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diff --git a/9889-8.txt b/9889-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4cacfb9 --- /dev/null +++ b/9889-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4663 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs and Other 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: Songs and Other Verse + +Author: Eugene Field + +Posting Date: December 10, 2011 [EBook #9889] +Release Date: February, 2006 +First Posted: October 28, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS AND OTHER VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Charles Bidwell +and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + +THE WORKS OF EUGENE FIELD + +Vol. IX + +THE WRITINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE OF EUGENE FIELD + + + SONGS AND OTHER VERSE + + + +INTRODUCTION + +"It is about impossible for a man to get rid of his Puritan grandfathers, +and nobody who has ever had one has ever escaped his Puritan grandmother;" +so said Eugene Field to me one sweet April day, when we talked together of +the things of the spirit. It is one of his own confessions that he was +fond of clergymen. Most preachers are supposed to be helplessly tied up +with such a set of limitations that there are but a few jokes which they +may tolerate, and a small number of delights into which they may enter. +Doubtless many a cheerful soul likes to meet such of the clergy, in order +that the worldling may feel the contrast of liberty with bondage, and +demonstrate by bombardment of wit and humor, how intellectually thin are +the walls against which certain forms of skepticism and fun offend. Eugene +Field did not belong to these. He called them "a tribe which do unseemly +beset the saints." Nobody has ever had a more numerous or loving clientage +of friendship among the ministers of this city than the author of "The +Holy Cross" and "The Little Yaller Baby." Those of this number who were +closest to the full-hearted singer know that beneath and within all his +exquisite wit and ludicrous raillery--so often directed against the +shallow formalist, or the unctuous hypocrite--there were an aspiration +toward the divine, and a desire for what is often slightingly called +"religious conversation," as sincere as it was resistless within him. My +own first remembrance of him brings back a conversation which ended in a +prayer, and the last sight I had of him was when he said, only four days +before his death, "Well, then, we will set the day soon and you will come +out and baptize the children." + +Some of the most humorous of his letters which have come under the +observation of his clerical friends, were addressed to the secretary of +one of them. Some little business matters with regard to his readings and +the like had acquainted him with a better kind of handwriting than he had +been accustomed to receive from his pastor, and, noting the finely +appended signature, "per ---- ----," Field wrote a most effusively +complimentary letter to his ministerial friend, congratulating him upon +the fact that emanations from his office, or parochial study, were "now +readable as far West as Buena Park." At length, nothing having appeared in +writing by which he might discover that ---- ---- was a lady of his own +acquaintance, she whose valuable services he desired to recognize was made +the recipient of a series of beautifully illuminated and daintily written +letters, all of them quaintly begun, continued, and ended in +ecclesiastical terminology, most of them having to do with affairs in +which the two gentlemen only were primarily interested, the larger number +of them addressed in English to "Brother ----," in care of the minister, +and yet others directed in Latin: + +Ad Fratrem ---- ---- + In curam, Sanctissimi patris ----, doctoris divinitatis, + Apud Institutionem Armouriensem, + CHICAGO, + ILLINOIS. + +{Ab Eugenic Agro, peccatore misere} + + +Even the mail-carrier appeared to know what fragrant humor escaped from +the envelope. + +Here is a specimen inclosure: + +BROTHER ----: I am to read some of my things before the senior class of +the Chicago University next Monday evening. As there is undoubtedly more +or less jealousy between the presidents of the two south side institutions +of learning, I take it upon myself to invite the lord bishop of +Armourville, our holy père, to be present on that occasion in his +pontifical robes and followed by all the dignitaries of his see, including +yourself. The processional will occur at 8 o'clock sharp, and the +recessional circa 9:30. Pax vobiscum. Salute the holy Father with a kiss, +and believe me, dear brother, + +Your fellow lamb in the old Adam, +EUGENIO AGRO. + +(A. Lamb) SEAL. + +The First Wednesday after Pay day, +September 11, 1895. + +On an occasion of this lady's visit to the South-west, where Field's +fancied association of cowboys and miners was formed, she was fortunate +enough to obtain for the decoration of his library the rather +extraordinary Indian blanket which often appears in the sketches of his +loved workshop, and for the decoration of himself a very fine necktie made +of the skin of a diamond-back rattlesnake. Some other friend had given his +boys a "vociferant burro." After the presentation was made, though for two +years he had met her socially and at the pastor's office, he wrote to the +secretary, in acknowledgment, as follows: + + +DEAR BROTHER ----: I thank you most heartily for the handsome specimens of +heathen manufacture which you brought with you for me out of the land of +Nod. Mrs. Field is quite charmed--with the blanket, but I think I prefer +the necktie; the Old Adam predominates in me, and this pelt of the serpent +appeals with peculiar force to my appreciation of the vicious and the +sinful. Nearly every morning I don that necktie and go out and twist the +supersensitive tail of our intelligent imported burro until the profane +beast burthens the air with his ribald protests. I shall ask the holy +father--Pere ---- to bring you with him when he comes again to pay a +parochial visit to my house. I have a fair and gracious daughter into +whose companionship I would fain bring so circumspect and diligent a young +man as the holy father represents you to be. Therefore, without fear or +trembling accompany that saintly man whensoever he says the word. Thereby +you shall further make me your debtor. I send you every assurance of +cordial regard, and I beg you to salute the holy father for me with a +kiss, and may peace be unto his house and unto all that dwell therein. + +Always faithfully yours, + +EUGENE FIELD. + +CHICAGO, MAY 26, 1892. + + +He became acquainted with the leading ladies of the Aid Society of the +Plymouth Church, and was thoroughly interested in their work. Partly in +order to say "Goodbye" before his leaving for California in 1893, and +partly, no doubt, that he might continue this humorous correspondence, as +he did, he hunted up an old number of Peterson's Magazine, containing a +very highly colored and elaborate pattern for knit slippers, such as +clergymen received at Christmas thirty years ago, and, inclosing it with +utmost care, he forwarded it to the aforesaid "Brother ----" with this +note: + +DEAR BROTHER ----: It has occurred to me that maybe the sisters of our +congregation will want to make our dear pastor a handsome present this +Christmas; so I inclose a lovely pattern for slippers, and I shall be glad +to ante up my share of the expense, if the sisters decide to give our dear +pastor this beautiful gift. I should like the pattern better if it had +more red in it, but it will do very nicely. As I intend to go to +California very soon, you'll have to let me know at once what the +assessment _per cap._ is, or the rest of the sisters will be compelled to +bear the full burthen of the expense. Brother, I salute you with an holy +kiss, and I rejoice with you, humbly and meekly and without insolent +vaunting, that some of us are not as other men are. + +Your fellow-lamb, + +EUGENE FIELD, + +BUENA PARK, ILL., DECEMBER 4, 1893. + +This was only one phase of the life of this great-hearted man, as it came +close to his friends in the ministry. Other clergymen who knew him well +will not forget his overflowing kindness in times of sickness and +weariness. At least one will not forget the last day of their meeting and +the ardor of the poet's prayer. Religion, as the Christian life, was not +less sacred to him because he knew how poorly men achieve the task of +living always at the best level, nor did the reality of the soul's +approach to God grow less noble or commanding to him because he knew that +too seldom do we lift our voices heavenward. I am permitted to copy this +one letter addressed to a clerical friend, at a time when Eugene Field +responded to the call of that undying puritanism in his blood: + +DEAR, DEAR FRIEND: I was greatly shocked to read in the Post last night of +your dangerous illness. It is so seldom that I pray that when I do God +knows I am in earnest. I do not pester Him with small matters. It is only +when I am in real want that I get down on my wicked knees and pray. And +I prayed for you last night, dear friend, for your friendship--the help +that it is to me--is what I need, and I cannot be bereft of it. God has +always been good to me, and He has said yes to my prayer, I am sure. +Others, too--thousands of them--are praying for you, and for your +restoration to health; none other has had in it more love and loyalty than +my prayer had, and none other, dear friend, among the thousands whom you +have blessed with your sweet friendship, loves you better than I do. + + EUGENE FIELD. +BUENA PARK, NOVEMBER 15, 1893. + +I am still sick abed and I find it hard to think out and write a letter. +Read between the lines and the love there will comfort you more than my +faulty words can. + +I have often thought, as I saw him through his later years espousing the +noblest causes with true-hearted zeal, of what he once said in the old +"Saints' and Sinners' Corner" when a conversation sprang up on the death +of Professor David Swing. His words go far to explain to me that somewhat +reckless humor which oftentimes made it seem that he loved to imitate and +hold in the pillory of his own inimitable powers of mimicry some of the +least attractive forms of the genus _parson_ he had seen and known. He +said: "A good many things I do and say are things I have to employ to keep +down the intention of those who wanted me to be a parson. I guess their +desire got into my blood, too, for I have always to preach some little +verses or I cannot get through Christmastide." + +He had to get on with blood which was exquisitely harmonious with the +heart of the Christ. He was not only a born member of the Society for the +Prevention of Sorrow to Mankind, but he was by nature a champion of a +working Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. This society was +composed of himself. He wished to enlarge the membership of this latter +association, but nobody was as orthodox in the faith as to the nobility of +a balky horse, and he found none as intolerant of ill-treatment toward any +and every brute, as was he. Professor Swing had written and read at the +Parliament of Religions an essay on the Humane Treatment of the Brutes, +which became a classic before the ink was dry, and one day Field proposed +to him and another clergyman that they begin a practical crusade. On those +cold days, drivers were demanding impossible things of smooth-shod horses +on icy streets, and he saw many a noble beast on his knees, "begging me," +as he said, "to get him a priest." Field's scheme was that the delicate +and intelligent seer, David Swing, and his less refined and less gentle +contemporary should go with him to the City Hall and be sworn in as +special policemen and "do up these fellows." His clear blue eye was like a +palpitating morning sky, and his whole thin and tall frame shook with +passionate missionary zeal. "Ah," said he, as the beloved knight of the +unorthodox explained that if he undertook the proposed task he would +surely have to abandon all other work, "I never was satisfied that you +were orthodox." His other friend had already fallen in his estimate as to +fitness for such work. For, had not Eugene Field once started out to pay a +bill of fifteen dollars, and had he not met a semblance of a man on the +street who was beating a lengthily under-jawed and bad-eyed bull-dog of +his own, for some misdemeanor? "Yea, verily," confessed the poet-humorist, +who was then a reformer. "Why didn't you have him arrested, Eugene?" "Why, +well, I was going jingling along with some new verses in my heart, and I +knew I'd lose the _tempo_ if I became militant. I said, 'What'll you take +for him?' The pup was so homely that his face ached, but, as I was in a +hurry to get to work, I gave him the fifteen dollars, and took the beast +to the office." For a solitary remark uttered at the conclusion of this +relation and fully confirmed as to its justness by an observation of the +dog, his only other human prop for this enterprise was discarded. "Oh, you +won't do," he said. + +Christianity was increasingly dear to him as the discovery of childhood +and the unfolding of its revelations. Into what long disquisitions he +delighted to go, estimating the probable value of the idea that all +returning to righteousness must be a child's returning. He saw what an +influence such a conception has upon the hard and fast lines of habit and +destiny to melt them down. He had a still greater estimate of the +importance of the fact that Jesus of Nazareth came and lived as a child; +and the dream of the last year of his life was to write, in the mood of +the Holy-Cross tale, a sketch of the early years of the Little Galilean +Peasant-Boy. This vision drifted its light into all his pictures of +children at the last. He knew the "Old Adam" in us all, especially as he +reappeared in the little folk. "But I don't believe the depravity is +total, do you?" he said, "else a child would not care to hear about Mary's +Little One;"--and then he would go on, following the Carpenter's Son about +the cottage and over the hill, and rejoicing that, in following Him thus, +he came back to his own open-eyed childhood, "But, you know," said he, +"my childhood was full of the absurdities and strenuosities" (this last +was his word) "of my puritan surroundings. Why, I never knew how naturally +and easily I can get back into the veins of an old puritan grandfather +that one of my grandmothers must have had--and how hard it is for me to +behave there, until I read Alice Morse Earle's 'The Sabbath in New +England.' I read that book nearly all night, if haply I might subdue the +confusion and sorrows that were wrought in me by eating a Christmas pie on +that feast-day. The fact is, my immediate ecclesiastical belongings are +Episcopalian. I am of the church of Archbishop Laud and King Charles of +blessed memory. I like good, thick Christmas pie, 'reeking with sapid +juices,' full-ripe and zealous for good or ill. But my 'Separatist' +ancestors all mistook gastric difficulties for spiritual graces, and, +living in me, they all revolt and want to sail in the Mayflower, or hold +town-meetings inside of me after feast-day." + +Then, as if he had it in his mind,--poor, pale, yellow-skinned sufferer,-- +to attract one to the book he delighted in, he related that he fell asleep +with this delicious volume in his hand, and this is part of the dream he +sketched afterward: + +"I went alone to the meeting-house the which those who are sinfully +inclined toward Rome would call a 'church,' and it was on the Sabbath day. +I yearned and strove to repent me of the merry mood and full sorry humors +of Christmastide. For did not Judge Sewall make public his confession of +having an overwhelming sense of inward condemnation for having opposed the +Almighty with the witches of Salem? I fancied that one William F. Poole +of the Newberry Library went also to comfort me and strengthen, as he +would fain have done for the Judge. Not one of us carried a cricket, +though Friend Poole related that he had left behind a 'seemly brassen +foot-stove' full of hot coals from his hearthstone. On the day before, +Pelitiah Underwood, the wolf-killer, had destroyed a fierce beast; and now +the head thereof was 'nayled to the meetinghouse with a notice thereof.' +It grinned at me and spit forth fire such as I felt within me. I was glad +to enter the house, which was 'lathed on the inside and so daubed and +whitened over workmanlike.' I had not been there, as it bethought me, +since the day of the raising, when Jonathan Strong did 'break his thy,' +and when all made complaint that only £9 had been spent for liquor, punch, +beere, and flip, for the raising, whereas, on the day of the ordination, +even at supper-time, besides puddings of corn meal and 'sewet baked +therein, pyes, tarts, beare-stake and deer-meat,' there were 'cyder, +rum-bitters, sling, old Barbadoes spirit, and Josslyn's nectar, made of +Maligo raisins, spices, and syrup of clove gillyflowers'--all these given +out freely to the worshippers over a newly made bar at the church door-- +God be praised! As I mused on this merry ordination, the sounding-board +above the pulpit appeared as if to fall upon the pulpit, whereon I read, +after much effort: '_Holiness is the Lord's_.' The tassels and carved +pomegranates on the sounding-board became living creatures and changed +themselves into grimaces, and I was woefully wrought upon by the red +cushion on the pulpit, which did seem a bag of fire. As the minister was +heard coming up the winding stairs unseen, and, yet more truly, as his +head at length appeared through the open trap-doorway, I thought him +Satan, and, but for friend Poole, I had cried out lustily in fear. Terror +fled me when I considered that none might do any harm there. For was not +the church militant now assembled? Besides, had they not obeyed the law of +the General Court that each congregation should carry a 'competent number +of pieces, fixed and complete with powder and shot and swords, every +Lord's-day at the meeting-house?' And, right well equipped 'with +psalm-book, shot and powder-horn' sat that doughty man, Shear Yashub +Millard along with Hezekiah Bristol and four others whose issue I have +known pleasantly in the flesh here; and those of us who had no pieces wore +'coats basted with cotton-wool, and thus made defensive against Indian +arrows.' Yet it bethought me that there was no defence against what I had +devoured on Christmas day. I had rather been the least of these,--even he +who 'blew the Kunk'--than to be thus seated there and afeared that the +brethren in the 'pitts' doubted I had true religion. That I had found a +proper seat--even this I wot not; and I quaked, for had not two of my kin +been fined near unto poverty for 'disorderly going and setting in seats +not theirs by any means,' so great was their sin. It had not yet come upon +the day when there was a 'dignifying of the meeting.' Did not even the +pious Judge Sewall's second spouse once sit in the foreseat when he +thought to have taken her into 'his own pue?' and, she having died in a +few months, did not that godly man exclaim: 'God in his holy Sovereignity +put my wife out of the Foreseat'? Was I not also in recollection by many +as one who once 'prophaned the Lord's Day in ye meeting-house, in ye times +of ye forenoone service, by my rude and Indecent acting in Laughing and +other Doings by my face with Tabatha Morgus, against ye peace of our +Sovereign Lord ye King, His crown and Dignity?'" + +At this, it appears that I groaned in my sleep, for I was not only asleep +here and now, but I was dreaming that I was asleep there and then, in the +meeting-house. It was in this latter sleep that I groaned so heavily in +spirit and in body that the tithing-man, or awakener, did approach me from +behind, without stopping to brush me to awakening by the fox-taile which +was fixed to the end of his long staffe, or even without painfully +sticking into my body his sharp and pricking staffe which he did sometimes +use. He led me out bodily to the noone-house, where I found myself fully +awakened, but much broken in spirit. Then and there did I write these +verses, which I send to you: + + "Mother," says I, "is that a pie?" in tones akin to scorning; + "It is, my son," quoth she, "and one full ripe for Christmas morning! + It's fat with plums as big as your thumbs, reeking with sapid juices, + And you'll find within all kinds of sin our grocery store produces!" + "O, well," says I, + "Seein' it's _pie_ + And is guaranteed to please, ma'am, + By your advice, + I'll take a slice, + If you'll kindly pass the cheese, ma'am!" + + But once a year comes Christmas cheer, and one should then be merry, + But as for me, as you can see, I'm disconcerted, very; + For that pesky pie sticks grimly by my organs of digestion, + And that 't will stay by me till May or June I make no question. + So unto you, + Good friends and true, + I'll tip this solemn warning: + At every price, + Eschew the vice + Of eating pie in the morning. + + +FRANK W. GUNSAULUS. +Chicago, March, 1896. + + + + + THE CONTENTS OF THIS BOOK + +THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE + +THE DREAM-SHIP + +TO CINNA + +BALLAD OF WOMEN I LOVE + +SUPPOSE + +MYSTERIOUS DOINGS + +WITH TWO SPOONS FOR TWO SPOONS + +MARY SMITH + +JESSIE + +TO EMMA ABBOTT + +THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN + +LOVE SONG--HEINE + +THE STODDARDS + +THE THREE TAILORS + +THE JAFFA AND JERUSALEM RAILWAY + +HUGO'S "POOL IN THE FOREST" + +A RHINE-LAND DRINKING SONG + +DER MANN IM KELLER + +TWO IDYLLS FROM BION THE SMYRNEAN + +THE WOOING OF THE SOUTHLAND + +HYMN + +STAR OF THE EAST + +TWIN IDOLS + +TWO VALENTINES + +MOTHER AND SPHINX + +A SPRING POEM FROM BION + +BÉRANGER'S "To MY OLD COAT" + +BEN APFELGARTEN + +A HEINE LOVE SONG + +UHLAND'S "CHAPEL" + +THE DREAMS + +IN NEW ORLEANS + +MY PLAYMATES + +STOVES AND SUNSHINE + +A DRINKING SONG + +THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH + +THE BOW-LEG BOY + +THE STRAW PARLOR + +A PITEOUS PLAINT + +THE DISCREET COLLECTOR + +A VALENTINE + +THE WIND + +A PARAPHRASE + +WITH BRUTUS IN ST. JO + +THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS + +PAN LIVETH + +DR. SAM + +WINFREDA + +LYMAN, FREDERICK, AND JIM + +BE MY SWEETHEART + +THE PETER-BIRD + +SISTER'S CAKE + +ABU MIDJAN + +ED + +JENNIE + +CONTENTMENT + +"GUESS" + +NEW-YEAR'S EVE + +OLD SPANISH SONG + +THE BROKEN RING + +IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT + +THE BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP + +AFTER READING TROLLOPE'S HISTORY OF FLORENCE + +A LULLABY + +"THE OLD HOMESTEAD" + +CHRISTMAS HYMN + +A PARAPHRASE OF HEINE + +THE CONVALESCENT GRIPSTER + +THE SLEEPING CHILD + +THE TWO COFFINS + +CLARE MARKET + +A DREAM OF SPRINGTIME + +UHLAND'S WHITE STAG + +HOW SALTY WIN OUT + + + + + 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!" + + + + THE DREAM-SHIP + +When the world is fast asleep, + Along the midnight skies-- +As though it were a wandering cloud-- + The ghostly dream-ship flies. + +An angel stands at the dream-ship's helm, + An angel stands at the prow, +And an angel stands at the dream-ship's side + With a rue-wreath on her brow. + +The other angels, silver-crowned, + Pilot and helmsman are, +And the angel with the wreath of rue + Tosseth the dreams afar. + +The dreams they fall on rich and poor; + They fall on young and old; +And some are dreams of poverty, + And some are dreams of gold. + +And some are dreams that thrill with joy, + And some that melt to tears; +Some are dreams of the dawn of love, + And some of the old dead years. + +On rich and poor alike they fall, + Alike on young and old, +Bringing to slumbering earth their joys + And sorrows manifold. + +The friendless youth in them shall do + The deeds of mighty men, +And drooping age shall feel the grace + Of buoyant youth again. + +The king shall be a beggarman-- + The pauper be a king-- +In that revenge or recompense + The dream-ship dreams do bring. + +So ever downward float the dreams + That are for all and me, +And there is never mortal man + Can solve that mystery. + +But ever onward in its course + Along the haunted skies-- +As though it were a cloud astray-- + The ghostly dream-ship flies. + +Two angels with their silver crowns + Pilot and helmsman are, +And an angel with a wreath of rue + Tosseth the dreams afar. + + + + TO CINNA + +Cinna, the great Venusian told + In songs that will not die +How in Augustan days of old + Your love did glorify +His life and all his being seemed + Thrilled by that rare incense +Till, grudging him the dreams he dreamed, + The gods did call you hence. + +Cinna, I've looked into your eyes, + And held your hands in mine, +And seen your cheeks in sweet surprise + Blush red as Massic wine; +Now let the songs in Cinna's praise + Be chanted once again, +For, oh! alone I walk the ways + We walked together then! + +Perhaps upon some star to-night, + So far away in space +I cannot see that beacon light + Nor feel its soothing grace-- +Perhaps from that far-distant sphere + Her quickened vision seeks +For this poor heart of mine that here + To its lost Cinna speaks. + +Then search this heart, beloved eyes, + And find it still as true +As when in all my boyhood skies + My guiding stars were you! +Cinna, you know the mystery + That is denied to men-- +Mine is the lot to feel that we + Shall elsewhere love again! + + + + BALLAD OF WOMEN I LOVE + +Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate + Hid away in an oaken chest, +And a Franklin platter of ancient date + Beareth Amandy Baker's crest; +What times soever I've been their guest, + Says I to myself in an undertone: +"Of womenfolk, it must be confessed, + These do I love, and these alone." + +Well, again, in the Nutmeg State, + Dorothy Pratt is richly blest +With a relic of art and a land effete-- + A pitcher of glass that's cut, not pressed. +And a Washington teapot is possessed + Down in Pelham by Marthy Stone-- +Think ye now that I say in jest + "These do I love, and these alone?" + +Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate, + Or Dorcas Eastman prone to invest +In Cupid's bonds, they could find their fate + In the bootless bard of Crockery Quest. +For they've heaps of trumpery--so have the rest + Of those spinsters whose ware I'd like to own; +You can see why I say with such certain zest, + "These do I love, and these alone." + + + + ENVOY + +Prince, show me the quickest way and best + To gain the subject of my moan; +We've neither spinsters nor relics out West-- + These do I love, and these alone. + + + + SUPPOSE + +Suppose, my dear, that you were I + And by your side your sweetheart sate; +Suppose you noticed by and by + The distance 'twixt you were too great; +Now tell me, dear, what would you do? + I know--and so do you. + +And when (so comfortably placed) + Suppose you only grew aware +That that dear, dainty little waist + Of hers looked very lonely there; +Pray tell me sooth--what would you do? + I know, and so do you. + +When, having done what I just did + With not a frown to check or chill, +Suppose her red lips seemed to bid + Defiance to your lordly will; +Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do? + I know, and so do you. + + + + MYSTERIOUS DOINGS + +As once I rambled in the woods + I chanced to spy amid the brake +A huntsman ride his way beside + A fair and passing tranquil lake; +Though velvet bucks sped here and there, + He let them scamper through the green-- +Not one smote he, but lustily + He blew his horn--what could it mean? + +As on I strolled beside that lake, + A pretty maid I chanced to see +Fishing away for finny prey, + Yet not a single one caught she; +All round her boat the fishes leapt + And gambolled to their hearts' content, +Yet never a thing did the maid but sing-- + I wonder what on earth it meant. + +As later yet I roamed my way, + A lovely steed neighed loud and long, +And an empty boat sped all afloat + Where sang a fishermaid her song; +All underneath the prudent shade, + Which yonder kindly willows threw, +Together strayed a youth and maid-- + I can't explain it all, can you? + + + + WITH TWO SPOONS FOR TWO SPOONS + +How trifling shall these gifts appear + Among the splendid many +That loving friends now send to cheer + Harvey and Ellen Jenney. + +And yet these baubles symbolize + A certain fond relation +That well beseems, as I surmise, + This festive celebration. + +Sweet friends of mine, be spoons once more, + And with your tender cooing +Renew the keen delights of yore-- + The rapturous bliss of wooing. + +What though that silver in your hair + Tells of the years aflying? +'T is yours to mock at Time and Care + With love that is undying. + +In memory of this Day, dear friends, + Accept the modest token +From one who with the bauble sends + A love that can't be spoken. + + + + MARY SMITH + +Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith, +There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith; +And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl, +And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl; +Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place, +Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face, +And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow +I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau. + +I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird. +A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard. +She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass, +And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place; +The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance, +For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance; +And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know +I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau. + +On Friday nights I'd drop around to make my weekly call, +And though I came to visit her, I'd have to see 'em all. +With Mary's mother sitting here and Mary's father there, +The conversation never flagged so far as I'm aware; +Sometimes I'd hold her worsted, sometimes we'd play at games, +Sometimes dissect the apples which we'd named each other's names. +Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me when to go-- +'Twas ten o'clock at half-past eight when I was Mary's beau. + +Now there was Luther Baker--because he'd come of age +And thought himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage-- +He fancied he could cut me out; but Mary was my friend-- +Elsewise I'm sure the issue had had a tragic end. +For Luther Baker was a man I never could abide, +And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died. +I merely cite this instance incidentally to show +That I was quite in earnest when I was Mary's beau. + +How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again: +The little township that was all the world I knew of then-- +The meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond, +Old deacon Packard's general store, the sawmill by the pond, +The village elms I vainly sought to conquer in my quest +Of that surpassing trophy, the golden oriole's nest. +And, last of all those visions that come back from long ago, +The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary's beau. + +Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart-- +'T is many years since fate ordained that she and I should part; +To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet +It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget. +And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy +That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy? +I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack, 't would show +That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau. + +And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place, +God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face-- +God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day, +With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray; +But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee +As _we_ were in the olden times--as _you_ shall always be. +Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know +When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary's beau. + +Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes +Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies; +For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see +God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me; +And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days, +When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant ways-- +Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago, +Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau. + + + + JESSIE + +When I remark her golden hair + Swoon on her glorious shoulders, +I marvel not that sight so rare + Doth ravish all beholders; +For summon hence all pretty girls + Renowned for beauteous tresses, +And you shall find among their curls + There's none so fair as Jessie's. + +And Jessie's eyes are, oh, so blue + And full of sweet revealings-- +They seem to look you through and through + And read your inmost feelings; +Nor black emits such ardent fires, + Nor brown such truth expresses-- +Admit it, all ye gallant squires-- + There are no eyes like Jessie's. + +Her voice (like liquid beams that roll + From moonland to the river) +Steals subtly to the raptured soul, + Therein to lie and quiver; +Or falls upon the grateful ear + With chaste and warm caresses-- +Ah, all concede the truth (who hear): + There's no such voice as Jessie's. + +Of other charms she hath such store + All rivalry excelling, +Though I used adjectives galore, + They'd fail me in the telling; +But now discretion stays my hand-- + Adieu, eyes, voice, and tresses. +Of all the husbands in the land + There's none so fierce as Jessie's. + + + + TO EMMA ABBOTT + +There--let thy hands be folded + Awhile in sleep's repose; +The patient hands that wearied not, +But earnestly and nobly wrought + In charity and faith; + And let thy dear eyes close-- +The eyes that looked alway to God, +Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod + Of sorrow; +Fold thou thy hands and eyes + For just a little while, + And with a smile + Dream of the morrow. + +And, O white voiceless flower, + The dream which thou shalt dream +Should be a glimpse of heavenly things, +For yonder like a seraph sings + The sweetness of a life + With faith alway its theme; +While speedeth from those realms above +The messenger of that dear love + That healeth sorrow. + So sleep a little while, + For thou shalt wake and sing + Before thy King + When cometh the morrow. + + + + THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN + +Good editor Dana--God bless him, we say-- + Will soon be afloat on the main, + Will be steaming away + Through the mist and the spray + To the sensuous climate of Spain. + +Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land + Which is famed for its soap and its Moor, + For, as we understand, + The scenery is grand + Though the system of railways is poor. + +For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold + Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, + And the ladies, we're told, + Are a joy to behold + As they twine in their lissome fandangoes. + +What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar + And murmur a passionate strain; + Oh, fairer by far + Than those ravishments are + The castles abounding in Spain. + +These castles are built as the builder may list-- + They are sometimes of marble or stone, + But they mostly consist + Of east wind and mist + With an ivy of froth overgrown. + +A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise + On a futile foundation of hope, + And its glories shall blaze + In the somnolent haze + Of the mythical lake del y Soap. + +The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air + And the visions of Dreamland obtain, + And the song of "World's Fair" + Shall be heard everywhere + Through that beautiful castle in Spain. + + + + LOVE SONG--HEINE + +Many a beauteous flower doth spring + From the tears that flood my eyes, +And the nightingale doth sing + In the burthen of my sighs. + +If, O child, thou lovest me, + Take these flowerets fair and frail, +And my soul shall waft to thee + Love songs of the nightingale. + + + + THE STODDARDS + +When I am in New York, I like to drop around at night, +To visit with my honest, genial friends, the Stoddards hight; +Their home in Fifteenth street is all so snug, and furnished so, +That, when I once get planted there, I don't know when to go; +A cosy cheerful refuge for the weary homesick guest, +Combining Yankee comforts with the freedom of the west. + +The first thing you discover, as you maunder through the hall, +Is a curious little clock upon a bracket on the wall; +'T was made by Stoddard's father, and it's very, very old-- +The connoisseurs assure me it is worth its weight in gold; +And I, who've bought all kinds of clocks, 'twixt Denver and the Rhine, +Cast envious eyes upon that clock, and wish that it were mine. + +But in the parlor. Oh, the gems on tables, walls, and floor-- +Rare first editions, etchings, and old crockery galore. +Why, talk about the Indies and the wealth of Orient things-- +They couldn't hold a candle to these quaint and sumptuous things; +In such profusion, too--Ah me! how dearly I recall +How I have sat and watched 'em and wished I had 'em all. + +Now, Mr. Stoddard's study is on the second floor, +A wee blind dog barks at me as I enter through the door; +The Cerberus would fain begrudge what sights it cannot see, +The rapture of that visual feast it cannot share with me; +A miniature edition this--this most absurd of hounds-- +A genuine unique, I'm sure, and one unknown to Lowndes. + +Books--always books--are piled around; some musty, and all old; +Tall, solemn folios such as Lamb declared he loved to hold; +Large paper copies with their virgin margins white and wide, +And presentation volumes with the author's comps. inside; +I break the tenth commandment with a wild impassioned cry: +Oh, how came Stoddard by these things? Why Stoddard, and not I? + +From yonder wall looks Thackeray upon his poet friend, +And underneath the genial face appear the lines he penned; +And here, gadzooks, ben honge ye prynte of marvaillous renowne +Yt shameth Chaucers gallaunt knyghtes in Canterbury towne; +And still more books and pictures. I'm dazed, bewildered, vexed; +Since I've broke the tenth commandment, why not break the eighth one next? + +And, furthermore, in confidence inviolate be it said +Friend Stoddard owns a lock of hair that grew on Milton's head; +Now I have Gladstone axes and a lot of curious things, +Such as pimply Dresden teacups and old German wedding-rings; +But nothing like that saintly lock have I on wall or shelf, +And, being somewhat short of hair, I should like that lock myself. + +But Stoddard has a soothing way, as though he grieved to see +Invidious torments prey upon a nice young chap like me. +He waves me to an easy chair and hands me out a weed +And pumps me full of that advice he seems to know I need; +So sweet the tap of his philosophy and knowledge flows +That I can't help wishing that I knew a half what Stoddard knows. + +And so we sit for hours and hours, praising without restraint +The people who are thoroughbreds, and roasting the ones that ain't; +Happy, thrice happy, is the man we happen to admire, +But wretched, oh, how wretched he that hath provoked our ire; +For I speak emphatic English when I once get fairly r'iled, +And Stoddard's wrath's an Ossa upon a Pelion piled. + +Out yonder, in the alcove, a lady sits and darns, +And interjects remarks that always serve to spice our yarns; +She's Mrs. Stoddard; there's a dame that's truly to my heart: +A tiny little woman, but so quaint, and good, and smart +That, if you asked me to suggest which one I should prefer +Of all the Stoddard treasures, I should promptly mention her. + +O dear old man, how I should like to be with you this night, +Down in your home in Fifteenth street, where all is snug and bright; +Where the shaggy little Cerberus dreams in its cushioned place, +And the books and pictures all around smile in their old friend's face; +Where the dainty little sweetheart, whom you still were proud to woo, +Charms back the tender memories so dear to her and you. + + + + THE THREE TAILORS + +I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time, +Three tailors tramped up to the inn Ingleheim, + On the Rhine, lovely Rhine; +They were broke, but the worst of it all, they were curst +With that malady common to tailors--a thirst + For wine, lots of wine. + +"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're hard up as can be, +Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we, + On the Rhine, genial Rhine; +And we pledge you we will impart you that skill +Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill + Us with wine, cooling wine." + +But that host shook his head, and he warily said: +"Though cunning be good, we take money instead, + On the Rhine, thrifty Rhine; +If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way +You'll find that there's both host and the devil to pay + For your wine, costly wine." + +Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright +And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light + From the Rhine, sunny Rhine; +And, in such a deft way, patched a mirror that day +That where it was mended no expert could say-- + Done so fine 't was for wine. + +The second thereat spied a poor little gnat +Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat + Towards the Rhine, pleasant Rhine; +"Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend, +But your stockings need darning"--which same did he mend, + All for wine, soothing wine. + +And next there occurred what you'll deem quite absurd-- +His needle a space in the wall thrust the third, + By the Rhine, wondrous Rhine; +And then all so spry, he leapt through the eye +Of that thin cambric needle--nay, think you I'd lie + About wine--not for wine. + +The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud +To do the fair thing by that talented crowd + On the Rhine, generous Rhine. +So a thimble filled he as full as could be-- +"Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly friends three, + Of my wine, filling wine." + + + + THE JAFFA AND JERUSALEM RAILWAY + +A tortuous double iron track; a station here, a station there; +A locomotive, tender, tanks; a coach with stiff reclining chair; +Some postal cars, and baggage, too; a vestibule of patent make; +With buffers, duffers, switches, and the soughing automatic brake-- +This is the Orient's novel pride, and Syria's gaudiest modern gem: +The railway scheme that is to ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. + +Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, the engine when you hear its bell; +Beware, O camel, when resounds the whistle's shrill, unholy swell; +And, native of that guileless land, unused to modern travel's snare, +Beware the fiend that peddles books--the awful peanut-boy beware. +Else, trusting in their specious arts, you may have reason to condemn +The traffic which the knavish ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. + +And when, ah, when the bonds fall due, how passing wroth will wax the +state +From Nebo's mount to Nazareth will spread the cry "Repudiate"! +From Hebron to Tiberius, from Jordan's banks unto the sea, +Will rise profuse anathemas against "that ---- monopoly!" +And F.M.B.A. shepherd-folk, with Sockless Jerry leading them, +Will swamp that corporation line 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. + + + + HUGO'S "POOL IN THE FOREST" + +How calm, how beauteous and how cool-- + How like a sister to the skies, +Appears the broad, transparent pool + That in this quiet forest lies. +The sunshine ripples on its face, + And from the world around, above, +It hath caught down the nameless grace + Of such reflections as we love. + +But deep below its surface crawl + The reptile horrors of the night-- +The dragons, lizards, serpents--all + The hideous brood that hate the light; +Through poison fern and slimy weed + And under ragged, jagged stones +They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed, + They lap a dead man's bleaching bones. + +And as, O pool, thou dost cajole + With seemings that beguile us well, +So doeth many a human soul + That teemeth with the lusts of hell. + + + + A RHINE-LAND DRINKING SONG + +If our own life is the life of a flower + (And that's what some sages are thinking), +We should moisten the bud with a health-giving flood + And 'twill bloom all the sweeter-- + Yes, life's the completer + For drinking, + and drinking, + and drinking. + +If it be that our life is a journey + (As many wise folk are opining), +We should sprinkle the way with the rain while we may; + Though dusty and dreary, + 'Tis made cool and cheery + With wining, + and wining, + and wining. + +If this life that we live be a dreaming + (As pessimist people are thinking), +To induce pleasant dreams there is nothing, meseems, + Like this sweet prescription, + That baffles description-- + This drinking, + and drinking, + and drinking. + + + + DER MANN IM KELLER + +How cool and fair this cellar where + My throne a dusky cask is; +To do no thing but just to sing + And drown the time my task is. + The cooper he's + Resolved to please, +And, answering to my winking, + He fills me up + Cup after cup +For drinking, drinking, drinking. + + Begrudge me not + This cosy spot +In which I am reclining-- + Why, who would burst + With envious thirst, +When he can live by wining. +A roseate hue seems to imbue + The world on which I'm blinking; +My fellow-men--I love them when +I'm drinking, drinking, drinking. + +And yet I think, the more I drink, + It's more and more I pine for-- +Oh, such as I (forever dry) + God made this land of Rhine for; + And there is bliss + In knowing this, +As to the floor I'm sinking: + I've wronged no man + And never can +While drinking, drinking, drinking. + + + + TWO IDYLLS FROM BION THE SMYRNEAN + +I + +Once a fowler, young and artless, + To the quiet greenwood came; +Full of skill was he and heartless + In pursuit of feathered game. +And betimes he chanced to see +Eros perching in a tree. + +"What strange bird is that, I wonder?" + Thought the youth, and spread his snare; +Eros, chuckling at the blunder, + Gayly scampered here and there. +Do his best, the simple clod +Could not snare the agile god! + +Blubbering, to his aged master + Went the fowler in dismay, +And confided his disaster + With that curious bird that day; +"Master, hast thou ever heard +Of so ill-disposed a bird?" + +"Heard of him? Aha, most truly!" + Quoth the master with a smile; +"And thou too, shall know him duly-- + Thou art young, but bide awhile, +And old Eros will not fly +From thy presence by and by! + +"For when thou art somewhat older + That same Eros thou didst see, +More familiar grown and bolder, + Shall become acquaint with thee; +And when Eros comes thy way +Mark my word, he comes to stay!" + +II + +Once came Venus to me, bringing + Eros where my cattle fed-- +"Teach this little boy your singing, + Gentle herdsman," Venus said. +I was young--I did not know + Whom it was that Venus led-- +That was many years ago! + +In a lusty voice but mellow-- + Callow pedant! I began +To instruct the little fellow + In the mysteries known to man; +Sung the noble cithern's praise, + And the flute of dear old Pan, +And the lyre that Hermes plays. + +But he paid no heed unto me-- + Nay, that graceless little boy +Coolly plotted to undo me-- + With his songs of tender joy; +And my pedantry o'erthrown, + Eager was I to employ +His sweet ritual for mine own! + +Ah, these years of ours are fleeting! + Yet I have not vainly wrought, +Since to-day I am repeating + What dear lessons Eros taught; +Love, and always love, and then-- + Counting all things else for naught-- +Love and always love again! + + + + THE WOOING OF THE SOUTHLAND + + (ALASKAN BALLAD) + +The Northland reared his hoary head + And spied the Southland leagues away-- +"Fairest of all fair brides," he said, + "Be thou my bride, I pray!" + +Whereat the Southland laughed and cried: + "I'll bide beside my native sea, +And I shall never be thy bride + Till thou com'st wooing me!" + +The Northland's heart was a heart of ice, + A diamond glacier, mountain high-- +Oh, love is sweet at any price, + As well know you and I! + +So gayly the Northland took his heart + And cast it in the wailing sea-- +"Go, thou, with all thy cunning art, + And woo my bride for me!" + +For many a night and for many a day, + And over the leagues that rolled between, +The true-heart messenger sped away + To woo the Southland queen. + +But the sea wailed loud, and the sea wailed long, + While ever the Northland cried in glee: +"Oh, thou shalt sing us our bridal song, + When comes my bride, O sea!" + +At the foot of the Southland's golden throne + The heart of the Northland ever throbs-- +For that true-heart speaks in the waves that moan, + The songs that it sings are sobs. + +Ever the Southland spurns the cries + Of the messenger pleading the Northland's part; +The summer shines in the Southland's eyes-- + The winter bides in her heart! + +And ever unto that far-off place + Which love doth render a hallowed spot, +The Northland turneth his honest face + And wonders she cometh not. + +The sea wails loud, and the sea wails long, + As the ages of waiting drift slowly by, +But the sea shall sing no bridal song-- + As well know you and I! + + + + HYMN + + (FROM THE GERMAN OF MARTIN LUTHER) + +O heart of mine! lift up thine eyes +And see who in yon manger lies! +Of perfect form, of face divine-- +It is the Christ-child, heart of mine! + +O dearest, holiest Christ-child, spread +Within this heart of mine thy bed; +Then shall my breast forever be +A chamber consecrate to thee! + +Beat high to-day, O heart of mine, +And tell, O lips, what joys are thine; +For with your help shall I prolong +Old Bethlehem's sweetest cradle-song. + +Glory to God, whom this dear Child +Hath by His coming reconciled, +And whose redeeming love again +Brings peace on earth, good will to men! + + + + STAR OF THE EAST + +Star of the East, that long ago + Brought wise men on their way +Where, angels singing to and fro, + The Child of Bethlehem lay-- +Above that Syrian hill afar +Thou shinest out to-night, O Star! + +Star of the East, the night were drear + But for the tender grace +That with thy glory comes to cheer + Earth's loneliest, darkest place; +For by that charity we see +Where there is hope for all and me. + +Star of the East! show us the way + In wisdom undefiled +To seek that manger out and lay + Our gifts before the child-- +To bring our hearts and offer them +Unto our King in Bethlehem! + + + + TWIN IDOLS + +There are two phrases, you must know, + So potent (yet so small) +That wheresoe'er a man may go + He needs none else at all; +No servile guide to lead the way + Nor lackey at his heel, +If he be learned enough to say + "Comme bien" and "Wie viel." + +The sleek, pomaded Parleyvoo + Will air his sweetest airs +And quote the highest rates when you + "Comme bien" for his wares; +And, though the German stolid be, + His so-called heart of steel +Becomes as soft as wax when he + Detects the words "Wie viel." + +Go, search the boulevards and rues + From Havre to Marseilles-- +You'll find all eloquence you use + Except "Comme bien" fails; +Or in the country auf der Rhine + Essay a business deal +And all your art is good fuhr nein + Beyond the point--"Wie viel." + +It matters not what game or prey + Attracts your greedy eyes-- +You must pursue the good old way + If you would win the prize; +It is to get a titled mate + All run down at the heel, +If you inquire of stock effete, + "Comme bien" or "Wie viel." + +So he is wise who envieth not + A wealth of foreign speech, +Since with two phrases may be got + Whatever's in his reach; +For Europe is a soulless shrine + In which all classes kneel +Before twin idols, deemed divine-- + "Comme bien" and "Wie viel." + + + + TWO VALENTINES + +I.--TO MISTRESS BARBARA + +There were three cavaliers, all handsome and true, +On Valentine's day came a maiden to woo, +And quoth to your mother: "Good-morrow, my dear, +We came with some songs for your daughter to hear!" + +Your mother replied: "I'll be pleased to convey +To my daughter what things you may sing or may say!" + +Then the first cavalier sung: "My pretty red rose, +I'll love you and court you some day, I suppose!" + +And the next cavalier sung, with make-believe tears: +"I've loved you! I've loved you these many long years!" + +But the third cavalier (with the brown, bushy head +And the pretty blue jacket and necktie of red) +He drew himself up with a resolute air, +And he warbled: "O maiden, surpassingly fair! +I've loved you long years, and I love you to-day, +And, if you will let me, I'll love you for aye!" + +I (the third cavalier) sang this ditty to you, +In my necktie of red and my jacket of blue; +I'm sure you'll prefer the song that was mine +And smile your approval on your valentine. + + +II.--TO A BABY BOY + +Who I am I shall not say, +But I send you this bouquet +With this query, baby mine: +"Will you be my valentine?" + +See these roses blushing blue, +Very like your eyes of hue; +While these violets are the red +Of your cheeks. It can be said +Ne'er before was babe like you. + +And I think it is quite true +No one e'er before to-day +Sent so wondrous a bouquet +As these posies aforesaid-- +Roses blue and violets red! + +Sweet, repay me sweets for sweets-- +'Tis your lover who entreats! +Smile upon me, baby mine-- +Be my little valentine! + + + + MOTHER AND SPHINX + + (EGYPTIAN FOLK-SONG) + +Grim is the face that looks into the night + Over the stretch of sands; +A sullen rock in a sea of white-- +A ghostly shadow in ghostly light, + Peering and moaning it stands. +_"Oh, is it the king that rides this way-- +Oh, is it the king that rides so free? +I have looked for the king this many a day, +But the years that mock me will not say + Why tarrieth he!"_ + +'T is not your king that shall ride to-night, + But a child that is fast asleep; +And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-horse white-- +Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly light + Where the ghostly shadows creep! +_"My eyes are dull and my face is sere, + Yet unto the word he gave I cling, +For he was a Pharaoh that set me here-- +And, lo! I have waited this many a year + For him--my king!"_ + +Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride + Swift as the burning winds that bear +The sand clouds over the desert wide-- +Swift to the verdure and palms beside + The wells off there! +_"And is it the mighty king I shall see + Come riding into the night? +Oh, is it the king come back to me-- +Proudly and fiercely rideth he, + With centuries dight!"_ + +I know no king but my dark-eyed dear + That shall ride the Dream-Horse white; +But see! he wakes at my bosom here, +While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers near + To speed with my babe to-night! +_And out of the desert darkness peers + A ghostly, ghastly, shadowy thing +Like a spirit come out of the mouldering years, +And ever that waiting spectre hears + The coming king!_ + + + + A SPRING POEM FROM BION + + One asketh: +"Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: +What's the season pleaseth you? +Is it summer suits you best, +When from harvest toil we rest? + Is it autumn with its glory + Of all surfeited desires? + Is it winter, when with story + And with song we hug our fires? +Or is spring most fair to you-- +Come, good Myrson, tell me true!" + + Another answereth: +"What the gods in wisdom send +We should question not, my friend; +Yet, since you entreat of me, +I will answer reverently: + Me the summertime displeases, + For its sun is scorching hot; + Autumn brings such dire diseases + That perforce I like it not; +As for biting winter, oh! +How I hate its ice and snow! + +"But, thrice welcome, kindly spring, +With the myriad gifts you bring! +Not too hot nor yet too cold, +Graciously your charms unfold-- + Oh, your days are like the dreaming + Of those nights which love beseems, + And your nights have all the seeming + Of those days of golden dreams! +Heaven smiles down on earth, and then +Earth smiles up to heaven again!" + + + + BÉRANGER'S "TO MY OLD COAT." + +Still serve me in my age, I pray, + As in my youth, O faithful one; +For years I've brushed thee every day-- + Could Socrates have better done? +What though the fates would wreak on thee + The fulness of their evil art? +Use thou philosophy, like me-- + And we, old friend, shall never part! + +I think--I _often_ think of it-- + The day we twain first faced the crowd; +My roistering friends impeached your fit, + But you and I were very proud! +Those jovial friends no more make free + With us (no longer new and smart), +But rather welcome you and me + As loving friends that should not part. + +The patch? Oh, yes--one happy night-- + "Lisette," says I, "it's time to go"-- +She clutched this sleeve to stay my flight, + Shrieking: "What! leave so early? No!" +To mend the ghastly rent she'd made, + Three days she toiled, dear patient heart! +And I--right willingly I staid-- + Lisette decreed we should not part! + +No incense ever yet profaned + This honest, shiny warp of thine, +Nor hath a courtier's eye disdained + Thy faded hue and quaint design; +Let servile flattery be the price + Of ribbons in the royal mart-- +A roadside posie shall suffice + For us two friends that must not part! + +Fear not the recklessness of yore + Shall re-occur to vex thee now; +Alas, I am a youth no more-- + I'm old and sere, and so art thou! +So bide with me unto the last + And with thy warmth caress this heart +That pleads, by memories of the Past, + That two such friends should never part! + + + + BEN APFELGARTEN + +There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called, + Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago, +And he was very fortunate in being very bald + And so was very happy he was so. + He warbled all the day + Such songs as only they +Who are very, very circumspect and very happy may; + The people wondered why, + As the years went gliding by, +They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh! + +The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben, + Till (may be you can fancy it) the dickens was to pay +Among the callow students and the sober-minded men-- + With the women-folk a-cuttin' up that way! + Why, they gave him turbans red + To adorn his hairless head, +And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed! + In vain the rest demurred-- + Not a single chiding word +Those ladies deigned to tolerate--remonstrance was absurd! + +Things finally got into such a very dreadful way + That the others (oh, how artful) formed the politic design +To send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November day, + They elected him a member from the Rhine! + Then the other members said: + "Gott im Himmel! what a head!" +But they marvelled when his speeches they listened to or read; + And presently they cried: + "There must be heaps inside +Of the smooth and shiny cranium his constituents deride!" + +Well, when at last he up 'nd died--long past his ninetieth year-- + The strangest and the most lugubrious funeral he had, +For women came in multitudes to weep upon his bier-- + The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone mad! + And this wonderment increased + Till the sympathetic priest +Inquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?" + Whereupon were they appalled, + For, as one, those women squalled: +"We doted on deceased for being bald--bald--bald!" + +He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair away + Which, elsewise, clogs one's keenness and activity of mind; +And (barring present company, of course) I'm free to say + That, after all, it's intellect that captures womankind. + At any rate, since then + (With a precedent in Ben), +The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men! + + + + A HEINE LOVE SONG + +The image of the moon at night + All trembling in the ocean lies, +But she, with calm and steadfast light, + Moves proudly through the radiant skies, + +How like the tranquil moon thou art-- + Thou fairest flower of womankind! +And, look, within my fluttering heart + Thy image trembling is enshrined! + + + + UHLAND'S "CHAPEL" + +Yonder stands the hillside chapel + Mid the evergreens and rocks, +All day long it hears the song + Of the shepherd to his flocks. + +Then the chapel bell goes tolling-- + Knelling for a soul that's sped; +Silent and sad the shepherd lad + Hears the requiem for the dead. + +Shepherd, singers of the valley, + Voiceless now, speed on before; +Soon shall knell that chapel bell + For the songs you'll sing no more. + + + + THE DREAMS + +Two dreams came down to earth one night + From the realm of mist and dew; +One was a dream of the old, old days, + And one was a dream of the new. + +One was a dream of a shady lane + That led to the pickerel pond +Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves + To the brown old hills beyond. + +And the people that peopled the old-time dream + Were pleasant and fair to see, +And the dreamer he walked with them again + As often of old walked he. + +Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane + That tangled his curly hair! +Oh, sweet was the music the robins made + To the springtime everywhere! + +Was it the dew the dream had brought + From yonder midnight skies, +Or was it tears from the dear, dead years + That lay in the dreamer's eyes? + +The _other_ dream ran fast and free, + As the moon benignly shed +Her golden grace on the smiling face + In the little trundle-bed. + +For 't was a dream of times to come-- + Of the glorious noon of day-- +Of the summer that follows the careless spring + When the child is done with play. + +And 't was a dream of the busy world + Where valorous deeds are done; +Of battles fought in the cause of right, + And of victories nobly won. + +It breathed no breath of the dear old home + And the quiet joys of youth; +It gave no glimpse of the good old friends + Or the old-time faith and truth. + +But 't was a dream of youthful hopes, + And fast and free it ran, +And it told to a little sleeping child + Of a boy become a man! + +These were the dreams that came one night + To earth from yonder sky; +These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed-- + My little boy and I. + +And in our hearts my boy and I + Were glad that it was so; +_He_ loved to dream of days to come, + And _I_ of long ago. + +So from our dreams my boy and I + Unwillingly awoke, +But neither of his precious dream + Unto the other spoke. + +Yet of the love we bore those dreams + Gave each his tender sign; +For there was triumph in _his_ eyes-- + And there were tears in _mine!_ + + + + IN NEW ORLEANS + +'Twas in the Crescent City not long ago befell +The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell; +So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing +Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-- +No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem +Of blowing twenty dollars in by nine o'clock a.m. + +Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid, +But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; +And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, +Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, +The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin +That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in! + +In Royal street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop, +And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop; +To stop was hesitation--in a moment I was lost-- +_That_ kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost! +I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem-- +And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of eight a.m.! + +Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, +Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen; +A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, +With its curious depression into which the gravy flows; +Two dainty silver salts--oh, there was no resisting _them_-- +And I'd blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a.m. + +With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed, +Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need; +Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps, +A gown--_the_ gown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps! +These and ten thousand other spectres harrow and condemn +The man who's blown in twenty by nine o'clock a.m. + +Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) +In asking one this question: "What _did_ you buy it for?" +Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade _before_ the act, +_Before_ one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact-- +_Before_ one's fallen victim to the Tempter's stratagem +And blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a.m.? + +Ah me! now that the deed is done, how penitent I am! +I _was_ a roaring lion--behold a bleating lamb! +I've packed and shipped those precious things to that more precious wife +Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, +While he who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth +Is far away, and means to keep his distance--for his health! + + + + MY PLAYMATES + +The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool-- +Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; +It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, +And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill; +So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know +Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow. + +What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker's hill? +And what's become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill? +And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell, +And of Roxie Root, who 'tended school in Boston for a spell? +They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play-- +They do not answer to my call! My playmates--where are they? + +What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe, +Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago? +I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown, +And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school down! +And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow, and all +Who I am sure would answer could they only hear my call! + +I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again +And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men! +And one--I shall not name her--could I see her gentle face +And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place! +The flowers and hopes of springtime--they perished long ago, +And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow. + +O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys +That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise? +O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know +Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? +You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far; +I am looking for my playmates--I wonder where they are! + + + + STOVES AND SUNSHINE + +Prate, ye who will, of so-called charms you find across the sea-- +The land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me! +I've done the grand for fourteen months in every foreign clime, +And I've learned a heap of learning, but I've shivered all the time; +And the biggest bit of wisdom I've acquired--as I can see-- +Is that which teaches that this land's the land of lands for me. + +Now, I am of opinion that a person should get some +Warmth in this present life of ours, not all in that to come; +So when Boreas blows his blast, through country and through town, +Or when upon the muddy streets the stifling fog rolls down, +Go, guzzle in a pub, or plod some bleak malarious grove, +But let me toast my shrunken shanks beside some Yankee stove. + +The British people say they "don't believe in stoves, y' know;" +Perchance because we warmed 'em so completely years ago! +They talk of "drahfts" and "stuffiness" and "ill effects of heat," +As they chatter in their barny rooms or shiver 'round the street; +With sunshine such a rarity, and stoves esteemed a sin, +What wonder they are wedded to their fads--catarrh and gin? + +In Germany are stoves galore, and yet you seldom find +A fire within the stoves, for German stoves are not that kind; +The Germans say that fires make dirt, and dirt's an odious thing, +But the truth is that the pfennig is the average Teuton's king, +And since the fire costs pfennigs, why, the thrifty soul denies +Himself all heat except what comes with beer and exercise. + +The Frenchman builds a fire of cones, the Irishman of peat; +The frugal Dutchman buys a fire when he has need of heat-- +That is to say, he pays so much each day to one who brings +The necessary living coals to warm his soup and things; +In Italy and Spain they have no need to heat the house-- +'Neath balmy skies the native picks the mandolin and louse. + +Now, we've no mouldy catacombs, no feudal castles grim, +No ruined monasteries, no abbeys ghostly dim; +Our ancient history is new, our future's all ahead, +And we've got a tariff bill that's made all Europe sick abed-- +But what is best, though short on tombs and academic groves, +We double discount Christendom on sunshine and on stoves. + +Dear land of mine! I come to you from months of chill and storm, +Blessing the honest people whose hearts and hearths are warm; +A fairer, sweeter song than this I mean to weave to you +When I've reached my lakeside 'dobe and once get heated through; +But, even then, the burthen of that fairer song shall be +That the land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me. + + + + A DRINKING SONG + +Come, brothers, share the fellowship + We celebrate to-night; +There's grace of song on every lip + And every heart is light! +But first, before our mentor chimes + The hour of jubilee, +Let's drink a health to good old times, + And good times yet to be! + Clink, clink, clink! + Merrily let us drink! + There's store of wealth + And more of health + In every glass, we think. + Clink, clink, clink! + To fellowship we drink! + And from the bowl + No genial soul + In such an hour can shrink. + +And you, oh, friends from west and east + And other foreign parts, +Come share the rapture of our feast, + The love of loyal hearts; +And in the wassail that suspends + All matters burthensome, +We'll drink a health to good old friends + And good friends yet to come. + Clink, clink, clink! + To fellowship we drink! + And from the bowl + No genial soul + In such an hour will shrink. + Clink, clink, clink! + Merrily let us drink! + There's fellowship + In every sip + Of friendship's brew, we think. + + + + + THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH + +I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hoss + Way out into the big an' boundless west; +I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, + An' I'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest! + With my pistols at my side, + I would roam the prarers wide, +An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride-- + If I darst; but I darsen't! + +I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there, + An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! +I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, + An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw! + I'd chase the pizen snakes + An' the 'pottimus that makes +His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes-- + If I darst; but I darsen't! + +I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, + With a big black flag aflyin' overhead; +I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew + An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red! + With my cutlass in my hand + On the quarterdeck I'd stand +And to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band-- + If I darst; but I darsen't! + +And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me! + I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too! +I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, + An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through! + You bet! I'd run away + From my lessons to my play, +An' I'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all day-- + If I darst; but I darsen't! + + + + THE BOW-LEG BOY + +Who should come up the road one day +But the doctor-man in his two-wheel shay! +And he whoaed his horse and he cried "Ahoy! +I have brought you folks a bow-leg boy! + Such a cute little boy! + Such a funny little boy! + Such a dear little bow-leg boy!" + +He took out his box and he opened it wide, +And there was the bow-leg boy inside! +And when they saw that cunning little mite, +They cried in a chorus expressive of delight: + "What a cute little boy! + What a funny little boy! + What a dear little bow-leg boy!" + +Observing a strict geometrical law, +They cut out his panties with a circular saw; +Which gave such a stress to his oval stride +That the people he met invariably cried: + "What a cute little boy! + What a funny little boy! + What a dear little bow-leg boy!" + +They gave him a wheel and away he went +Speeding along to his heart's content; +And he sits so straight and he pedals so strong +That the folks all say as he bowls along: + "What a cute little boy! + What a funny little boy! + What a dear little bow-leg boy!" + +With his eyes aflame and his cheeks aglow, +He laughs "aha" and he laughs "oho"; +And the world is filled and thrilled with the joy +Of that jolly little human, the bow-leg boy-- + The cute little boy! + The funny little boy! + The dear little bow-leg boy! + +If ever the doctor-man comes _my_ way +With his wonderful box in his two-wheel shay, +I'll ask for the treasure I'd fain possess-- +Now, honest Injun! can't you guess? + Why, a cute little boy-- + A funny little boy-- + A dear little bow-leg boy! + + + + THE STRAW PARLOR + +Way up at the top of a big stack of straw +Was the cunningest parlor that ever you saw! +And there could you lie when aweary of play +And gossip or laze in the coziest way; +No matter how careworn or sorry one's mood +No worldly distraction presumed to intrude. +As a refuge from onerous mundane ado +I think I approve of straw parlors, don't you? + +A swallow with jewels aflame on her breast +On that straw parlor's ceiling had builded her nest; +And she flew in and out all the happy day long, +And twittered the soothingest lullaby song. +Now some might suppose that that beautiful bird +Performed for her babies the music they heard; +_I_ reckon she twittered her répertoire through +For the folk in the little straw parlor, don't you? + +And down from a rafter a spider had hung +Some swings upon which he incessantly swung. +He cut up such didoes--such antics he played +Way up in the air, and was never afraid! +He never made use of his horrid old sting, +But was just upon earth for the fun of the thing! +I deeply regret to observe that so few +Of these good-natured insects are met with, don't you? + +And, down in the strawstack, a wee little mite +Of a cricket went chirping by day and by night; +And further down, still, a cunning blue mouse +In a snug little nook of that strawstack kept house! +When the cricket went "chirp," Miss Mousie would squeak +"Come in," and a blush would enkindle her cheek! +She thought--silly girl! 't was a beau come to woo, +But I guess it was only the cricket, don't you? + +So the cricket, the mouse, and the motherly bird +Made as soothingsome music as ever you heard +And, meanwhile, that spider by means of his swings +Achieved most astounding gyrations and things! +No wonder the little folk liked what they saw +And loved what they heard in that parlor of straw! +With the mercury up to 102 +In the shade, I opine they just sizzled, don't you? + +But once there invaded that Eden of straw +The evilest Feline that ever you saw! +She pounced on that cricket with rare promptitude +And she tucked him away where he'd do the most good; +And then, reaching down to the nethermost house, +She deftly expiscated little Miss Mouse! +And, as for the Swallow, she shrieked and withdrew-- +I rather admire her discretion, don't you? + +Now listen: That evening a cyclone obtained, +And the mortgage was all on that farm that remained! +Barn, strawstack and spider--they all blew away, +And nobody knows where they're at to this day! +And, as for the little straw parlor, I fear +It was wafted clean off this sublunary sphere! +I really incline to a hearty "boo-hoo" +When I think of this tragical ending, don't you? + + + + A PITEOUS PLAINT + +I cannot eat my porridge, + I weary of my play; +No longer can I sleep at night, + No longer romp by day! +Though forty pounds was once my weight, + I'm shy of thirty now; +I pine, I wither and I fade + Through love of Martha Clow. + +As she rolled by this morning + I heard the nurse girl say: +"She weighs just twenty-seven pounds + And she's one year old to-day." +I threw a kiss that nestled + In the curls upon her brow, +But she never turned to thank me-- + That bouncing Martha Clow! + +She ought to know I love her, + For I've told her that I do; +And I've brought her nuts and apples, + And sometimes candy, too! +I'd drag her in my little cart + If her mother would allow +That delicate attention + To her daughter, Martha Clow. + +O Martha! pretty Martha! + Will you always be so cold? +Will you always be as cruel + As you are at one-year-old? +Must your two-year-old admirer + Pine as hopelessly as now +For a fond reciprocation + Of his love for Martha Clow? + +You smile on Bernard Rogers + And on little Harry Knott; +You play with them at peek-a-boo + All in the Waller Lot! +Wildly I gnash my new-cut teeth + And beat my throbbing brow, +When I behold the coquetry + Of heartless Martha Clow! + +I cannot eat my porridge, + Nor for my play care I; +Upon the floor and porch and lawn + My toys neglected lie; +But on the air of Halsted street + I breathe this solemn vow: +"Though _she_ be _false_, _I_ will be true + To pretty Martha Clow!" + + + + THE DISCREET COLLECTOR + +Down south there is a curio-shop + Unknown to many men; +Thereat do I intend to stop + When I am south again; +The narrow street through which to go-- + Aha! I know it well! +And may be you would like to know-- + But no--I will not tell! + +'T is there to find the loveliest plates + (The bluest of the blue!) +At such surprisingly low rates + You'd not believe it true! +And there is one Napoleon vase + Of dainty Sèvres to sell-- +I'm sure you'd like to know that place-- + But no--I will not tell! + +Then, too, I know another shop + Has old, old beds for sale, +With lovely testers up on top + Carved in ornate detail; +And there are sideboards rich and rare, + With fronts that proudly swell-- +Oh, there are bargains waiting there, + But where I will not tell! + +And hark! I know a bottle-man + Smiling and debonair, +And he has promised me I can + Choose of his precious ware! +In age and shape and color, too, + His dainty goods excel-- +Aha, my friends, if you but knew-- + But no! I will not tell! + +A thousand other shops I know + Where bargains can be got-- +Where other folk would like to go + Who have what I have not. +I let them hunt; I hold my mouth-- + Yes, though I know full well +Where lie the treasures of the south, + I'm not a going to tell! + + + + A VALENTINE + +Your gran'ma, in her youth, was quite + As blithe a little maid as you. +And, though her hair is snowy white, + Her eyes still have their maiden blue, +And on her cheeks, as fair as thine, + Methinks a girlish blush would glow +If she recalled the valentine + She got, ah! many years ago. + +A valorous youth loved gran'ma then, + And wooed her in that auld lang syne; +And first he told his secret when + He sent the maid that valentine. +No perfumed page nor sheet of gold + Was that first hint of love he sent, +But with the secret gran'pa told-- + "I love you"--gran'ma was content. + +Go, ask your gran'ma, if you will, + If--though her head be bowed and gray-- +If--though her feeble pulse be chill-- + True love abideth not for aye; +By that quaint portrait on the wall, + That smiles upon her from above, +Methinks your gran'ma can recall + The sweet divinity of love. + +Dear Elsie, here's no page of gold-- + No sheet embossed with cunning art-- +But here's a solemn pledge of old: + "I love you, love, with all my heart." +And if in what I send you here + You read not all of love expressed, +Go--go to gran'ma, Elsie dear, + And she will tell you all the rest! + + + + THE WIND + + (THE TALE) + +Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing-- +Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession. + +"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses-- +Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing; +Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes-- +She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!" + +"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!" + +"Straight from my wooing I come--my lips are bedewed with her kisses-- +My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!" + + (THE SONG) + +The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose, + And he wooeth his love to wed: + Sweet is his song + The Summer long + As he kisseth her lips so red; +And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought + When the Summer of love is sped! + + (AGAIN THE TALE) + +Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter. + +"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamentations?" + +Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate garden +Come I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!" + +"Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and loving, +It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing +displeasure." + +The Wind maketh ever more moan and ever it giveth this answer: +"My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of the +Summer-- +I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow of Winter; +I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her loveliness +lieth +And the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that forever +outcrieth!" + +(AGAIN THE SONG) + +The Wind he waileth the red, red Rose + When the Summer of love is sped-- + He waileth above + His lifeless love + With her shroud of snow o'erspread-- +Crieth such things as a true heart brings + To the grave of its precious dead. + + + + A PARAPHRASE + +Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; +Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, in Heaven the same; +Give us this day our daily bread, and may our debts to heaven-- +As we our earthly debts forgive--by Thee be all forgiven; +When tempted or by evil vexed, restore Thou us again, +And Thine be the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever; +amen. + + + + WITH BRUTUS IN ST. JO + +Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West +The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best; +Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone, +So he hired an "acting manager," a gruff old man named Krone-- +A stern, commanding man with piercing eyes and flowing beard, +And his voice assumed a thunderous tone when Jack and I appeared; +He said that Julius Caesar had been billed a week or so, +And would have to have some armies by the time he reached St. Jo! + +O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight, +When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night! +O happy days, when sounded in the public's rapturous ears +The creak of pasteboard armor and the clash of wooden spears! +O happy times for Jack and me and that one other supe +That then and there did constitute the noblest Roman's troop! +With togas, battle axes, shields, we made a dazzling show, +When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! + +We wheeled and filed and double-quicked wherever Brutus led, +The folks applauding what we did as much as what he said; +'T was work, indeed; yet Jack and I were willing to allow +'T was easier following Brutus than following father's plough; +And at each burst of cheering, our valor would increase-- +We tramped a thousand miles that night, at fifty cents apiece! +For love of Art--not lust for gold--consumed us years ago, +When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! + +To-day, while walking in the Square, Jack Langrish says to me: +"My friend, the drama nowadays ain't what it used to be! +These farces and these comedies--how feebly they compare +With that mantle of the tragic art which Forrest used to wear! +My soul is warped with bitterness to think that you and I-- +Co-heirs to immortality in seasons long gone by-- +Now draw a paltry stipend from a Boston comic show, +We, who were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!" + +And so we talked and so we mused upon the whims of Fate +That had degraded Tragedy from its old, supreme estate; +And duly, at the Morton bar, we stigmatized the age +As sinfully subversive of the interests of the Stage! +For Jack and I were actors in the halcyon, palmy days +Long, long before the Hoyt school of farce became the craze; +Yet, as I now recall it, it was twenty years ago +That we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! + +We were by birth descended from a race of farmer kings +Who had done eternal battle with grasshoppers and things; +But the Kansas farms grew tedious--we pined for that delight +We read of in the _Clipper_ in the barber's shop by night! +We would be actors--Jack and I--and so we stole away +From our native spot, Wathena, one dull September day, +And started for Missouri--ah, little did we know +We were going to train as soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! + +Our army numbered three in all--Marc Antony's was four; +Our army hankered after fame, but Marc's was after gore! +And when we reached Philippi, at the outset we were met +With an inartistic gusto I can never quite forget. +For Antony's overwhelming force of thumpers seemed to be +Resolved to do "them Kansas jays"--and that meant Jack and me! +My lips were sealed but that it seems quite proper you should know +That Rome was nowhere in it at Philippi in St. Jo! + +I've known the slow-consuming grief and ostentatious pain +Accruing from McKean Buchanan's melancholy Dane; +Away out West I've witnessed Bandmann's peerless hardihood, +With Arthur Cambridge have I wrought where walking was not good; +In every phase of horror have I bravely borne my part, +And even on my uppers have I proudly stood for Art! +And, after all my suffering, it were not hard to show +That I got my allopathic dose with Brutus at St. Jo! + +That army fell upon me in a most bewildering rage +And scattered me and mine upon that histrionic stage; +My toga rent, my helmet gone and smashed to smithereens, +They picked me up and hove me through whole centuries of scenes! +I sailed through Christian eras and mediæval gloom +And fell from Arden forest into Juliet's painted tomb! +Oh, yes, I travelled far and fast that night, and I can show +The scars of honest wounds I got with Brutus in St. Jo! + +Ah me, old Davenport is gone, of fickle fame forgot, +And Barrett sleeps forever in a much neglected spot; +Fred Warde, the papers tell me, in far woolly western lands +Still flaunts the banner of high Tragic Art at one-night stands; +And Jack and I, in Charley Hoyt's Bostonian dramas wreak +Our vengeance on creation at some eensty dolls per week. +By which you see that public taste has fallen mighty low +Since we fought as Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! + + + + THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS + +There were two little skeezucks who lived in the isle + Of Boo in a southern sea; +They clambered and rollicked in heathenish style + In the boughs of their cocoanut tree. +They didn't fret much about clothing and such + And they recked not a whit of the ills + That sometimes accrue + From having to do +With tailor and laundry bills. + +The two little skeezucks once heard of a Fair + Far off from their native isle, +And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't go there + To take in the sights for awhile. + Now old King Fan + Was a good-natured man +(As good-natured monarchs go), +And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a bore, +He hadn't the heart to say "No." + +So the two little skeezucks sailed off to the Fair + In a great big gum canoe, +And I fancy they had a good time there, + For they tarried a year or two. +And old King Fan at last began + To reckon they'd come to grief, + When glory! one day + They sailed into the bay +To the tune of "Hail to the Chief!" + +The two little skeezucks fell down on the sand, + Embracing his majesty's toes, +Till his majesty graciously bade them stand + And salute him nose to nose. + And then quoth he: + "Divulge unto me + What happenings have hapt to you; +And how did they dare to indulge in a Fair + So far from the island of Boo?" + +The two little skeezucks assured their king + That what he surmised was true; +That the Fair would have been a different thing + Had it only been held in Boo! +"The folk over there in no wise compare + With the folk of the southern seas; + Why, they comb out their heads + And they sleep in beds +Instead of in caverns and trees!" + +The two little skeezucks went on to say + That children (so far as they knew) +Had a much harder time in that land far away + Than here in the island of Boo! + They have to wear clo'es + Which (as every one knows) + Are irksome to primitive laddies, +While, with forks and with spoons, they're denied the sweet boons +That accrue from free use of one's paddies! + +"And now that you're speaking of things to eat," + Interrupted the monarch of Boo, +"We beg to inquire if you happened to meet + With a nice missionary or two?" +"No, that we did not; in that curious spot + Where were gathered the fruits of the earth, + Of that special kind + Which Your Nibs has in mind +There appeared a deplorable dearth!" + +Then loud laughed that monarch in heathenish mirth + And loud laughed his courtiers, too, +And they cried: "There is elsewhere no land upon earth + So good as our island of Boo!" + And the skeezucks, tho' glad + Of the journey they'd had, + Climbed up in their cocoanut trees, +Where they still may be seen with no shirts to keep clean + Or trousers that bag at the knees. + + + + PAN LIVETH + +They told me once that Pan was dead, + And so, in sooth, I thought him; +For vainly where the streamlets led + Through flowery meads I sought him-- +Nor in his dewy pasture bed + Nor in the grove I caught him. + _"Tell me," 'twas so my clamor ran-- + "Tell me, oh, where is Pan?"_ + +But, once, as on my pipe I played + A requiem sad and tender, +Lo, thither came a shepherd-maid-- + Full comely she and slender! +I were indeed a churlish blade + With wailings to offend 'er-- + _For, surely, wooing's sweeter than + A mourning over Pan!_ + +So, presently, whiles I did scan + That shepherd-maiden pretty, +And heard her accents, I began + To pipe a cheerful ditty; +And so, betimes, forgot old Pan + Whose death had waked my pity; + _So--so did Love undo the man + Who sought and pined for Pan!_ + +He was _not_ dead! I found him there-- + The Pan that I was after! +Caught in that maiden's tangling hair, + Drunk with her song and laughter! +I doubt if there be otherwhere + A merrier god or dafter-- + _Nay, nor a mortal kindlier than + Is this same dear old Pan!_ + +Beside me, as my pipe I play, + My shepherdess is lying, +While here and there her lambkins stray + As sunny hours go flying; +They look like me--those lambs--they say, + And that I'm not denying! + _And for that sturdy, romping clan, + All glory be to Pan!_ + +Pan is not dead, O sweetheart mine! + It is to hear his voices +In every note and every line + Wherein the heart rejoices! +He liveth in that sacred shrine + That Love's first, holiest choice is! + _So pipe, my pipe, while still you can, + Sweet songs in praise of Pan!_ + + + + DR. SAM + + TO MISS GRACE KING + +Down in the old French quarter, + Just out of Rampart street, + I wend my way + At close of day + Unto the quaint retreat +Where lives the Voodoo Doctor + By some esteemed a sham, +Yet I'll declare there's none elsewhere + So skilled as Doctor Sam + _With the claws of a deviled crawfish, + The juice of the prickly prune, + And the quivering dew + From a yarb that grew + In the light of a midnight moon!_ + +I never should have known him + But for the colored folk + That here obtain + And ne'er in vain + That wizard's art invoke; +For when the Eye that's Evil + Would him and his'n damn, +The negro's grief gets quick relief + Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam. + _With the caul of an alligator, + The plume of an unborn loon, + And the poison wrung + From a serpent's tongue + By the light of a midnight moon!_ + +In all neurotic ailments + I hear that he excels, + And he insures + Immediate cures + Of weird, uncanny spells; +The most unruly patient + Gets docile as a lamb +And is freed from ill by the potent skill + Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam; + _Feathers of strangled chickens, + Moss from the dank lagoon,_ + _And plasters wet + With spider sweat + In the light of a midnight moon!_ + +They say when nights are grewsome + And hours are, oh! so late, + Old Sam steals out + And hunts about + For charms that hoodoos hate! +That from the moaning river + And from the haunted glen +He silently brings what eerie things + Give peace to hoodooed men:-- + _The tongue of a piebald 'possum, + The tooth of a senile 'coon, + The buzzard's breath that smells of death, + And the film that lies + On a lizard's eyes + In the light of a midnight moon!_ + + + + WINFREDA + + (A BALLAD IN THE ANGLO-SAXON TONGUE) + +When to the dreary greenwood gloam + Winfreda's husband strode that day, +The fair Winfreda bode at home + To toil the weary time away; +"While thou art gone to hunt," said she, +"I'll brew a goodly sop for thee." + +Lo, from a further, gloomy wood, + A hungry wolf all bristling hied +And on the cottage threshold stood + And saw the dame at work inside; +And, as he saw the pleasing sight, +He licked his fangs so sharp and white. + +Now when Winfreda saw the beast, + Straight at the grinning wolf she ran, +And, not affrighted in the least, + She hit him with her cooking pan, +And as she thwacked him on the head-- +"Scat! scat!" the fair Winfreda said. + +The hills gave answer to their din-- + The brook in fear beheld the sight. +And all that bloody field within + Wore token of Winfreda's might. +The wolf was very loath to stay-- +But, oh! he could not get away. + +Winfreda swept him o'er the wold + And choked him till his gums were blue, +And till, beneath her iron hold, + His tongue hung out a yard or two, +And with his hair the riven ground +Was strewn for many leagues around. + +They fought a weary time that day, + And seas of purple blood were shed, +Till by Winfreda's cunning lay + That awful wolf all limp and dead; +Winfreda saw him reel and drop-- +Then back she went to brewing sop. + +So when the husband came at night + From bootless chase, cold, gaunt, and grim, +Great was that Saxon lord's delight + To find the sop dished up for him; +And as he ate, Winfreda told +How she had laid the wolf out cold. + +The good Winfreda of those days + Is only "pretty Birdie" now-- +Sickly her soul and weak her ways-- + And she, to whom we Saxons bow, +Leaps on a bench and screams with fright +If but a mouse creeps into sight. + + + + LYMAN, FREDERICK, AND JIM + + (FOR THE FELLOWSHIP CLUB) + +Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day, + Set out in a great big ship-- +Steamed to the ocean adown the bay + Out of a New York slip. +"Where are you going and what is your game?" + The people asked those three. +"Darned if we know; but all the same + Happy as larks are we; + And happier still we're going to be!" + Said Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim. + +The people laughed "Aha, oho! + Oho, aha!" laughed they; +And while those three went sailing so + Some pirates steered that way. +The pirates they were laughing, too-- + The prospect made them glad; +But by the time the job was through + Each of them pirates, bold and bad, +Had been done out of all he had + By Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim. + +Days and weeks and months they sped, + Painting that foreign clime +A beautiful, bright vermilion red-- + And having a ---- of a time! +'T was all so gaudy a lark, it seemed + As if it could not be, +And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed + Of sailing that foreign sea, + But I'll identify you these three-- + Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim. + +Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich + And Jim is an editor kind; +The first two named are awfully rich + And Jim ain't far behind! +So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks, + Or you are like to be +In quite as much of a Tartar fix + As the pirates that sailed the sea + And monkeyed with the pardners three, + Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim! + + + + BY MY SWEETHEART + +Sweetheart, be my sweetheart + When birds are on the wing, +When bee and bud and babbling flood + Bespeak the birth of spring, +Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart + And wear this posy-ring! + +Sweetheart, be my sweetheart + In the mellow golden glow +Of earth aflush with the gracious blush + Which the ripening fields foreshow; +Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart, + As into the noon we go! + +Sweetheart, be my sweetheart + When falls the bounteous year, +When fruit and wine of tree and vine + Give us their harvest cheer; +Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart, + For winter it draweth near. + +Sweetheart, be my sweetheart + When the year is white and old, +When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth, + And the hand of age is cold; +Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart + Till the year of our love be told! + + + + THE PETER-BIRD + +Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, +And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; +Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, +Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. +So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened, +And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson. + +Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky +One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; +Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic-- +Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains! +Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders-- +These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest. +Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning +Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; +And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley +Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror-- +"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" +Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor, +Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions. + +One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter, +Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; +Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter +Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. +"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!" +"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" +So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding-- +Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter! + +Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you; +Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions! +It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend. +Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; +What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil, +Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming! + +"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "_that's_ what's the ruin of +Peter!" + +So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, +Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms, +Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating, +Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. +"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!" +"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" +"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding-- +Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter; +Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-- +Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter! + +Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming +Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; +For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys-- +"See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! +See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on woodland and meadow! +Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron! +She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, +Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish magical nostrums; +Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires, and spiders, +Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salamanders and toadstools; +Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, +Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!" + +Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, +Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos-- +Thinking and reading of books must have unsettled his reason! +"There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy! +I will go out in the wet--you all can't hender me, nuther!" + +Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, +Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, +Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. +Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; +Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, +Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had done gone and done it! +Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-- +Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis, +And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition. + +Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter +And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; +Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, +Up from the spring house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, +Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. +Such were the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter +Decades and decades ago down in the State of Kentucky-- +Such _are_ the voices that cry now from the woodland and meadow, +"Peter--O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-- +Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! +These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse +When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, +Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, +Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil, +Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge! + +Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, +Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. +"Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"-- +Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, +Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smoke-house proceeded; +Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping, +Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor-- +Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, +Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. +Joining the search came the rest, brothers and sisters and cousins, +Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! +And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women, +Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter. + +Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, +Colonels and jedges galore from cornfields and mint-beds and thickets, +All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining, +Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. +The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the +Logans, +The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the Morgans; +The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays, and +Hardins, + +The Beynroths, the Sherleys, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys, and +Slaughters-- +All, famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming, +Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in that hunt for the +truant, +To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter. + +Still on those prosperous farms where heirs and assigns of the people +Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate-- +_Still_ on those farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes +adjacent) +That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, +That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter. +Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people; +That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter, +She out of her cave in a thrice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit +(Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a chicken), +She changed all those folk into birds and shrieked with demoniac venom: +"Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, +Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos, +Crooning of Peter, the fool who scouted at stories of witches, +Crying of Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!" + +This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend; +As I have told it to you, so tell the folk and the legend. +That it is true I believe, for on the breezes this morning +Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; +Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, +Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-- +Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, +Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis, +Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden, +Always neglecting his chores--given to books and to reading, +Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, +Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage. + +This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky +When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, +Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; +When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows, +When from the spring house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard, +When from the redbud and gum and from the redolent lilac, +When from the dirt roads and pikes cometh that calling for Peter; +Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration +Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! +This is the legend of old, told in the tum-titty meter +Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming +(My first attempt at the same, my _last_ attempt, too, I reckon!); +Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended. + + + + SISTER'S CAKE + +I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind, +Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind; +Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares, +She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs, +And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take +Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake. + +At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say: +"Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!" +Poor mother'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not-- +For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot-- +But neither _she_ nor _he_ presumed to signify dissent, +Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went! + +No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand, +The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand; +The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew, +With every damper set just so to heat the oven through; +The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make +That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake. + +And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro; +The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow-- +And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight-- +And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite! +But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound +As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound. + +Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl! +Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl; +Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so, +And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough! +It looked so sweet and yellow--sure, to taste it were no sin-- +But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in! + +The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through, +That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do! +So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night, +Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might; +These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take +Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake! + +And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane-- +For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain. +I never had a sister--may be that is why today +I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay; +A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirth, +But _I _(because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth! + +Had I a little sister--oh, how happy I should be! +I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me; +I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse-- +I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse; +And--yes, what's more and vastly more--I tell you what I'd do: +I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too! + +I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see-- +Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me! +I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks, +When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks; +But I draw the line at one thing--yes, I don my hat and take +A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake! + + + + ABU MIDJAN + +_When Father Time swings round his scythe, + Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine, +So that its juices, red and blithe, + May cheer these thirsty bones of mine._ + +_"Elsewise with tears and bated breath + Should I survey the life to be. +But oh! How should I hail the death + That brings that--vinous grace to me!"_ + +So sung the dauntless Saracen, + Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains +That, curst of Allah, loathed of men, + The faithless one shall die in chains. + +But one vile Christian slave that lay + A prisoner near that prisoner saith: +"God willing, I will plant some day + A vine where liest thou in death." + +Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave + With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows; +Where rots the martyred Christian slave + Allah, and only Allah, knows! + + + + ED + +Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion, +You cudn't stop him any more'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean; +For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it, +You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to do it! +So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wuzn't jokin' +When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he'd gin up smokin'. + +Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday-- +Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in Monday +A-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese cracker +An' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker; +Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin' +A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'." + +But Ed--sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it-- +Jes' try the scheme yourselves, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it! +It's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there's a certain beauty +In makin' sackerfices to the stern demands uv duty! +So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession, +I mortify the flesh 'nd smoke for the sake uv my perfession!" + + + + JENNIE + +Some men affect a liking + For the prim in face and mind, +And some prefer the striking + And the loud in womankind; +Wee Madge is wooed of many, + And buxom Kate, as well, +And Jennie--charming Jennie-- + Ah, Jennie doesn't tell! + +What eyes so bright as Daisy's, + And who as Maud so fair? +Who does not sing the praises + Of Lucy's golden hair? +There's Sophie--she is witty, + A very sprite is Nell, +And Susie's, oh, so pretty-- +But Jennie doesn't tell! + +And now for my confession: + Of all the virtues rare, +I argue that discretion + Doth most beseem the fair. +And though I hear the many + Extol each other belle, +I--I pronounce for Jennie, + For Jennie doesn't tell! + + + + CONTENTMENT + +Happy the man that, when his day is done, + Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret-- +The battle he has fought may not be won-- + The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; +Folding at last his hands upon his breast, + Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, +He sinks into the last, eternal rest, + Breathing these only works: "I am content." + +But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, + See hopes and friendships dead about him lie-- +Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, + Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; +And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, + Girt only in the armor God hath meant +For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate + Can say to God and man: "I am content." + + + + "GUESS" + +There is a certain Yankee phrase + I always have revered, +Yet, somehow, in these modern days, + It's almost disappeared; +It was the usage years ago, + But nowadays it's got +To be regarded coarse and low + To answer: "I guess not!" + +The height of fashion called the pink + Affects a British craze-- +Prefers "I fancy" or "I think" + To that time-honored phrase; +But here's a Yankee, if you please, + That brands the fashion rot, +And to all heresies like these + He answers, "I--guess not!"-- + +When Chaucer, Wycliff, and the rest + Express their meaning thus, +I guess, if not the very best, + It's good enough for us! +Why! shall the idioms of our speech + Be banished and forgot +For this vain trash which moderns teach? + Well, no, sir; I guess not! + +There's meaning in that homely phrase + No other words express-- +No substitute therefor conveys + Such unobtrusive stress. +True Anglo-Saxon speech, it goes + Directly to the spot, +And he who hears it always knows + The worth of "I--guess--not!" + + + + NEW-YEAR'S EVE + +Good old days--dear old days + When my heart beat high and bold-- +When the things of earth seemed full of life, + And the future a haze of gold! +Oh, merry was I that winter night, + And gleeful our little one's din, +And tender the grace of my darling's face + As we watched the new year in. +But a voice--a spectre's, that mocked at love-- + Came out of the yonder hall; +"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 't was the solemn clock + That ruefully croaked to all. +Yet what knew we of the griefs to be + In the year we longed to greet? +Love--love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream + I fancied might never fleet! + +But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom, + And these were the words it spake, +"Tick-tock, tick-tock"--and they seemed to mock + A heart about to break. + +'T is new-year's eve, and again I watch + In the old familiar place, +And I'm thinking again of that old time when + I looked on a dear one's face. +Never a little one hugs my knee + And I hear no gleeful shout-- +I am sitting alone by the old hearthstone, + Watching the old year out. +But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom + That solemnly calls to me: +"Tick-tock, tick-tock!"--for so the clock + Tells of a life to be; +"Tick-tock, tick-tock!"-'tis so the clock + Tells of eternity. + + + + OLD SPANISH SONG + +I'm thinking of the wooing + That won my maiden heart +When he--he came pursuing + A love unused to art. +Into the drowsy river + The moon transported flung +Her soul that seemed to quiver + With the songs my lover sung. +And the stars in rapture twinkled + On the slumbrous world below-- +You see that, old and wrinkled, + I'm not forgetful--no! + +He still should be repeating + The vows he uttered then-- +Alas! the years, though fleeting, + Are truer yet than men! +The summer moonlight glistens + In the favorite trysting spot +Where the river ever listens + For a song it heareth not. +And I, whose head is sprinkled + With time's benumbing snow, +I languish, old and wrinkled, + But not forgetful--no! + +What though he elsewhere turneth + To beauty strangely bold? +Still in my bosom burneth + The tender fire of old; +And the words of love he told me + And the songs he sung me then +Come crowding to uphold me, + And I live my youth again! +For when love's feet have tinkled + On the pathway women go, +Though one be old and wrinkled, + She's not forgetful--no! + + + + THE BROKEN RING + +To the willows of the brookside + The mill wheel sings to-day-- + Sings and weeps, + As the brooklet creeps + Wondering on its way; +And here is the ring _she_ gave me + With love's sweet promise then-- + It hath burst apart + Like the trusting heart + That may never be soothed again! + +Oh, I would be a minstrel + To wander far and wide, +Weaving in song the merciless wrong + Done by a perjured bride! +Or I would be a soldier, + To seek in the bloody fray +What gifts of fate can compensate + For the pangs I suffer to-day! + +Yet may this aching bosom, + By bitter sorrow crushed, + Be still and cold + In the churchyard mould + Ere _thy_ sweet voice be hushed; +So sing, sing on forever, + O wheel of the brookside mill, + For you mind me again + Of the old time when + I felt love's gracious thrill. + + + + IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT + + (HORACE'S ODES, III, I) + +I hate the common, vulgar herd! + Away they scamper when I "booh" 'em! +But pretty girls and nice young men +Observe a proper silence when + I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em. + +The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r + Excites our homage and our wonder, +Are precious small beside old Jove, +The father of us all, who drove + The giants out of sight, by thunder! + +This man loves farming, that man law, + While this one follows pathways martial-- +What moots it whither mortals turn? +Grim fate from her mysterious urn + Doles out the lots with hand impartial. + +Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sports + Delight the heart by care tormented; +The mightiest monarch knoweth not +The peace that to the lowly cot + Sleep bringeth to the swain contented. + +On him untouched of discontent + Care sits as lightly as a feather; +He doesn't growl about the crops, +Or worry when the market drops, + Or fret about the changeful weather. + +Not so with him who, rich in fact, + Still seeks his fortune to redouble; +Though dig he deep or build he high, +Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh-- + Relentless Care, relentless Trouble! + +If neither palaces nor robes + Nor unguents nor expensive toddy +Insure Contentment's soothing bliss, +Why should I build an edifice + Where Envy comes to fret a body? + +Nay, I'd not share your sumptuous cheer, + But rather sup my rustic pottage, +While that sweet boon the gods bestow-- +The peace your mansions cannot know-- + Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage. + + + + THE BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP + +Now lithe and listen, gentles all, + Now lithe ye all and hark +Unto a ballad I shall sing + About Buena Park. + +Of all the wonders happening there + The strangest hap befell +Upon a famous Aprile morn, + As I you now shall tell. + +It is about the Taylor pup + And of his mistress eke +And of the prankish time they had + That I am fain to speak. + + + FITTE THE FIRST + +The pup was of as noble mien + As e'er you gazed upon; +They called his mother Lady + And his father was a Don. + +And both his mother and his sire + Were of the race Bernard-- +The family famed in histories + And hymned of every bard. + +His form was of exuberant mold, + Long, slim, and loose of joints; +There never yet was pointer-dog + So full as he of points. + +His hair was like to yellow fleece, + His eyes were black and kind, +And like a nodding, gilded plume + His tail stuck up behind. + +His bark was very, very fierce, + And fierce his appetite, +Yet was it only things to eat + That he was prone to bite. + +But in that one particular + He was so passing true +That never did he quit a meal + Until he had got through. + +Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash, + Joint, chop, or chicken limb-- +So long as it was edible, + 'T was all the same to him! + +And frequently when Hunger's pangs + Assailed that callow pup, +He masticated boots and gloves + Or chewed a door-mat up. + +So was he much beholden of + The folk that him did keep; +They loved him when he was awake + And better still asleep. + + + FITTE THE SECOND + +Now once his master, lingering o'er + His breakfast coffee-cup, +Observed unto his doting spouse: + "You ought to wash the pup!" + +"That shall I do this very day", + His doting spouse replied; +"You will not know the pretty thing + When he is washed and dried. + +"But tell me, dear, before you go + Unto your daily work, +Shall I use Ivory soap on him, + Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?" + +"Odzooks, it matters not a whit-- + They all are good to use! +Take Pearline, if it pleases you-- + Sapolio, if you choose! + +"Take any soap, but take the pup + And also water take, +And mix the three discreetly up + Till they a lather make. + +"Then mixing these constituent parts, + Let Nature take her way," +With which advice that sapient sir + Had nothing more to say. + +Then fared he to his daily toil + All in the Board of Trade, +While Mistress Taylor for that bath + Due preparation made. + + + FITTE THE THIRD + +She whistled gayly to the pup + And called him by his name, +And presently the guileless thing + All unsuspecting came. + +But when she shut the bath-room door, + And caught him as catch-can, +And hove him in that odious tub, + His sorrows then began. + +How did that callow, yallow thing + Regret that Aprile morn-- +Alas! how bitterly he rued + The day that he was born! + +Twice and again, but all in vain + He lifted up his wail; +His voice was all the pup could lift, + For thereby hangs this tale. + +'Twas by that tail she held him down, + And presently she spread +The creamy lather on his back, + His stomach, and his head. + +His ears hung down in sorry wise, + His eyes were, oh! so sad-- +He looked as though he just had lost + The only friend he had. + +And higher yet the water rose, + The lather still increased, +And sadder still the countenance + Of that poor martyred beast! + +Yet all the time his mistress spoke + Such artful words of cheer +As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!" + And "There's a patient dear!" + +At last the trial had an end, + At last the pup was free; +She threw aside the bath-room door-- + "Now get you gone!" quoth she. + + + FITTE THE FOURTH + +Then from that tub and from that room + He gat with vast ado; +At every hop he gave a shake, + And--how the water flew! + +He paddled down the winding stairs + And to the parlor hied, +Dispensing pools of foamy suds + And slop on every side. + +Upon the carpet then he rolled + And brushed against the wall, +And, horror! whisked his lathery sides + On overcoat and shawl. + +Attracted by the dreadful din, + His mistress came below-- +Who, who can speak her wonderment-- + Who, who can paint her woe! + +Great smears of soap were here and there-- + Her startled vision met +With blobs of lather everywhere, + And everything was wet! + +Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek + Like one about to die: +"Get out--get out, and don't you dare + Come in till you are dry!" + +With that she opened wide the door + And waved the critter through; +Out in the circumambient air + With grateful yelps he flew. + + + FITTE THE FIFTH + +He whisked into the dusty street + And to the Waller lot, +Where bonnie Annie Evans played + With charming Sissy Knott. + +And with those pretty little dears + He mixed himself all up-- +Oh, fie upon such boisterous play-- + Fie, fie, you naughty pup! + +Woe, woe on Annie's India mull, + And Sissy's blue percale! +One got that pup's belathered flanks, + And one his soapy tail! + +Forth to the rescue of those maids + Rushed gallant Willie Clow; +His panties they were white and clean-- + Where are those panties now? + +Where is the nicely laundered shirt + That Kendall Evans wore, +And Robbie James' tricot coat + All buttoned up before? + +The leaven, which, as we are told, + Leavens a monstrous lump, +Hath far less reaching qualities + Than a wet pup on the jump. + +This way and that he swung and swayed, + He gambolled far and near, +And everywhere he thrust himself + He left a soapy smear. + + + FITTE THE SIXTH + +That noon a dozen little dears + Were spanked and put to bed +With naught to stay their appetites + But cheerless crusts of bread. + +That noon a dozen hired girls + Washed out each gown and shirt +Which that exuberant Taylor pup + Had frescoed o'er with dirt. + +That whole day long the Aprile sun + Smiled sweetly from above +On clotheslines flaunting to the breeze + The emblems mothers love. + +That whole day long the Taylor pup + This way and that did hie +Upon his mad, erratic course, + Intent on getting dry. + +That night when Mr. Taylor came + His vesper meal to eat, +He uttered things my pious pen + Would liefer not repeat. + +Yet still that noble Taylor pup + Survives to romp and bark +And stumble over folks and things + In fair Buena Park. + +Good sooth, I wot he should be called + Buena's favorite son +Who's sired of such a noble sire + And dammed by every one! + + + + AFTER READING TROLLOPE'S HISTORY OF FLORENCE + +My books are on their shelves again +And clouds lie low with mist and rain. +Afar the Arno murmurs low +The tale of fields of melting snow. +List to the bells of times agone +The while I wait me for the dawn. + +Beneath great Giotto's Campanile +The gray ghosts throng; their whispers steal +From poets' bosoms long since dust; +They ask me now to go. I trust +Their fleeter footsteps where again +They come at night and live as men. + +The rain falls on Ghiberti's gates; +The big drops hang on purple dates; +And yet beneath the ilex-shades-- +Dear trysting-place for boys and maids-- +There comes a form from days of old, +With Beatrice's hair of gold. + +The breath of lands or lilied streams +Floats through the fabric of my dreams; +And yonder from the hills of song, +Where psalmists brood and prophets throng, +The lone, majestic Dante leads +His love across the blooming meads. + +Along the almond walks I tread +And greet the figures of the dead. +Mirandula walks here with him +Who lived with gods and seraphim; +Yet where Colonna's fair feet go +There passes Michael Angelo. + +In Rome or Florence, still with her +Stands lone and grand her worshipper. +In Leonardo's brain there move +Christ and the children of His love; +And Raphael is touching now, +For the last time, an angel's brow. + +Angelico is praying yet +Where lives no pang of man's regret, +And, mixing tears and prayers within +His palette's wealth, absolved from sin, +He dips his brush in hues divine; +San Marco's angel faces shine. + +Within Lorenzo's garden green, +Where olives hide their boughs between, +The lovers, as they read betimes +Their love within Petrarca's lines, +Stand near the marbles found at Rome, +Lost shades that search in vain for home. + +They pace the paths along the stream, +Dark Vallombrosa in their dream. +They sing, amidst the rain-drenched pines, +Of Tuscan gold that ruddier shines +Behind a saint's auroral face +That shows e'en yet the master's trace. + +But lo, within the walls of gray, +E're yet there falls a glint of day, +And far without, from hill to vale, +Where honey-hearted nightingale +Or meads of pale anemones +Make sweet the coming morning breeze-- + +I hear a voice, of prophet tone, +A voice of doom, like his alone +That once in Gadara was heard; +The old walls trembled--lo, the bird +Has ceased to sing, and yonder waits +Lorenzo at his palace gates. + +Some Romola in passing by +Turns toward the ruler, and his sigh +Wanders amidst the myrtle bowers +Or o'er the city's mantled towers, +For she is Florence! "Wilt thou hear +San Marco's prophet? Doom is near." + +"Her liberties," he cries, "restore! +This much for Florence--yea, and more +To men and God!" The days are gone; +And in an hour of perfect dawn +I stand beneath the cypress trees +That shiver still with words like these. + + + + A LULLABY + +The stars are twinkling in the skies, + The earth is lost in slumbers deep; +So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes, + And let me lull thy soul to sleep. +Compose thy dimpled hands to rest, + And like a little birdling lie +Secure within thy cozy nest +Upon my loving mother breast, + And slumber to my lullaby, + So hushaby--O hushaby. + +The moon is singing to a star + The little song I sing to you; +The father sun has strayed afar, + As baby's sire is straying too. +And so the loving mother moon + Sings to the little star on high; +And as she sings, her gentle tune +Is borne to me, and thus I croon + For thee, my sweet, that lullaby + Of hushaby--O hushaby. + +There is a little one asleep + That does not hear his mother's song; +But angel watchers--as I weep-- + Surround his grave the night-tide long. +And as I sing, my sweet, to you, + Oh, would the lullaby I sing-- +The same sweet lullaby he knew +While slumb'ring on this bosom too-- + Were borne to him on angel's wing! + So hushaby--O hushaby. + + + + "THE OLD HOMESTEAD" + +JEST as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd + Appears a meanin' hid from other eyes, +So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend, + A power o' tearful, sweet seggestion lies. +We see it all--the pictur' that our mem'ries hold so dear-- + The homestead in New England far away, +An' the vision is so nat'ral-like we almost seem to hear + The voices that were heshed but yesterday. + +Ah, who'd ha' thought the music of that distant childhood time + Would sleep through all the changeful, bitter years +To waken into melodies like Chris'mas bells a-chime + An' to claim the ready tribute of our tears! +Why, the robins in the maples an' the blackbirds round the pond, + The crickets an' the locusts in the leaves, +The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond, + An' the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves-- +They all come troopin' back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day, + An' they seem to sing with all the joyous zest +Of the days when we were Yankee boys an' Yankee girls at play, + With nary thought of "livin' way out West"! + +God bless ye, Denman Thomps'n, for the good y' do our hearts, + With this music an' these memories o' youth-- +God bless ye for the faculty that tops all human arts, + The good ol' Yankee faculty of Truth! + + + + CHRISTMAS HYMN + + Sing, Christmas bells! +Say to the earth this is the morn +Whereon our Saviour-King is born; + Sing to all men--the bond, the free, +The rich, the poor, the high, the low-- + The little child that sports in glee-- +The aged folk that tottering go-- + Proclaim the morn + That Christ is born, + That saveth them and saveth me! + + Sing, angel host! +Sing of the star that God has placed +Above the manger in the east; + Sing of the glories of the night, +The virgin's sweet humility, + The Babe with kingly robes bedight-- +Sing to all men where'er they be + This Christmas morn, + For Christ is born, + That saveth them and saveth me! + + Sing, sons of earth! +O ransomed seed of Adam, sing! +God liveth, and we have a King! + The curse is gone, the bond are free-- +By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed, + By all the heavenly signs that be, +We know that Israel is redeemed-- + That on this morn + The Christ is born + That saveth you and saveth me! + + Sing, O my heart! +Sing thou in rapture this dear morn +Whereon the blessed Prince is born! + And as thy songs shall be of love, +So let my deeds be charity-- + By the dear Lord that reigns above, +By Him that died upon the tree, + By this fair morn + Whereon is born + The Christ that saveth all and me! + + + + A PARAPHRASE OF HEINE + + (LYRIC INTERMEZZO) + +There fell a star from realms above-- + A glittering, glorious star to see! +Methought it was the star of love, + So sweetly it illumined me. + +And from the apple branches fell + Blossoms and leaves that time in June; +The wanton breezes wooed them well + With soft caress and amorous tune. + +The white swan proudly sailed along + And vied her beauty with her note-- +The river, jealous of her song, + Threw up its arms to clasp her throat. + +But now--oh, now the dream is past-- + The blossoms and the leaves are dead, +The swan's sweet song is hushed at last, + And not a star burns overhead. + + + + THE CONVALESCENT GRIPSTER + +The gods let slip that fiendish grip + Upon me last week Sunday-- +No fiercer storm than racked my form + E'er swept the Bay of Fundy; + But now, good-by + To drugs, say I-- + Good-by to gnawing sorrow; + I am up to-day, + And, whoop, hooray! + I'm going out to-morrow! + +What aches and pain in bones and brain + I had I need not mention; +It seemed to me such pangs must be + Old Satan's own invention; + Albeit I + Was sure I'd die, + The doctor reassured me-- + And, true enough, + With his vile stuff, + He ultimately cured me. + +As there I lay in bed all day, + How fair outside looked to me! +A smile so mild old Nature smiled + It seemed to warm clean through me. + In chastened mood + The scene I viewed, + Inventing, sadly solus, + Fantastic rhymes + Between the times + I had to take a bolus. + +Of quinine slugs and other drugs + I guess I took a million-- +Such drugs as serve to set each nerve + To dancing a cotillon; + The doctors say + The only way + To rout the grip instanter + Is to pour in + All kinds of sin-- + Similibus curantur! + +'Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forget + Those ills and cures distressing; +One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skies + When one is convalescing! + So now, good-by + To drugs say I-- + Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow! + I am up to-day, + And, whoop, hooray! + I'm going out to-morrow. + + + + THE SLEEPING CHILD + +My baby slept--how calm his rest, + As o'er his handsome face a smile + Like that of angel flitted, while +He lay so still upon my breast! + +My baby slept--his baby head + Lay all unkiss'd 'neath pall and shroud: + I did not weep or cry aloud-- +I only wished I, too, were dead! + +My baby sleeps--a tiny mound, + All covered by the little flowers, + Woos me in all my waking hours, +Down in the quiet burying-ground. + +And when I sleep I seem to be + With baby in another land-- + I take his little baby hand-- +He smiles and sings sweet songs to me. + +Sleep on, O baby, while I keep + My vigils till this day be passed! + Then shall I, too, lie down at last, +And with my baby darling sleep. + + + + THE TWO COFFINS + +In yonder old cathedral + Two lovely coffins lie; +In one, the head of the state lies dead, + And a singer sleeps hard by. + +Once had that King great power + And proudly ruled the land-- +His crown e'en now is on his brow + And his sword is in his hand. + +How sweetly sleeps the singer + With calmly folded eyes, +And on the breast of the bard at rest + The harp that he sounded lies. + +The castle walls are falling + And war distracts the land, +But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot + There in that dead king's hand. + +But with every grace of nature + There seems to float along-- +To cheer again the hearts of men + The singer's deathless song. + + + + CLARE MARKET + +In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare +Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there; +That I take a delight on a Saturday night +In walking that way and in viewing the sight. +For it's here that one sees all the objects that please-- +New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, +For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, +And baubles galore while discretion enjoys-- +But here I forbear, for I really despair +Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare. + +A rich man comes down from the elegant town +And looks at it all with an ominous frown; +He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries +Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; +And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose +Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; +And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud +That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed; +He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, +And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare. + +But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum +Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; +He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies, +And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise +At the goodies they vend and the toys without end-- +And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend! +But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze +At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze-- +What sense of despair in this world can compare +With that of the waif in the market of Clare? + +So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites +A stroll in old London for curious sights, +I am likely to stray by a devious way +Where goodies are spread in a motley array, +The things which some eyes would appear to despise +Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, +And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend, +So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend); +And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare +That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare. + + + A DREAM OF SUNSHINE + +I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways +Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase-- +The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie +And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by, +Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call +Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all; +And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend, +With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend; +Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring-- +For _then_ I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King! + +How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float +Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat-- +Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be, +As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee; +Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs, +And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs; +The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair +(This latter metaphoric--we've no fimbriae to spare!); +And I--transported by the bliss--shan't do a plaguey thing +But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King! + +Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like, +While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike; +I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim-- +But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him +In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks, +And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books-- +To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out +The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about; +A fountain-head refreshing--a clear, perennial spring +Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King! + +Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite-- +In other words, should we return all bootless home at night, +I'd back him up in anything he had a mind to say +Of mighty bass he'd left behind or lost upon the way; +I'd nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game-- +I'd cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same; +For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out-- +And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about! +Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would fling +O'er perjuries committed for John Lyle King. + +At night, when as the camp-fire cast a ruddy, genial flame, +He'd bring his tuneful fiddle out and play upon the same; +No diabolic engine this--no instrument of sin-- +No relative at all to that lewd toy, the violin! +But a godly hoosier fiddle--a quaint archaic thing +Full of all the proper melodies our grandmas used to sing; +With "Bonnie Doon," and "Nellie Gray," and "Sitting on the Stile," +"The Heart Bowed Down," the "White Cockade," and "Charming Annie Lisle" +Our hearts would echo and the sombre empyrean ring +Beneath the wizard sorcery of John Lyle King. + +The subsequent proceedings should interest me no more-- +Wrapped in a woolen blanket should I calmly dream and snore; +The finny game that swims by day is my supreme delight-- +And _not_ the scaly game that flies in darkness of the night! +Let those who are so minded pursue this latter game +But not repine if they should lose a boodle in the same; +For an example to you all one paragon should serve-- +He towers a very monument to valor and to nerve; +No bob-tail flush, no nine-spot high, no measly pair can wring +A groan of desperation from John Lyle King! + +A truce to badinage--I hope far distant is the day +When from these scenes terrestrial our friend shall pass away! +We like to hear his cheery voice uplifted in the land, +To see his calm, benignant face, to grasp his honest hand; +We like him for his learning, his sincerity, his truth, +His gallantry to woman and his kindliness to youth, +For the lenience of his nature, for the vigor of his mind, +For the fulness of that charity he bears to all mankind-- +That's why we folks who know him best so reverently cling +(And that is why I pen these lines) to John Lyle King. + +And now adieu, a fond adieu to thee, O muse of rhyme-- +I do remand thee to the shades until that happier time +When fields are green, and posies gay are budding everywhere, +And there's a smell of clover bloom upon the vernal air; +When by the pond out yonder the redwing blackbird calls, +And distant hills are wed to Spring in veils of water-falls; +When from his aqueous element the famished pickerel springs +Two hundred feet into the air for butterflies and things-- +_Then_ come again, O gracious muse, and teach me how to sing +The glory of a fishing cruise with John Lyle King! + + + + UHLAND'S WHITE STAG. + +Into the woods three huntsmen came, +Seeking the white stag for their game. + +They laid them under a green fir-tree +And slept, and dreamed strange things to see. + + (FIRST HUNTSMAN) + +I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush, +When out popped the noble stag--hush, hush! + + (SECOND HUNTSMAN) + +As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang, +I pelted him hard in the hide--piff, bang! + + (THIRD HUNTSMAN) + +And as that stag lay dead I blew +On my horn a lusty tir-ril-la-loo! + +So speak the three as there they lay +When lo! the white stag sped that way, + +Frisked his heels at those huntsmen three, +Then leagues o'er hill and dale was he-- +Hush, hush! Piff, bang! Tir-ril-la-loo! + + + + HOW SALTY WIN OUT + +I used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck-- +It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck; +But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind, an' now proclaim +That luck's a kind uv science--same as any other game; +It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80 when +Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten. + +Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days, +An', natural-like, he fell into the good ol' Tribune ways; +So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game +Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name; +An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose, he wore +Invariably less wealth about his person than before. + +But once there came a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night +Occurred the tidal wave that put ol' Salty out o' sight. +He win on deuce an' ace an' Jack--he win on king an' queen-- +Clif Bell allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen. +An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when +He said he teched a humpback to win out ten. + +There must be somethin' in it, for he never win afore, +An' when he told the crowd about the humpback, how they swore! +For every sport allows it is a losin' game to luck +Agin the science uv a man who's teched a hump f'r luck; +And there is no denyin' luck wuz nowhere in it when +Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten. + +I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do +The thing that luck apparently intended f'r me to; +Cats, funerils, cripples, beggers have I treated with regard, +An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; +But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again: +You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten! + +So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allow +That luck, for luck, agin a hump aint nowhere in it now! +An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain +There must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain; +For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when +Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten! + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs and Other Verse, by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS AND OTHER VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 9889-8.txt or 9889-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/8/8/9889/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Charles Bidwell +and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + +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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