soothing, gracious mercies, + Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is. + A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat, + And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + The labors of the day began at half-past eight A.M., + For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them; + And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquire + By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire, + With my daily commentary + On affairs of farm and dairy, + The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary,-- + Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due, + Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous; + Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case, + And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd space; + Of fevers, fractures, humors, + Contusions, fits, and tumors, + Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors; + From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get,-- + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place,-- + Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race; + And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink, + And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink. + Those drinks at the Pacific, + When days were sudorific, + Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;" + And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow, + To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go. + The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough + For local application in lieu of better stuff; + And when the ducks were flying, + Or the fishing well worth trying-- + Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at + lying! + And I--I printed all their yarns, though not without regret, + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young, + Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;" + Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd call + On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all. + Lon Tullar used to pony + Up descriptions that were tony + Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione; + For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett" + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue; + And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,-- + The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read, + And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed. + Oh, but it takes agility, + Combined with versatility, + To run a country daily with appropriate ability! + There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet, + Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent + Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent + If so, I don't remember; this only do I know,-- + My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo. + The years that speed so fleetly + Have blotted out completely + All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly; + The friendships of that time,--ah, me! they are as precious yet + As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + + + +IN AMSTERDAM. + + + MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has got + A majazin in Kalverstraat, + Where one may buy for sordid gold + Wares quaint and curious, new and old. + Here are antiquities galore,-- + The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore, + Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks, + Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks, + And all those joys I might rehearse + That please the eye, but wreck the purse. + + I most admired an ancient bed, + With ornate carvings at its head,-- + A massive frame of dingy oak, + Whose curious size and mould bespoke + Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried. + "Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied; + And then the honest Dutchman said + A king once owned that glorious bed,-- + King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame, + Had owned and slept within the same! + + Then long I stood and mutely gazed, + By reminiscent splendors dazed, + And I had bought it right away, + Had I the wherewithal to pay. + But, lacking of the needed pelf, + I thus discoursed within myself: + "O happy Holland! where's the bliss + That can approximate to this + Possession of the rare antique + Which maniacs hanker for and seek? + _My_ native land is full of stuff + That's good, but is not old enough. + Alas! it has no oaken beds + Wherein have slumbered royal heads, + No relic on whose face we see + The proof of grand antiquity." + + Thus reasoned I a goodly spell + Until, perchance, my vision fell + Upon a trademark at the head + Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed,-- + A rampant wolverine, and round + This strange device these words I found: + "Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay, + Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A." + + At present I'm not saying much + About the simple, guileless Dutch; + And as it were a loathsome spot + I keep away from Kalverstraat, + Determined when I want a bed + In which hath slept a royal head + I'll patronize no middleman, + But deal direct with Michigan. + + + + +TO THE PASSING SAINT. + + + AS to-night you came your way, + Bearing earthward heavenly joy, + Tell me, O dear saint, I pray, + Did you see my little boy? + + By some fairer voice beguiled, + Once he wandered from my sight; + He is such a little child, + He should have my love this night. + + It has been so many a year,-- + Oh, so many a year since then! + Yet he was so very dear, + Surely he will come again. + + If upon your way you see + One whose beauty is divine, + Will you send him back to me? + He is lost, and he is mine. + + Tell him that his little chair + Nestles where the sunbeams meet, + That the shoes he used to wear + Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet. + + Tell him of each pretty toy + That was wont to share his glee; + Maybe that will bring my boy + Back to them and back to me. + + O dear saint, as on you go + Through the glad and sparkling frost, + Bid those bells ring high and low + For a little child that's lost! + + O dear saint, that blessest men + With the grace of Christmas joy, + Soothe this heart with love again,-- + Give me back my little boy! + + + + +THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. + + + OF all the gracious gifts of Spring, + Is there another can surpass + This delicate, voluptuous thing,-- + This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? + Upon a damask napkin laid, + What exhalations superfine + Our gustatory nerves pervade, + Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine! + + The ancients loved this noble fish; + And, coming from the kitchen fire + All piping hot upon a dish, + What raptures did he not inspire? + "Fish should swim twice," they used to say,-- + Once in their native, vapid brine, + And then again, a better way-- + You understand; fetch on the wine! + + Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, + How often have I cast for you, + How often sadly seen you scud + Where weeds and water-lilies grew! + How often have you filched my bait, + How often snapped my treacherous line! + Yet here I have you on this plate,-- + You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_. + + And, harkee, garcon! let the blood + Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,-- + Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood + This piscatorial pride should swim; + So, were he living, he would say + He gladly died for me and mine, + And, as it were his native spray, + He'd lash the sauce--what, ho! the wine! + + I would it were ordained for me + To share your fate, O finny friend! + I surely were not loath to be + Reserved for such a noble end; + For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, + At last reels in his ruthless line, + What were my ecstasy to swim + In wine, in wine, in glorious wine! + + Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! + And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, + Come hither every year and bring + The boons provocative of mirth; + And should your stock of bass run low, + However much I might repine, + I think I might survive the blow, + If plied with wine and still more wine! + + + + +NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT. + + + THE mill goes toiling slowly around + With steady and solemn creak, + And my little one hears in the kindly sound + The voice of the old mill speak; + While round and round those big white wings + Grimly and ghostlike creep, + My little one hears that the old mill sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, + And over his pot of beer + The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, + Lustily maketh cheer; + He mocks at the winds that caper along + From the far-off, clamorous deep, + But we--we love their lullaby-song + Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound, + Groans of the stony mart; + To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around, + Hitched to our new milk-cart! + And you shall help me blanket the kine, + And fold the gentle sheep, + And set the herring a-soak in brine,-- + But now, little tulip, sleep! + + A Dream-One comes to button the eyes + That wearily droop and blink, + While the old mill buffets the frowning skies, + And scolds at the stars that wink; + Over your face the misty wings + Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, + And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + + + +THE ONION TART. + + + OF tarts there be a thousand kinds, + So versatile the art, + And, as we all have different minds, + Each has his favorite tart; + But those which most delight the rest + Methinks should suit me not: + The onion tart doth please me best,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Where but in Deutschland can be found + This boon of which I sing? + Who but a Teuton could compound + This _sui generis_ thing? + None with the German frau can vie + In arts cuisine, I wot, + Whose _summum bonum_ breeds the sigh, + "Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!" + + You slice the fruit upon the dough, + And season to the taste, + Then in an oven (not too slow) + The viand should be placed; + And when 'tis done, upon a plate + You serve it piping hot. + Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + It sweeps upon the sight and smell + In overwhelming tide, + And then the sense of taste as well + Betimes is gratified: + Three noble senses drowned in bliss! + I prithee tell me, what + Is there beside compares with this? + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + For if the fruit be proper young, + And if the crust be good, + How shall they melt upon the tongue + Into a savory flood! + How seek the Mecca down below, + And linger round that spot, + Entailing weeks and months of woe,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + If Nature gives men appetites + For things that won't digest, + Why, let _them_ eat whatso delights, + And let _her_ stand the rest; + And though the sin involve the cost + Of Carlsbad, like as not + 'Tis better to have loved and lost,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, + Where my compatriots dwell, + All kinds of victuals have I tried, + All kinds of drinks, as well; + But nothing known to Yankee art + Appears to reach _the spot_ + Like this Teutonic onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide + As full as I can hold, + And for complete reform inside + Plank down my horde of gold, + Remorse shall not consume my heart, + Nor sorrow vex my lot, + For I have eaten onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + + + +GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE. + + + IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye, + And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny: + The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright, + The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,--all give me keen delight; + And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen + A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine. + + Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown + Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town. + 'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,-- + Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,-- + And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen, + And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine. + + Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown; + For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town." + The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess + When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress: + To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between, + Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine. + + With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end + (The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!); + And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise, + Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes; + For grandma knew a thing or two,--by which remark I mean + That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine. + + I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle + With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile. + It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round, + That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found. + How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen! + And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine. + + But there _were_ those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect + gown; + For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town: + The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!" + The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split; + Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, _she_ turned a bilious green, + When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine. + + But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,-- + The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign. + Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town, + And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown; + But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!" + Yet evermore my grandma wore _his_ favorite bombazine. + + And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs,-- + Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs! + Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing, + And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous + thing. + 'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene; + And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine. + + Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,-- + The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart. + This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair, + Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear. + Yet wear it, _do_; perchance when you and I are off the scene, + Our boy shall sing _this_ comely thing as _I_ the bombazine. + + + + +RARE ROAST BEEF. + + + WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir + Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair; + When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head, + Filling _bon vivants_ and epicures with certain nameless dread; + When _any_ ill of body or of intellect abounds, + Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,-- + In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief + That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef. + + And even when the body's in the very prime of health, + When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth, + And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more, + And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,-- + Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side, + And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied, + Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief, + And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef. + + Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,-- + 'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest; + Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour + Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more; + The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour; + Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour, + And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf + Of that glorious _summum bonum_, rare roast beef. + + Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife, + How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life! + Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,-- + Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab? + Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam, + A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream! + Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief! + Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef. + + Most every kind and role of modern victuals have I tried, + Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried, + Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese, + Your patties _a la_ Turkey and your doughnuts _a la_ grease; + I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls, + And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls; + But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief + And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef. + + I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood, + Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood; + And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast, + Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (_feste Burg_) and host; + For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath, + Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path. + So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef + When I soever set me down to rare roast beef. + + + + +GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT. + + + I WAS just a little thing + When a fairy came and kissed me; + Floating in upon the light + Of a haunted summer night, + Lo! the fairies came to sing + Pretty slumber songs, and bring + Certain boons that else had missed me. + From a dream I turned to see + What those strangers brought for me, + When that fairy up and kissed me,-- + Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me! + + Simmerdew was there, but she + Did not like me altogether; + Daisybright and Turtledove, + Pilfercurds and Honeylove, + Thistleblow and Amberglee + On that gleaming, ghostly sea + Floated from the misty heather, + And around my trundle-bed + Frisked and looked and whispering said, + Solemn-like and all together: + "_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!" + + Ganderfeather kissed me then,-- + Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! + No attenuate sprite was he, + But as buxom as could be; + Kissed me twice and once again, + And the others shouted when + On my cheek uprose a berry + Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, + But the kiss-mark of that chap + Ganderfeather, passing merry,-- + Humorsome but kindly, very! + + I was just a tiny thing + When the prankish Ganderfeather + Brought this curious gift to me + With his fairy kisses three; + Yet with honest pride I sing + That same gift he chose to bring + Out of yonder haunted heather; + Other charms and friendships fly,-- + Constant friends this mole and I, + Who have been so long together! + Thank you, little Ganderfeather! + + + + +OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE. + + + THERE are no days like the good old days,-- + The days when we were youthful! + When humankind were pure of mind, + And speech and deeds were truthful; + Before a love for sordid gold + Became man's ruling passion, + And before each dame and maid became + Slave to the tyrant fashion! + + There are no girls like the good old girls,-- + Against the world I'd stake 'em! + As buxom and smart and clean of heart + As the Lord knew how to make 'em! + They were rich in spirit and common-sense, + And piety all supportin'; + They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too, + And they made such likely courtin'! + + There are no boys like the good old boys,-- + When _we_ were boys together! + When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet + That dimpled the laughing heather; + When the pewee sung to the summer dawn + Of the bee in the billowy clover, + Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will + Echoed his night song over. + + There is no love like the good old love,-- + The love that mother gave us! + We are old, old men, yet we pine again + For that precious grace,--God save us! + So we dream and dream of the good old times, + And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder, + As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams + Of heaven away off yonder. + + + + +OUR WHIPPINGS. + + + COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys + As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise! + Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show + The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; + What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,-- + Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,--oh, my! + + The way that we played hookey those many years ago, + We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know! + The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,-- + Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold! + How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his + He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"! + It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,-- + Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though! + + We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, + And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; + How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,-- + But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand; + And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed, + Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red. + Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert + The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt! + + For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild + That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; + And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she + Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we: + But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,-- + Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made _her_ cry! + Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, + For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did! + + In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, + But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! + Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: + "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!" + Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,-- + What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! + Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, + With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt! + + The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest + Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; + Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight + The bufferings of childhood,--as we do here to-night. + The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways + That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times. + + + + +BION'S SONG OF EROS. + + + EROS is the god of love; + He and I are hand-in-glove. + All the gentle, gracious Muses + Follow Eros where he leads, + And they bless the bard who chooses + To proclaim love's famous deeds; + Him they serve in rapturous glee,-- + That is why they're good to me. + + Sometimes I have gone astray + From love's sunny, flowery way: + How I floundered, how I stuttered! + And, deprived of ways and means, + What egregious rot I uttered,-- + Such as suits the magazines! + I was rescued only when + Eros called me back again. + + Gods forefend that I should shun + That benignant Mother's son! + Why, the poet who refuses + To emblazon love's delights + Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- + Then what balderdash he writes! + I love Love; which being so, + See how smooth my verses flow! + + Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- + I will follow while I may: + Be thy path by hill or hollow, + I will follow fast and free; + And when I'm too old to follow, + I will sit and sing of thee,-- + Potent still in intellect, + Sit, and sing, and retrospect. + + + + +MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE. + + + THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget; + And the time I remember's the evening I met + A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown + Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: + A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, + And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; + He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, + But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: + I felt that he honored and flattered me when + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I wonder that never again since that night + A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; + I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill + That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: + I wonder and pine; for--I say it again-- + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; + But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud; + To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day, + With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, + These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: + "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." + + + + +POET AND KING. + + + THOUGH I am king, I have no throne + Save this rough wooden siege alone; + I have no empire, yet my sway + Extends a myriad leagues away; + No servile vassal bends his knee + In grovelling reverence to me, + Yet at my word all hearts beat high, + And there is fire in every eye, + And love and gratitude they bring + As tribute unto me, a king. + + The folk that throng the busy street + Know not it is a king they meet; + And I am glad there is not seen + The monarch in my face and mien. + I should not choose to be the cause + Of fawning or of coarse applause: + I am content to know the arts + Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts; + For when unto their hearts I sing, + I am a king, I am a king! + + My sceptre,--see, it is a pen! + Wherewith I rule these hearts of men. + Sometime it pleaseth to beguile + Its monarch fancy with a smile; + Sometime it is athirst for tears: + And so adown the laurelled years + I walk, the noblest lord on earth, + Dispensing sympathy and mirth. + Aha! it is a magic thing + That makes me what I am,--a king! + + Let empires crumble as they may, + Proudly I hold imperial sway; + The sunshine and the rain of years + Are human smiles and human tears + That come or vanish at my call,-- + I am the monarch of them all! + Mindful alone of this am I: + The songs I sing shall never die; + Not even envious Death can wring + His glory from so great a king. + + Come, brother, be a king with me, + And rule mankind eternally; + Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, + Defend the truth, combat the wrong! + You'll find no sceptre like the pen + To hold and sway the hearts of men; + Its edicts flow in blood and tears + That will outwash the flood of years: + So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing! + And be with me a king, a king! + + + + +LYDIA DICK. + + + WHEN I was a boy at college, + Filling up with classic knowledge, + Frequently I wondered why + Old Professor Demas Bentley + Used to praise so eloquently + "Opera Horatii." + + Toiling on a season longer + Till my reasoning powers got stronger, + As my observation grew, + I became convinced that mellow, + Massic-loving poet fellow, + Horace, knew a thing or two. + + Yes, we sophomores figured duly + That, if we appraised him truly, + Horace must have been a brick; + And no wonder that with ranting + Rhymes he went a-gallivanting + Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! + + For that pink of female gender + Tall and shapely was, and slender, + Plump of neck and bust and arms; + While the raiment that invested + Her so jealously suggested + Certain more potential charms. + + Those dark eyes of hers that fired him, + Those sweet accents that inspired him, + And her crown of glorious hair,-- + These things baffle my description: + I should have a fit conniption + If I tried; so I forbear. + + Maybe Lydia had her betters; + Anyway, this man of letters + Took that charmer as his pick. + Glad--yes, glad I am to know it! + I, a _fin de siecle_ poet, + Sympathize with Lydia Dick! + + Often in my arbor shady + I fall thinking of that lady, + And the pranks she used to play; + And I'm cheered,--for all we sages + Joy when from those distant ages + Lydia dances down our way. + + Otherwise some folks might wonder, + With good reason, why in thunder + Learned professors, dry and prim, + Find such solace in the giddy + Pranks that Horace played with Liddy + Or that Liddy played on him. + + Still this world of ours rejoices + In those ancient singing voices, + And our hearts beat high and quick, + To the cadence of old Tiber + Murmuring praise of roistering Liber + And of charming Lydia Dick. + + Still Digentia, downward flowing, + Prattleth to the roses blowing + By the dark, deserted grot. + Still Soracte, looming lonely, + Watcheth for the coming only + Of a ghost that cometh not. + + + + +LIZZIE. + + + I WONDER ef all wimmin air + Like Lizzie is when we go out + To theaters an' concerts where + Is things the papers talk about. + Do other wimmin fret an' stew + Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- + Frettin' a show or concert through, + With wonderin' ef the baby cried? + + Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there + To see that everything is right; + Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care + Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. + Yet what am I to answer when + She kind uv fidgets at my side, + An' asks me every now an' then, + "I wonder ef the baby cried"? + + Seems like she seen two little eyes + A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; + Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries + Uv one she thinks uv all the while; + An' so she's sorry that she come. + An' though she allus tries to hide + The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum + Than wonder ef the baby cried. + + Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- + By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; + There never wuz a little tyke, + But that his mother loved him best. + And nex' to bein' what I be-- + The husband uv my gentle bride-- + I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, + With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. + + + + +LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE. + + + AFTER dear old grandma died, + Hunting through an oaken chest + In the attic, we espied + What repaid our childish quest: + 'Twas a homely little slate, + Seemingly of ancient date. + + On its quaint and battered face + Was the picture of a cart + Drawn with all that awkward grace + Which betokens childish art. + But what meant this legend, pray: + "Homer drew this yesterday"? + + Mother recollected then + What the years were fain to hide: + She was but a baby when + Little Homer lived and died. + Forty years, so mother said, + Little Homer had been dead. + + This one secret through those years + Grandma kept from all apart, + Hallowed by her lonely tears + And the breaking of her heart; + While each year that sped away + Seemed to her but yesterday. + + So the homely little slate + Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, + To a memory consecrate, + Lieth in the oaken chest, + Where, unwilling we should know, + Grandma put it years ago. + + + + +ALWAYS RIGHT. + + + DON'T take on so, Hiram, + But do what you're told to do; + It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows + A heap sight more than you. + I'll allow that sometimes _her_ way + Don't seem the wisest, quite; + But the _easiest_ way, + When she's had her say, + Is to reckon yer mother is right. + + Courted her ten long winters, + Saw her to singin'-school; + When she went down one spell to town, + I cried like a durned ol' fool; + Got mad at the boys for callin' + When I sparked her Sunday night: + But she said she knew + A thing or two,-- + An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right. + + I courted till I wuz aging, + And she wuz past her prime,-- + I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes + When I popped f'r the hundredth time. + Said she'd never have took me + If I hadn't stuck so tight; + Opined that we + Could never agree,-- + And I reckon yer mother wuz right! + + + + +"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!" + + + WHERE my true love abideth + I make my way to-night; + Lo! waiting, she + Espieth me, + And calleth in delight: + "I see his steed anear + Come trotting with my dear,-- + Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot, + Trot thou my lover here!" + + Aloose I cast the bridle, + And ply the whip and spur; + And gayly I + Speed this reply, + While faring on to her: + "Oh, true love, fear thou not! + I seek our trysting spot; + And double feed be yours, my steed, + If you more swiftly trot." + + I vault from out the saddle, + And make my good steed fast; + Then to my breast + My love is pressed,-- + At last, true heart, at last! + The garden drowsing lies, + The stars fold down their eyes,-- + In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not, + Nor stamp in restless wise! + + O passing sweet communion + Of young hearts, warm and true! + To thee belongs + The old, old songs + Love finds forever new. + We sing those songs, and then + Cometh the moment when + It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,-- + Trot, trot me home again!" + + + + +PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG. + + + WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago, + Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro; + And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore, + With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,-- + A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read + The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said: + "The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue; + You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog." + + McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name + Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame. + A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,-- + Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup! + The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green + Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen; + And my proud name was heralded,--oh that I'd gone incog. + When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog! + + Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town? + Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down! + The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said + The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead, + And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest + The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast; + For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog + When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog. + + They never came at all,--aha! I knew it all the time,-- + They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime. + Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first! + Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst! + But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night, + When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's + blight,-- + When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog + For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog! + + Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro, + Ejaculating platitudes that were quite _mal a propos_; + And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot + Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot. + I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt, + If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front; + But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log + When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog. + + We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,-- + For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track? + "Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame, + What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!" + Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties + 'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies; + But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,-- + 'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog. + + So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,-- + And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same. + Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies! + The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies. + So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware! + Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare; + Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog, + But never go to Providence to try it on a dog. + + + + +GETTIN' ON. + + + WHEN I wuz somewhat younger, + I wuz reckoned purty gay; + I had my fling at everything + In a rollickin', coltish way. + But times have strangely altered + Since sixty years ago-- + This age of steam an' things don't seem + Like the age I used to know. + Your modern innovations + Don't suit me, I confess, + As did the ways of the good ol' days,-- + But I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + I set on the piazza, + An' hitch round with the sun; + Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, + Waitin' till school is done. + An' then I tell the children + The things I done in youth,-- + An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man, + I stick to the honest truth,-- + But the looks of them 'at listen + Seem sometimes to express + The remote idee that I'm gone--you see?-- + An' I _am_ gettin' on, I guess. + + I get up in the mornin', + An', nothin' else to do, + Before the rest are up an' dressed, + I read the papers through. + I hang round with the women + All day an' hear 'em talk; + An' while they sew or knit I show + The baby how to walk. + An', somehow, I feel sorry + When they put away his dress + An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + Sometimes, with twilight round me, + I see, or seem to see, + A distant shore where friends of yore + Linger an' watch for me. + Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' + So tender-like 'nd low + That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, + Or an echo of long ago; + An' sometimes on my forehead + There falls a soft caress, + Or the touch of a hand,--you understand,-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + + + +THE SCHNELLEST ZUG. + + + FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way, + Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day; + You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly night + Do the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight; + From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough,--of that I'll not complain,-- + But from Hanover to Magdeburg--confound that schnellest train! + + The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster + yet,-- + In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met! + Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go, + While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow; + And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintain + That one _can't_ know what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest + train! + + Fool that I was! I should have walked,--I had no time to waste; + The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste,-- + The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart, + And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art, + The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain,-- + These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train. + + The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hear + The guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer); + I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stops + Required of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops, + Whilst _I_ crouched in a corner, a monument to woe, + And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow! + And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that + train,-- + The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain, + Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy carts + Beside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts! + The husbands strut in soldier garb,--indeed _they_ were too vain + To let creation see _them_ work from that creeping schnellest train! + + I found the German language all too feeble to convey + The sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day; + I had recourse to English, and exploded without stint + Such virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print, + But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brain + While snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train. + + The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro, + The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O., + The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things, + The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings, + The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake,-- + All have I tried, and yet I'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake! + My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime, + Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time; + From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mile + By "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while; + Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain, + But you'll break the third commandment if you take the schnellest + train! + + + + +BETHLEHEM-TOWN. + + + AS I was going to Bethlehem-town, + Upon the earth I cast me down + All underneath a little tree + That whispered in this wise to me: + "Oh, I shall stand on Calvary + And bear what burthen saveth thee!" + + As up I fared to Bethlehem-town, + I met a shepherd coming down, + And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sight + Hath spread before mine eyes this night,-- + An angel host most fair to see, + That sung full sweetly of a tree + That shall uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth you and me!" + + And as I gat to Bethlehem-town, + Lo! wise men came that bore a crown. + "Is there," cried I, "in Bethlehem + A King shall wear this diadem?" + "Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is He + That shall be lifted on the tree + And freely shed on Calvary + What blood redeemeth us and thee!" + + Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town + The wise men came and brought the crown; + And while the infant smiling slept, + Upon their knees they fell and wept; + But, with her babe upon her knee, + Naught recked that Mother of the tree, + That should uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth all and me. + + Again I walk in Bethlehem-town + And think on Him that wears the crown. + I may not kiss His feet again, + Nor worship Him as did I then; + My King hath died upon the tree, + And hath outpoured on Calvary + What blood redeemeth you and me! + + + + +THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME. + + + DEAREST, how hard it is to say + That all is for the best, + Since, sometimes, in a grievous way + God's will is manifest. + + See with what hearty, noisy glee + Our little ones to-night + Dance round and round our Christmas-tree + With pretty toys bedight. + + Dearest, one voice they may not hear, + One face they may not see,-- + Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer + Cometh to you and me? + + Cometh before our misty eyes + That other little face; + And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, + That love in the old embrace. + + Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night, + Bringing His peace to men; + And He bringeth to you and to me the light + Of the old, old years again: + + Bringeth the peace of long ago + When a wee one clasped your knee + And lisped of the morrow,--dear one, you know,-- + And here come back is he! + + Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to say + That all is for the best, + For, often in a grievous way, + God's will is manifest. + + But in the grace of this holy night + That bringeth us back our child, + Let us see that the ways of God are right, + And so be reconciled. + + + + +THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE. + + + IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth, + And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth; + And my career + From year to year + Was full of cheer + And things, + Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings; + But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene! + Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene: + Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart, + Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter's learned Delsarte. + In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me, + She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,-- + Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to + t'other, + The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother. + Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouth + Which certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth. + If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart, + What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte? + + In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth, + But now you see + Revealed in me + The gloomiest bard on earth. + I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life, + But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife. + Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate, + One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate: + This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart + Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, + Delsarte. + + Where'er she goes, + She loves to pose, + In classic attitudes, + And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; + And she, my child, + Who all so wild, + So helpless and so sweet, + That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet, + Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, + Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands. + Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, + And I utter one word--it is commonly heard--derogatory to Delsarte. + + In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; + Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; + But now these wise + Folks criticise + My figure and my face, + And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass. + Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek + Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,-- + With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part + Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte. + + Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before, + When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more. + Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; + The old-time bard + Of pork and lard + Is plainly out of sight. + All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, + While Lachesis brews + For the poor old Muse + A portion of scalding soup. + Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: + "He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter + learned Delsarte." + + + + +BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT. + + + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,-- + These three bloomed in a garden spot; + And once, all merry with song and play, + A little one heard three voices say: + "Shine or shadow, summer or spring, + O thou child with the tangled hair + And laughing eyes, we three shall bring + Each an offering, passing fair!" + The little one did not understand; + But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. + + Buttercup gambolled all day long, + Sharing the little one's mirth and song; + Then, stealing along on misty gleams, + Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams, + Playing and dreaming, that was all, + Till once the sleeper would not awake; + Kissing the little face under the pall, + We thought of the words the third flower spake, + And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot, + The solace and peace of Forget-me-not. + + Buttercup shareth the joy of day, + Glinting with gold the hours of play; + Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose, + When the hands would fold and the eyes would close. + And after it all,--the play and the sleep + Of a little life,--what cometh then? + To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep, + A wee flower bringeth God's peace again: + Each one serveth its tender lot,-- + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +A midi file of the music on the first page is available in the HTML edition +of this text. + +Page ix, "Dic" changed to "Dick" (Lydia Dick) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 31874.txt or 31874.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/8/7/31874/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + +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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