art&ULLALJRENCfi JDUJSBAR University of California Berkeley At the acre of twentv-four. Cbe Ofc and Works of Paul Laurence Dunbar CONTAINING HIS COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS, HIS BEST SHORT STORIES, NUMEROUS ANECDOTES AND A COMPLETE BIO- GRAPHY OF THE FAMOUS POET. By Lida Keck Wiggins And an Introduction by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS From "Lyrics of Lowly Life'* PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH OVER HALF A HUNDRED FULL PAGE PHOTO AND HALF-TONE ENGRAVINGS. Published by J. L. NICHOLS & COMPANY Manufacturing Publishers of High Grade Subscription Books NAPERVILLE. ILL. MEMPHIS. TENN. Agents Wanted Copyright, 1896-98-99, 1900-01-03-04-05-1907, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY Copyright, 1897-98-99, 1900-01-02-03-04-03, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY Copyright, 1895-96-97-98, 1901-02-03-04-03, BY THE CENTURY COMPANY Contents INTRODUCTION TO " LYRICS OF A LOWLY LIFE " By William Dean Howells FOREWORD ....... PART I THE LIFE OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR PART II THE POEMS OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR '3 '9 25 137 ABSENCE 198 Accountability 138 Advice 319 After a Visit 162 After Many Days 333 After the Quarrel 161 After While 167 Alexander Crummell Dead . . . 216 Alice 161 Anchored 321 Angelina 235 Ante-Bellum Sermon, An 144 Appreciation 314 At Candle-Lightin' Time 235 At Cheshire Cheese 227 At Loafing-Holt 329 At Night 320 At Sunset Time 328 At the Tavern 301 Awakening, The 320 BACK-LOG SONG, A 237 Ballad 174 Ballade 282 Banjo Song, A 148 Barrier, The 205 Behind the Arras 199 Bein' Back Home 326 Beyond the Years 162 Black Samson of Brandywine . . . 286 Blue 322 Bohemian, The 197 Boogah Man, The 268 Booker T. Washington 287 Border Ballad, A 166 Boy's Summer Song, A 303 Breaking the Charm 241 Bridal Measure, A 203 By Rugged Ways 291 By the Stream 166 CABIN TALE, A 243 Change, The 325 Change Has Come, The 174 Changing Time 184 Chase, The 325 Choice, A 227 Chrismus is A-Comin' 218 Christmas 335 Christmas Folksong, A 304 Christmas in the Heart 208 Chrismus on the Plantation .... 231 Circumstances Alter Cases .... 327 Colored Band, The 262 Colored Soldiers, The 168 Columbian Ode 165 Communion 213 Comparison 174 CONTENTS Compensation 321 Confessional 222 Confidence, A 185 Conquerors, The ....:... 216 Conscience and Remorse 157 Coquette Conquered, A . 175 Corn Song, A 183 Corn-Stalk Fiddle, The 145 Crisis, The 215 Critters' Dance, De 267 Curiosity 3 11 Curtain 162 DANCE, THE 255 Dat Ol' Mare o' Mine 273 Dawn 177 Day 35 Deacon Jones' Grievance 160 Dead 185 Death 301 Death of the First Born 32* Death Song, A 218 Debt, The 290 Delinquent, The 177 Dely 240 Deserted Plantation, The ..... 180 Despair 327 Differences 275 Dilettante, The ; A Modern Type . 166 Dinah Kneading Dough 274 Diplomacy 308 Dirge 178 Dirge for a Soldier 280 Disappointed 175 Discovered 174 Discovery, The 319 Distinction 217 Disturber, The 228 Douglass 287 Dove, The 252 Dreamer, The 205 Dreamin' Town 322 Dreams 205 Dreams 252 Dream Song I 208 Dream Song II 208 Drizzle 266 Drowsy Day, A 177 EASY-COIN' FELLER, AN 166 Encouraged 307 Encouragement 268 End of the Chapter, The 206 Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes 137 Expectation 229 FAITH 312 Farewell to Arcady 226 Farm Child's Lullaby, The . . . . 313 Fisher Child's Lullaby, The . . . . 312 Fishing 259 Florida Night, A 275 Foolin' wid de Seasons 232 Fount of Tears, The 300 Forest Greeting, The 304 Forever 335 For the Man Who Fails 223 Frederick Douglass 139 Frolic, A 280 GARRET, THE 200 Golden Day, A 316 Good-Night 175 Gourd, The 214 Grievance, A 273 Growin* Gray 189 HAUNTED OAK, THE 297 He Had His Dream 175 Her Thought and His 198 Harriet Beecher Stowe 223 Hope 314 " Howdy, Honey, Howdy ! " ... 277 How Lucy Backslid 245 Hunting Song 242 Hymn, A 204 Hymn . . . .' 178 Hymn 230 IF 186 In an English Garden 215 In August 228 In May 248 lone 157 Inspiration 265 In Summer 197 In the Morning 274 In the Tents of Akbar 299 Invitation to Love 175 Itching Heels 297 CONTENTS JEALOUS 238 llted 231 oggin* Erlong 251 bhnny Speaks 303 ust Whistle a Bit 204 KEEP A-PLUGGIN' AWAY 164 Keep a Song up on de Way .... 254 Kidnaped 321 King is Dead, The 209 Knight, The .......... 210 LAPSE, THE 225 Lawyers' Ways, The 147 Lazy Day, A 315 Lesson, The 140 Letter, A 242 Life 140 Life's Tragedy 300 LiT Gal 285 Lily of the Valley, The ..... 307 Limitations 315 Lincoln 268 Little Brown Baby 200 Little Christmas Basket, A .... 260 Little Lucy Land man 209 Liza May 333 Lonesome 188 Long Ago 276 Longing 148 'Long To'ds Night 270 Looking-Glass, The 287 Lost Dream, A 336 Love 207 Love and Grief 207 Love Despoiled 225 Love Letter, A 330 Lover and the Moon, The .... 156 Lover's Lane 229 Love's Apotheosis 195 Love's Castle 281 Love's Draft 320 Love's Humility 209 Love's Phases 222 Love Song, A 299 Love-Song 288 Love's Seasons 291 Lullaby 210 Lyrics of Love and Sorrow .... 302 MARE RUBRUM 214 Master-Player, The 146 Masters, The 334 Meadow Lark, The \ \ 184 Melancholia 172 Memory of Martha, The 277 Merry Autumn 173 Misapprehension 222 Misty Day, A . 287 Monk's Walk, The 288 Morning 319 Morning Song of Love 281 Mortality 207 Murdered Lover, The 289 Musical, A 320 My Corn-Cob Pipe 228 My Little March Girl ...... 224 My Sort o* Man 236 Mystery, The 146 Mystic Sea, The 197 My Sweet Brown Gal 261 My Lady of Castle Grand .... 266 NATURE AND ART 167 Negro Love Song, A 168 News, The 231 Night 329 Night, Dim Night 302 Night of Love 165 Noddin* by de Fire 282 Noon 301 Nora: A Serenade 176 Not They Who Soar 151 OCTOBER 176 Ode for Memorial Day 151 Ode to Ethiopia 145 Old Apple-Tree, The 141 Old Cabin, The 333 Old Front Gate, The 279 Ol' Tunes, The . 171 On a Clean Book 281 One Life 184 On the Dedication of Dorothy Hall , 291 On the Road 237 On the Sea Wall 221 Opportunity 311 Over the Hills 196 PARADOX, THE 196 Parted 238 Parted 335 Party, The 193 Passion and Love 142 8 CONTENTS Path, The Phantom Kiss, The Philosophy Photograph, The Phyllis Place Where the Rainbow Ends, The, Plantation Child's Lullaby, The . . Plantation Melody, A Plantation Portrait, A Plea, A Poet, The Poet and His Song, The Poet and the Baby, The Pool, The Possession Possum Possum Trot Prayer, A Precedent Preference, A Premonition Preparation Prometheus Promise and Fulfilment Protest Puttin' the Baby Away '47 213 290 276 256 252 275 '3 217 279 279 237 239 142 209 290 '5 2 179 222 H3 2 3 3 l6 QUILTING, THE 335 RAIN-SONGS 336 Real Question, The 230 Religion 160 Reluctance 285 Remembered .... 224 Resignation 209 Response 260 Retort .' 138 Retrospection 152 Riding to Town 183 Right's Security 186 Right to Die, The !98 Rising of the Storm, The 141 Rivals, The 155 River of Ruin, The 330 Roadway, A 291 Robert Gould Shaw .294 Roses 294 Roses and Pearls . 336 SAILOR'S SONG, A 197 Sand-Man, The 303 Scamp . 307 Secret, The 179 Seedling, The 143 She Gave Me a Rose 208 She Told Her Beads 209 Ships That Pass in the Night . . . 177 Signs of the Times 187 Silence 269 Slow Through the Dark ... . 289 Snowin' 253 Soliloquy of a Turkey 255 Song 144 Song 266 Song, A 337 Song, A 337 Song, The 186 Song of Summer 153 Sonnet 218 Sparrow, The 188 Speakin* at de Cou't-House .... 286 Speakin' o' Christmas 188 Spellin'-Bee, The 162 Spiritual, A 276 Spring Fever 261 Spring Song 153 Spring Wooing, A 25 1 Stirrup Cup, The 227 Sum, The 217 Summer Night, A 328 Summer's Night, A ". 177 Sunset 141 Suppose 325 Sympathy 207 TEMPTATION 239 Then and Now 227 Theology 209 Thou Art My Lute 213 Till the Wind Gets Right 328 Time to Tinker 'Roun' ! 203 To a Captious Critic 270 To a Dead Friend 292 To a Lady Playing the Harp . . . 221 To an Ing-rate 299 To a Violet Found on All Saints' Day, 262 To Dan 315 To E. H. K 204 To Her .... . . . 330 ToJ.Q 308 To Louise 154 To the Eastern Shore 281 To the Memory of Mary Young 189 To the Road 247 CONTENTS 9 To the South 292 Trouble in de Kitchen 335 Tryst, The 252 Turning of the Babies in the Bed, The, 254 Twell de Night is Pas' 320 Twilight 312 Two Little Boots 248 Two Songs 147 UNEXPRESSED 153 Unlucky Apple, The 316 Unsung Heroes, The 278 VAGRANTS 224 Valse, The 256 Vengeance is Sweet . . . . . . . 204 Veteran, The . . 322 Visitor, The 259 Voice of the Banjo, The 226 WADIN' IN DE CREEK 308 Waiting 205 "Warm Day in Winter, A 253 Warrior's Prayer, The 225 Way T'ings Come, De 301 Weltschmertz W'en I Gits Home We Wear the Mask What's the Use When a Feller's Itching to be Spanked When All is Done When de Co'n Pone's Hot .... When Dey 'Listed Colored Soldiers . When Malindy Sings When Sam'l Sings When the Old Man Smokes .... Whip-Poor- Will and Katy-Did . . . Whistling Sam Whittier Why Fades a Dream ? Wind and the Sea, The Winter's Approach Winter's Day, A Winter Song With the Lark Wooing, The Wraith, The YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW . 277 184 315 329 216 T 265 190 294 i 99 270 244 151 187 179 321 224 303 196 173 269 325 PART III THE BEST STORIES OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR A Family Feud .... Jimsella . . . . The Walls of Jericho . How Brother Parker Fell From Grace Jim's Probation .... A Supper by Proxy The Faith Cure Man . The Wisdom of Silence The Scapegoat . 339 339 355 361 373 381 39i 400 406 414 Illustrations Paul Laurence Dunbar Frontispiece President Theodore Roosevelt ....... Page 21 Hon. John Hay ....... .."22 Mrs. Matilda Dunbar ........" 27 President William McKinley . . . . . . 28 Dr. Henry A. Tobey . "45 William Dean Howells . . . . . . . " 46 Dr. William Burns . . . . . . . . " 71 Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll . . . . . . . " 72 Hon. Frederick Douglass ......." 99 Master Harry Barton Bogg, Jr. . . . . . . " 100 The Dunbar House . . . . . . . . " 119 Mr. Dunbar's Desk "120 Hon. Brand Whitlock . . . . . . . . " 129 Mr. Dunbar's Library . . . . . . . . " 130 Oh, dere 's lots o' keer an* trouble . . . . . . " 149 Male an' female, small an' big, . . . . . . " 1 50 Seen my lady home las' night . . . . . . . " 169 When de co'n pone's hot . . . . . . . " 170 De plow's a-tumblin' down in de fiel' " 181 O'er the fields with heavy tread . . . . . . " 182 Put dat music book away . . . . . . . " 191 While Malindy sings . . . . . . . tf 192 Who's pappy 's darlin' . . . . . " . . " 201 Den you men's de mule's ol* ha'ness ... . " 202 Po' little lamb " 211 Dat's my gal . . . ... , . . ** 212 Beneaf de willers . . . . . . . . . '* 219 Chris'mus is a-comin* ........'* 220 II 12 ILLUSTRATIONS I lays sorrer on de she'f I . . . Page 233 Mek de shadders on de wall . . . . . . ."234 Dese little boots " 249 Come on walkin' wid me, Lucy . . . . . " 250 My Mandy Lou " 257 Bring dat basket nighah " 258 The colored band "263 My 'Lias went to wah ........" 264 He toss his piccaninny . . . . . . . " 271 She de only hoss fu' me . . . . . . . " 272 By a good ol' hick'ry fiah . . ' . . . . " 283 LiT Gal . . "284 Sam'l took a trip a-Sad'day "295 Don' fiddle dat chune no mo* ......." 296 It's goin' to be a green Christmas ......" 305 Wen you says yo' " Now I lay me " . . . . . " 306 Dah de watah's gu'glin' " 309 Whut is mammy cookin' . . . ., . " 310 Dese eyes o' mine is wringin' wet . . . . . " 317 Des don' pet yo' worries . . . . . ."318 Chile, I's sholy blue . . . . . . . " 323 In dat dreamland of delight .... . . ."324 A letter f 'om de sweetes' little gal . . . . . " 331 I . . . git to t'inkin' of de pas' " 332 Old Aunt Doshy " 353 Mandy Mason . . . . . . . . " 354 ." ' Stan' still, stan' still, I say, an' see de salvation '" . . "371 His eyes were bright, and he was breathing quickly . . . "372 Dat Jim " 389 " You old scoundrel," said a well known voice " 390 Introduction I THINK I should scarcely trouble the reader with a special appeal in behalf of this book, if it had not specially appealed to me for reasons apart from the author's race, origin, and condition. The world is too old now, and I find myself too much of its mood, to care for the work of a poet because he is black, because his father and mother were slaves, because he was, before and after he began to write poems, an elevator-boy. These facts would certainly attract me to him as a man, if I knew him to have a literary ambition, but when it came to his literary art, I must judge it irrespective of these facts, and enjoy or endure it for what it was in itself. It seems to me that this was my experience with the poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar when I found it in another form, and in justice to him I cannot wish that it should be otherwise with his readers here. Still, it will legitimately interest those who like to know the causes, or, if these may not be known, the sources, of things, to learn that the father and mother of the first poet of his race in our language were negroes without admixture of white blood. The father escaped from slavery in Ken- tucky to freedom in Canada, while there was still no hope of freedom otherwise ; but the mother was freed by the events of the civil war, and came North to Ohio, where their son was born at Dayton, and grew up with such chances and mischances for mental training as every- '3 I 4 INTRODUCTION where befall the children of the poor. He has told me that his father picked up the trade of a plasterer, and when he had taught himself to read, loved chiefly to read history. The boy's mother shared his passion for litera- ture, with a special love of poetry, and after the father died she struggled on in more than the poverty she had shared with him. She could value the faculty which her son showed first in prose sketches and attempts at fiction, and she was proud of the praise and kindness they won him among the people of the town, where he has never been without the warmest and kindest friends. In fact, from every part of Ohio and from several cities of the adjoining States, there came letters in cordial ap- preciation of the critical recognition which it was my pleasure no less than my duty to offer Paul Dunbar's work in another place. It seemed to me a happy omen for him that so many people who had known him, or known of him, were glad of a stranger's good word ; and it was gratifying to see that at home he was esteemed for the things he had done rather than because as the son of negro slaves he had done them. If a prophet is often without honor in his own country, it surely is nothing against him when he has it. In this case it deprived me of the glory of a discoverer ; but that is sometimes a bar- ren joy, and I am always willing to forego it. What struck me in reading Mr. Dunbar's poetry was what had already struck his friends in Ohio and Indiana, in Kentucky and Illinois. They had felt, as I felt, that however gifted his race had proven itself in music, in oratory, in several of the other arts, here was the first in- stance of an American negro who had evinced innate dis- tinction in literature. In my criticism of his book I had INTRODUCTION 15 alleged Dumas in France, and I had forgetfully failed to allege the far greater Pushkin in Russia ; but these were both mulattoes, who might have been supposed to derive their qualities from white blood vastly more artistic than ours, and who were the creatures of an environment more favorable to their literary development. So far as I could remember, Paul Dunbar was the only man of pure African blood and of American civilization to feel the negro life aesthetically and express it lyrically. It seemed to me that this had come to its most modern conscious- ness in him, and that his brilliant and unique achievement was to have studied the American negro objectively, and to have represented him as he found him to be, with humor, with sympathy, and yet with what the reader must instinctively feel to be entire truthfulness. I said that a race which had come to this effect in any member of it, had attained civilization in him, and I permitted my- self the imaginative prophecy that the hostilities and the prejudices which had so long constrained his race were destined to vanish in the arts ; that these were to be the final proof that God had made of one blood all nations of men. I thought his merits positive and not compar- ative ; and I held that if his black poems had been writ- ten by a white man, I should not have found them less admirable. I accepted them as an evidence of the essen- tial unity of the human race, which does not think or feel black in one and white in another, but humanly in all. Yet it appeared to me then, and it appears to me now, that there is a precious difference of temperament be- tween the races which it would be a great pity ever to lose, and that this is best preserved and most charmingly suggested by Mr. Dunbar in those pieces of his where he !6 INTRODUCTION studies the moods and traits of his race in its own accent of our English. We call such pieces dialect pieces for want of some closer phrase, but they are really not dia- lect so much as delightful personal attempts and failures for the written and spoken language. In nothing is his essentially refined and delicate art so well shown as in these pieces, which, as I ventured to say, describe the range between appetite and emotion, with certain lifts far beyond and above it, which is the range of the race. He reveals in these a finely ironical perception of the negro's limitations, with a tenderness for them which I think so very rare as to be almost quite new. I should say, per- haps, that it was this humorous quality which Mr. Dun- bar had added to our literature, and it would be this which would most distinguish him, now and hereafter. It is something that one feels in nearly all the dialect pieces ; and I hope that in the present collection he has kept all of these in his earlier volume, and added others to them. But the contents of this book are wholly of his own choosing, and I do not know how much or little he may have preferred the poems in literary English. Some of these I thought very good, and even more than very good, but not distinctively his contribution to the body of American poetry. What I mean is that several people might have written them ; but I do not know any one else at present who could quite have written the dialect pieces. These are divinations and reports of what passes in the hearts and minds of a lowly people whose poetry had hitherto been inarticulately expressed in music, but now finds, for the first time in our tongue, literary inter- pretation of a very artistic completeness. I say the event is interesting, but how important it INTRODUCTION 17 shall be can be determined only by Mr. Dunbar's future performance. I cannot undertake to prophesy concern- ing this ; but if he should do nothing more than he has done, I should feel that he had made the strongest claim for the negro in English literature that the negro has yet made. He has at least produced something that, how- ever we may critically disagree about it, we cannot well refuse to enjoy ; in more than one piece he has produced a work of art. W. D. HOWELLS. Foreword IN preparing this biography of Paul Laurence Dunbar for his publishers, his biographer was greatly helped and encouraged by many persons who knew and loved him. Among those to whom special thanks are due are the poet's mother, Mrs. Matilda Dunbar of Dayton, and his friends, Dr. H. A. Tobey, Mr. Charles Thatcher, Mayor Brand Whitlock, and Mr. Charles Cottrill of Toledo. Many letters of inquiry were written, and in almost every case prompt and helpful replies received. The other facts given or anecdotes told were found in letters written in the poet's own hand to intimate friends. It has been the steadfast purpose of his biographer to give to the world only such data as could be -established in fact, and if she has failed in any instance the error was of the head and not the heart. It would have been a pleasant thing to have reproduced all the appreciative letters that came in connection with the writing of this biography, but as that would have been impossible, it has seemed well to quote from two of the many. Having been told that upon one occasion, President Roosevelt had said, in speaking of Mr. Dunbar : " I like that young man, though I do not agree' with his philosophy," a letter was addressed by Mr. Dunbar's biographer to the President. In response to this inquiry Mr. Roosevelt wrote as follows : 20 FOREWORD Oyster Bay, L. /., August 2, MY DEAR MRS. WIGGINS : I have your letter of the 2yth. While I only had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Dunbar once or twice, I was a great admirer of his poetry and his prose. I do not believe I ever spoke such a sentence as that you quote in reference to him. I had been struck by the artistic merit of his work, and had not thought of what you speak of as its " philosophy " save in the sense that all really artistic work has a philosophy of application to the entire human race. Sincerely yours, THEODORE ROOSEVELT. Having observed by newspaper reports that Mr. James Lane Allen was a friend of the black poet's, though a man of southern birth, a letter was sent him by Mr. Dun- bar's biographer. His reply is beautifully characteristic, and the paragraph which he generously sends for use in the Life is quoted verbatim here " I think that Paul Laurence Dunbar reached, in some of his poems, the highest level that his race has yet at- tained 'in lyric form, and feeling : and if it can be of serv- ice to you to make use of this opinion, it is gladly at your service." JAMES LANE ALLEN. By all races and under all skies the poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar are being read, and a decade later the world will have learned to know, better than it does now, the loss it sustained when the greatest poet of his race, and one of the greatest of any race, passed into the silence and dropped the veil. To his biographer, who visited him many times, during the last two years of his life, the friendship of such a man Copyright, 1903, by C. M. Bell Photo Co. PRESIDENT THEODORE ROOSEVELT Who was a great admirer of Mr. Dunbar's literary productions, and who was a personal friend of the poet. HON. JOHN HAY Who being the American Ambassador to England at the time of Mr. Dunbar's visit to London, paid him marked attention, and arranged an entertainment at which Mr. Dunbar recited his poems before a highly intellectual and cultured audience. FOREWORD 23 meant more than mere prose may tell. After a visit to the poet, when he was particularly cheerful and full of hope, these lines " wrote themselves down " as a slight appreciation of the privilege of calling on Paul Laurence Dunbar. I come from the home of a poet, Who wove me, with exquisite art, A cloak of the threads of his fancy Rich 'broidered with flowers of the heart. Oh, wonderful cloak that he wove me, " For, under its magical spell, I heard in the lilt of a linnet An anthem of infinite swell. I sat 'mid the fragrance of roses, Tho' never a rose blossomed there, And perfume of jasmine flowers mingled With violet scents in the air. Life's lowly were laureled with verses, And sceptred were honor and worth, While cabins became, through the poet, Fair homes of the lords of the earth. The plane, where life's humble ones labor In sorrow and sadness untold, Shone forth in my eyes' quickened vision, A field of the fabric of gold. With sorrow, blest cloak, I relinquished Thy influence, sweet and ideal, For a world where the Real is called "fancy," And fancied things only are " real." Lida Ktck Wiggins. PART I Life of Paul Laurence Dunbar CHAPTER I BIRTH AND PARENTAGE AT Dayton, Ohio, in the year 1871, Mrs. Matilda Murphy, an ex-slave, was married to Joshua Dunbar, who, having escaped to Canada before the war, had later enlisted in the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Infantry, and was, at the time of his marriage, an old man. Neither Joshua Dunbar nor his wife could read or write, but both had ardent ambitions to know more of the world and of the achieve- ments of their fellow men. Matilda Dunbar' s master was a cultured gentleman of Lexington, Kentucky, and as a little girl, she was allowed to sit at his feet and listen as he read aloud to his wife from the great writers. Espe- cially was she delighted when he read poetry the music of it, the rhythm and the imagery fired her imagination and left an unfading impression upon her mind. It was always with regret and sometimes with a hidden tear that little Matilda left her seat on the floor at her master's knee and retired to bed. She dared not express a wish to re- main she was only a slave child and was not expected 25 26 THE LIFE AND WORKS to have opinions of her own. During her girlhood and even after she went to Dayton, Ohio, and married her first husband, Mr. Murphy, she still loved to hear verses read and was a very capable judge of the merits of a metrical composition. After her marriage with Joshua Dunbar, she learned from school-children, whom she coaxed into her humble home, the coveted letters of the alpha- bet. One by one she mastered them, and then began spelling out words, and finally sentences. Her husband, although well advanced in years, taught himself reading, and after long hours spent at his trade, which was that of a plasterer, he read universal history and biography. In 1872 this pair became the parents of a boy baby. When the momentous question of " naming the baby 11 came to be discussed, Mr. Dunbar insisted that the child be called Paul. His young wife thought the name too " old-fashioned " for a baby. Mr. Dunbar had a quaint and formal manner of addressing his wife, and upon this occasion said : " Matilda Madam, don't you know that the Bible says Paul was a great man ? This child will be great some day and do you honor." Thus the question was settled, and the child was chris- tened Paul Laurence, the Laurence being in compliment to a Dayton friend. The father of Paul Dunbar proved a prophet. The boy was a genius. At as early an age as seven years he wrote his first bit of verse. It was a child's poem and naturally expressed childish sentiment, but even then the flickerings of a great talent were ap- parent. There had to be a beginning, and to those who view this short life from first to last it would almost seem that the young poet knew his work must be done quickly, MRS. MATILDA DUNBAR The poet's mother, who as a child was held in slavery. Copyright, lyoO, by C. farker PRESIDENT WILLIAM McKINLEY Who conferred on Mr. Dunbar the honor of a commission to act as aide with rank of Colonel in his inaugural parade. Mr. Dunbar accepted the invitation and rode in the procession. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 29 as the time was short. His soul was old when his body came into the world. At school, 'Paul Dunbar was a diligent pupil, his fa- vorite studies being spelling, grammar and literature. It is to the everlasting credit of his teachers that they en- couraged him in his writing, and praised the little poems which he carried to them in a bashful way. Perchance if they had been indifferent to these early attempts, the shrink- ing lad would never have had courage to go forward. Timidity and modesty marked his bearing through life. When in high school he edited The High School Times, a monthly publication issued by the pupils of the Steele High School. This work was done with so much tact and evinced such extraordinary talent that many an older head predicted the boy's future renown. In 1891 he graduated from the high school with hon- ors, and the class song composed by him was sung at the commencement exercises. Commencement meant to Paul Dunbar the beginning of his hard struggle for existence. His father having died in 1884, it devolved upon the boy to support his mother. It is doubtful if in all history a child were ever more faith- ful and loyal to a mother than this young poet. While yet in school he had assisted her in her humble tasks as a washerwoman, and carried home the clothes to her patrons. He did odd jobs about hotels and other places, and was always willing and eager to lend a helpful hand. His graduation over, Dunbar sought regular work. Hav- ing obtained an education, he quite naturally hoped for better things than mere menial employment. He was destined to meet with disappointment. On every hand his color told against him, and at last in sheer despair, 30 THE LIFE AND WORKS he was compelled to accept a position as elevator boy in the Callahan Building at Dayton. Here he earned four dollars a week, upon which to support his mother and himself. Many a young man, possessing such a sensi- tive soul, would have recoiled from so humble an occu- pation. Not so with this budding genius. With brave heart he set about his task, determined to gain recogni- tion later. There were few flowers in his path and many cruel thorns. He gathered the roses, inhaled their fra- grance, and immortalized their beauty in verse, and the thorns he bore bravely as a part of human life. Thus he learned early to be a philosopher, and in consequence a great poet. Every moment that could be snatched from his busy hours was utilized in improving his brilliant mind. His soul, attuned to the infinite music which is ever to be heard even among most unfavorable surroundings, detected a melody in the grating of the elevator cables and the thud of the car as it stopped for passengers. The people he served were of lively interest to the lad, and into very ordinary faces his artistic mind painted un- guessed nobility and beauty. His humble home, his dear mother and his beloved black people formed the all- sufficient inspiration for his earlier dialect poems. Many of these were stories told by his mother, as the family sat before the fire on winter nights, but he always added a touch of quaint philosophy, or a breath of pathos, which lifted them above the level of folk-lore and gave them a dignity and depth which were all his own. The best things he wrote in those early days were the poems which were couched in classic English, and the produc- tion of such verses proved far more than his dialect the remarkable scope of his mentality. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 31 In 1892, when the Western Association of Writers met at Dayton, Mrs. Truesdale, one of Dunbar's former teachers, brought about an invitation for him to deliver the address of welcome. The printed program did not contain the name of the person who was to give the address, but at the appointed hour, having secured a limited leave of absence from his elevator, young Dunbar went to the hall. He entered as a shadow, walked grace- fully down the aisle, and mounted the rostrum. He was introduced to the audience by Dr. John Clark Ridpath and delivered the " welcome " in metrical form, written in the best of English and full of haunting melody. His manner of reading was almost as wonderful as his com- position, and the cultured audience was delighted and amazed. As quickly as he came he disappeared, and hurried back to his work. The members of the associ- ation were convinced that they had been listening to a genius ; and many inquiries were made concerning the lad. He was later made a member of the Association. The following day Dr. James Newton Matthews, Mr. Will Pfrimmer and Dr. Ridpath went to the Callahan Building and sought him out. They found him at his post of duty and by his side in the elevator were a late copy of the Century Magazine, a lexicon, a scratch tablet and a pencil. Dunbar, writing to a friend of this meet- ing said : " My embarrassment was terrible. In the midst of a sentence, perhaps, a ring would come from the top of the building for the elevator, and I would have to excuse myself and run up after passengers." Dr. Matthews questioned Dunbar concerning his life, and secured copies of a number of his poems. A few 32 THE LIFE AND WORKS weeks later he wrote a press-letter about the young poet and quoted these poems. This letter was published in many of the leading newspapers in America and England. A copy of it fell into the hands of James Whitcomb Riley, who after reading the verses, wrote the young poet a letter in which he called him " his chirping friend," and praised his work, particularly the one entitled " Drowsy Day." This letter was one of Dunbar's treasures and he kept it all his life. CHAPTER II "OAK AND IVY" THE years 1892 and 1893 were memorable in the life of Paul Laurence Dunbar. Encouraged by a number of men, who promised to supply financial support, the young man began to have ambitions to publish a book of his poems. One evening, after a hard day on the elevator, he went to his home, and said to his mother : " Ma, where are those papers I asked you to save for me ? " The " papers " to which he referred were man- uscript and newspaper copies of his poems. His mother, having but little room in their tiny home, utilized the kitchen for dining-room as well, and on the table in the middle room, Paul had piled his papers during the years of high school. His mother allowed the pile to grow, though she did not know that it contained his manu- scripts, and thought that the papers to which he referred were his botany sheets and things of that kind. Finally, being criticised by her neighbors for allowing such a stack of papers to lie on her table, she gathered them all together, and put them in a large box under the old fashioned " safe," in her kitchen. So, when her son came home that particular evening and asked anxiously for his " papers,' 1 she said : " They're out there under the safe." Dunbar selected from the pile a little bundle, which he carried away with him next morning, saying, " Ma, I'm going to publish a book." 33 34 THE LIFE AND WORKS He went to the office of the United Brethren Publish- ing House and unfolded his plans to the agent of that institution. His " friends " who had promised financial backing, had laughed at him when he asked them to make their word good, so he had to approach the pub- lisher empty-handed. Here again he met with disap- pointment. They would not " take the risk," and unless he could secure $125.00 to pay for the books they would not undertake their publication. One hundred and twenty-five dollars 1 They might as well have asked for a thousand. Poor Dunbar, unable to conceal his disap- pointment, was leaving the house with a sad countenance, wholly discouraged. At this juncture, Mr. William Blacher, the business manager of the concern, noticing his disheartened appearance, called him to his desk and said : " What's the matter, Paul ? " " Oh, I wanted to have a volume of poems printed, but the house can't trust me, and I can never get $125.00 to pay for it in advance." Mr. Blacher's heart was touched. He knew the boy, and appreciated him. He had read his verses, and knew that they were " real poems," truly inspired. He told young Dunbar that he would stand between him and the house for the amount required, and that the book would be published for the Christmas holidays. The boy's bright face was aglow with happiness when he reached his mother's home that night, and there were tears of joy in his eyes when he said : "Oh, ma, they're going to print my book." Several weeks later, one snowy morning, there came a rap at the door of the Dunbar home. Mrs. Dunbar, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 35 wiping her hands free of suds on her apron, opened the door. A man stood outside with a large package of books for " Mr. Paul Dunbar." " These are a few of Mr. Dunbar's books/ 1 he said. " And, by the way, what is this Dunbar ? Is he a doctor, a lawyer, a preacher, or what ? " His mother modestly replied "Who? Paul? Why Paul is just an elevator boy, and a poet." In less than two weeks after the appearance of the little volume which was entitled " Oak and Ivy Poems," Paul Dunbar again approached the desk of Mr. Blacher. This time he walked with a confident tread, and reaching into his pocket, produced the exact amount of his indebt- edness, one hundred and twenty-five dollars 1 The boy had sold enough books while going up and down in his elevator to pay for the whole edition ! Soon after this Judge Dustin, of the Common Pleas Court, became interested in the lad, and gave him a po- sition as page at the Dayton Court House. He also gave Dunbar a chance to read law. About this time, a review of his book, " Oak and Ivy," appeared in the Toledo Blade, and several of his poems were reproduced. Among these was his " Drowsy Day." This article and the poems attracted the attention of Mr. Charles Thatcher, a rising attorney of Toledo, who wrote to Dunbar, asking him to send a copy of " Oak and Ivy," and to tell him something of his life. Mr. Dunbar answered this letter from Richmond, Indiana, where he had been invited by one of the most prominent ladies of that city, to come and read a poem at a church social. He said that there was very little to tell of his early life, as it had been uneventful, and that he had been 36 THE LIFE AND WORKS running an elevator in Dayton at $4.00 per week, and out of his earnings attempting to support himself and his widowed mother, and to pay for the little home which he had bought through the building and loan association, but that the bulk of his payments went for interest. He also said that he expected to go to Detroit in the near future, as a friend was trying to arrange a reading for him there. Mr. Thatcher answered the letter immedi- ately, and asked him to stop off at Toledo on his way to Detroit, as he wished to meet him personally. April 15, 1893, Dunbar went to Toledo, on his way to Detroit, and called at the office of the attorney, who was immediately impressed with his gentlemanly bearing and with his desire to secure an education. Mr. Thatcher was impressed by the earnest expression of the young man's face, and with his evident honesty of purpose. After considerable conversation, he suggested to Dunbar that he might secure several gentlemen to join him and arrange to loan him an amount each year, necessary to meet his expenses while in college: and that if this were done, he could give his note to each per- son who advanced money, with a view to paying the sum when he was able. He placed the matter be- fore Dunbar as a business proposition, and not in the light of charity. The poet did not hesitate a moment. He promptly declined the offer, saying with admirable pride, although with due appreciation of his friend's kindness : "I feel that I can accomplish it alone, and very much prefer to do so, if I am able." He went to Detroit, and gave readings, which added to his reputation as a reader and a poet. While there he OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 37 received a telegram from Mr. Thatcher to come back by way of Toledo, and to be prepared to recite for the West End Club the following Wednesday evening. Dunbar wrote his new patron, thanking him, and saying : "I am studying hard for Wednesday night, and hope I shall please the members of the West End Club." This club had been recently organized and once a week some per- son delivered a lecture or a paper. That night it so hap- pened that Dr. W. C. Chapman, of Toledo, who had lately returned from a trip South, was on the program for a paper. Its title was "The Negro in the South." The doctor did not know that Dunbar was to appear later, nor did he know that he was in the audience. He indulged in severe criticisms of the negro, accusing him of laziness, but added that there were noted exceptions to the rule, and referred to Paul Laurence Dunbar. When, a little later, it was announced that " Paul Laurence Dun- bar " would " favor the club with several original selec- tions," the doctor was covered with embarrassment. The young black man rose with dignity and said : " I will give you one number which I had not intended reciting when I came : it is entitled, * An Ode to Ethi- opia/ " One would have thought that he was a lawyer de- fending a man for his life. He seemed to feel that an at- tack had been made upon his race and that he was its sole defender. The zeal and ardor with which he recited showed that his soul was in the theme. His eyes flashed, his white teeth gleamed, and his whole person was a-tremble with emotion. After the recital he said to Mr. Thatcher : " I do not know but that I showed too much spirit in 38 THE LIFE AND WORKS rendering * An Ode to Ethiopia/ but I could not help it." All who heard him that night were impressed with his genius, and touched by the fact that a boy of twenty had taken up the fight to defend a race numbering more than six millions. Of himself he might well have been speak- ing when, in the last stanza of the Ode, he cried : " Go on and up ! Our souls and eyes Shall follow thy continuous rise : Our ears shall list thy story From bards who from thy root shall spring And proudly tune their lyres to sing Of Ethiopia's glory." CHAPTER III THE WORLD'S FAIR "A 'SPECIAL PROVIDENCE 1 " AT the opening of the World's Columbian Exposition an opportunity came for young D unbar to go to Chicago. At first he hesitated, not wishing to leave his mother alone. Mrs. Dunbar, feeling that the fair would be an education in itself for her boy, insisted upon his going. When all was in readiness, and the hour had come to say good-bye, he leaned on the mantelpiece and sobbed like a child, saying : "Oh, ma, I don't want to go it is such a wicked city : I know I shall learn a great deal but I'm afraid to ven- ture. I don't want to go." His mother, choking down her own tears, talked to her son, and finally overcame his mood. He went to Chi- cago, and after several unsuccessful attempts to obtain suitable employment, he was given a position by Hon. Fred Douglass, then in charge of the exhibit from Hayti. For this work Mr. Douglass paid Paul Dunbar $5.00 a week, out of his own pocket. After a while Dun- bar sent for his mother, who, always willing to follow her son, went to him. She was not too proud to work, and so did light housekeeping for a family there, thus making a bit of a home for her beloved child. On " Colored Folks' Day " at the fair, Paul Laurence Dunbar was called upon to render several " selections," before thousands of his own people. The verses were greatly appreciated, but when it was announced, by an 39 40 THE LIFE AND WORKS Episcopal clergyman from Washington, D. C, that the compositions were original, the applause was deafening. Fred Douglass, in speaking to an acquaintance about the young poet, during the time he was employed at the Haytian building, said : " I regard Paul Dunbar as the most promising young colored man in America." How much the young poet appreciated the friendship of the elder man may be learned by his beautiful tribute to him at the time of his death. The last stanza, which reads as follows, is characteristic : " Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the shore, But still thy voice is ringing o'er the gale ! Thou'st taught thy race how high her hopes may soar, And bade her seek the heights, nor fail. She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring cry, She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh, And, rising from beneath the chast'ning rod, She stretches out her bleeding hands to God ! " After the fair, Mr. Dunbar and his mother returned to Dayton. Finding that it would be impossible to earn sufficient funds for a college course, the young man re- luctantly wrote his Toledo friend, Mr. Thatcher, saying that he would reconsider his original decision, and accept the loan which had been offered him. The young at- torney was quite willing to fulfil his part of the promise, but the other men, who had given their word, now had excuses to offer, and the project failed to materialize. This was a heart-breaking blow to poor Paul Dunbar, but he bore it bravely with indomitable will and more than human courage. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 41 Very soon after this, he was approached by a man who claimed to be organizing a " Black Jenny Lind Concert Company," and who made the poet an offer to go with him as his reader. Heart and soul the young man went to work, writing new poems, committing others to mem- ory, and preparing himself thoroughly in every way. But, just ten days before he was to have started on the road, he received word that the " company " had dis- banded, and that his services would not be needed. Poor Dunbar was almost frantic : winter was approach- ing : he had no funds with which to buy food and fuel : his clothing and that of his mother was insufficient, and he had given up everything in the way of work to go with the " Jenny Lind " organization. A call came to go to Detroit to give a reading, and this he did, but the affair proved to be one given for "charity," and Dunbar, poorer than any for whom the recital was given, was expected to give his services gratis. Thus impoverished he was compelled to write again to Toledo. This time, doubtless with a breaking heart, he wrote to Mr. Thatcher : " Could some of the money which was offered for my college course be sent me to relieve present embarrass- ments ? I have no funds and no work, and a foreclosure is threatened on the little home I have been paying for through the Building & Loan Association." The appeal was not in vain : the money was sent, and the home saved. The relief, however, being only tem- porary, the boy poet soon grew desperate and wrote to a friend under date of November yth, 1894 : " There is only one thing left to be done, and I am too big a coward to do that." Small wonder that thoughts of suicide should come to this sensitive soul when every 42 THE LIFE AND WORKS avenue of honest pursuit was closed against him. Truly " Every door is barred with gold, And opens but to golden keys," and poor Paul Dunbar didn't have the keys and in ad dition to that he was a negro ! Twice burdened indeed is he who carries upon his shoulders the load of poverty and the stigma of race prejudice. In the fall or winter of 1893, Miss Mary Reeve of Dayton, a woman of rare intellectuality, who reviewed books for magazines, went to Toledo to be the guest of Dr. and Mrs. H. A. Tobey at the Toledo State Hospital. Dr. Tobey was at that time superintendent of the insti- tution, and is one of America's greatest experts on insanity. He is a man of broad mind, universal sympa- thies and decidedly democratic ideals. Miss Reeve and he discussed many of the vital problems of the day, and upon one occasion the doctor said that the only question he ever asked about any person was : " What is there in the individual, regardless of creed, nationality or race." His companion replied : "I suspect then that you would be interested in a negro boy we have down in Dayton. I don't know much of him myself, but my sister, Mrs. Conover (this is the Mrs. Frank Conover to whom Mr. Dunbar after- wards dedicated his collection of poems entitled " Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow " ) says he has written some very wonderful things." " I would not be interested in him," replied the doctor, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 43 " because he is a negro : I would only be interested in him for what he is." A little later Miss Reeve sent the doctor a copy of Dunbar's first book, " Oak and Ivy." He read the little poems casually, not giving them much thought, and was not especially impressed. He went to Dayton a few months later, however, and while there inquired about Paul Laurence Dunbar. He heard of his obscure origin, his hardships and his hopeless condition. He also learned that the boy had been faithfully helping his mother in her humble tasks as a laundress : that he had graduated from high school : had held a position as ele- vator boy, and that he had ambitions to study law. All this appealed to Dr. Tobey. His sympathies were en- listed for the boy because he was making such a noble struggle. When he returned home he sought again the little volume, " Oak and Ivy," and this time, being in closer touch with its author, he saw new beauty in the lines. Several of the poems he read over and over, each time finding greater depths and truths almost sublime. Finally, one Sunday evening, after going over the book once more, he wrote a letter to the author, enclosing a sum of money, and asking that the number of books for which the amount would pay be sent him, as he wished to distribute them among his friends. He also spoke many encouraging words to the young poet, and ex- pressed a desire to be of service to him if that were possible. He did not receive a reply from Mr. Dunbar for three or four days, and then came the answer. This letter is so remarkable in many ways, and is such a rev- elation of the character of the young man at that time, that it is given verbatim below : 44 THE LIFE AND WORKS Dayton, Ohio, July ijth, 1895. MY DEAR DR. TOBEY: If it is a rule that tardiness in the acknowledgment of favors argues lack of appreciation of them, you may set it down that the rule has gone wrong in this case. Your letter and its enclosure was a sunburst out of a very dark and unpromising cloud. Let me tell you the circumstances and see if you do not think that you came to me somewhat in the r61e of a " special providence." The time for the meeting of the Western Association of Writers was at hand. I am a member and thought that certain advantages might come to me by attending. All day Saturday and all day Sunday I tried every means to secure funds to go. I tried every known place, and at last gave up and went to bed Sunday night in despair. But strangely I could not sleep, so about half-past eleven I arose and between then and 2 A. M., wrote the paper which I was booked to read at the Association. Then, still with no suggestion of any possibility of attending the meeting, I returned to bed and went to sleep about four o'clock. Three hours later came your letter with the check that took me to the desired place. I do not think that I spent the money unwisely, for besides the pleasure of intercourse with kindred spirits which should have been sufficient motive, I believe that there were several practical advantages which I derived from the trip, whence I have just returned. I wish I could thank you for the kindness that prompted your action ; I care not in whose name it was done, whether in Christ's, Mahomet's or Buddha's. The thing that concerned me, the fact that made the act a good and noble one was that it was done. Yes, I am tied down and have been by menial labor, and any escape from it so far has only been a brief respite that made a return to the drudgery doubly hard. But I am glad to say that for the past two or three years I have been able to keep my mother from the hard toil by DR. HENRY A. TOBEY To whom Mr. Dunbar dedicated his "Folks from Dixie," and who had possibly the greatest influence of any person upon the poet's life and work. WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Whose article in Harper's Weekly gave Mr. Dunbar his first introduction into the great world of letters. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 47 which she raised and educated me. But it has been and is a struggle. Your informant was mistaken as to my aspirations. I did once want to be a lawyer, but that ambition has long since died out before the all-absorbing desire to be a worthy singer of the songs of God and nature. To be able to interpret my own people through song and story, and to prove to the many that after all we are more human than African. And to this end I have hoped year after year to be able to go to Washington, New York, Boston and Philadelphia where I might see our northern negro at his best, before seeing his brother in the South : but it has been denied me. I hope, if possible, to spend the coming year in college, chiefly to learn how and what to study in order to culti- vate my vein. But I have my home responsibilities and unless I am able to make sufficient to meet them I shall be unable to accomplish my purpose. To do this I have for some time been giving readings from my verses to audiences mostly of my own people. But as my work has been confined to the smaller towns generally the re- sult has not been satisfactory. Perhaps I have laid my case too plainly and openly be- fore you, but you seem to display a disposition to aid me, and I am so grateful that I cannot but be confidential. Then beside, a physician does not want to take a case when there is reticence in regard to the real phases of it. And so I have been plain. Sincerely, PAUL L. DUNBAR. 140 Ziegler Street, Dayton y Ohio. CHAPTER IV MAJORS AND MINORS IN August, 1895, Dr. Tobey wrote the young poet, in- viting him to come to the Institution at Toledo and read for the patients. Having, in the meantime, learned that Mr. Charles Cottrill, a brilliant young colored man of Toledo, was a family friend of the Dunbars, Dr. Tobey insisted on having him at the hospital to formally intro- duce the poet. A carriage was sent to meet Mr. Dun- bar at the railway station, and Dr. Tobey and Mr. Cot- trill stood at a window, awaiting its return. When it came back and young Dunbar alighted, the doctor ex- claimed : " Thank God, he's black ! " His companion, being of a much lighter color than Dunbar, was momentarily offended, but the doctor re- deemed himself by adding : ! " Whatever genius he may have cannot be attributed to the white blood he may have in him." In the autumn of the same year, Dr. Tobey sent a second invitation to Paul Dunbar to come to Toledo and give a reading at the Asylum. The doctor having learned of Mr. Charles Thatcher's great interest in and friendship for the Dayton boy, asked the attorney to be his guest at this recital. Thus Dunbar' s two great friends joined hands for his future welfare. 48 OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 49 At this second recital Mr. Dunbar read poems which were new to his Toledo friends, and which had not been published in " Oak and Ivy." They talked with him at the close of the program, and found that he cherished hopes of getting a second book published at Dayton on the same terms as the first. Under his arrangement with the Dayton house he did not own the plates of his book, but when he secured orders for a number of volumes, the firm would bind them for him, from the loose sheets kept on hand. His two friends told him that they would assume the finan- cial part of the new publication, and that when the books were printed they would belong to the author. Dunbar was very happy over this arrangement and set about im- mediately to find a Toledo publisher. He finally arranged in a very businesslike way, with the Hadley & Hadley Printing Company to publish an edition of 1,000 copies of a second book. This little volume was called " Majors and Minors," and contains many of the finest things he ever wrote. His mind was not mature, then, as it was in later efforts, but his thoughts were honest, pure and fearless, and there was not the slightest trace of over-polish or artificiality. Mr. Dunbar was so con- scientious that very few of the poems which had ap- peared in his first book, were reprinted. He said, con- cerning the matter : " Some poets get out ' new ' books that are largely composed of poems that have been published before. I do not believe that such a practice is right." The poet hoped to have this book ready for the Christ- mas holidays of 1895, but to his great disappointment, it did not appear until early the following year. 50 THE LIFE AND WORKS During the days which preceded the publication of " Majors and Minors/' and before the binders began work, Dr. Tobey was so anxious to possess the poems in printed form that he went to the office of Hadley & Hadley, se- cured an unbound volume, and eagerly cut the leaves with his pocket knife. So many of the vital questions of Paul Laurence Dun- bar's life were settled seemingly by mere accident, or at least remarkably strange coincidences! The very day that Dr. Tobey came into possession of this first copy of "Majors and Minors," he was called into professional con- sultation in the city, which made it necessary for him to re- main at a hotel over night. At this hotel he met a friend who was fond of poetry, and with him Dr. Tobey sat in the office reading Dunbar's verses until almost midnight. As they stepped to the desk to get their keys, the actor, James O'Neal and his wife and Mr. Nixon, who was O'Neal's leading man in " Monte Christo," then being played in Toledo, came in. Dr. Tobey's friend intro- duced the actors to him. Mr. O'Neal being very weary, excused himself, and retired. Mr. Nixon lingered. " I know," said Dr. Tobey, " that you actor folks are always being bored by people wanting you to read and give opinions of poems, but I have something here that I wish you would read, if you will." Mr. Nixon politely took the crude little copy of " Majors and Minors," and began reading " When Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes." At first he read the poem quietly, leaning over the counter. Then he read it aloud then he gave it a dramatic rendition, his face showing his delight and surprise at the beauty and depth of the lines. He read other poems, and until three OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 51 o'clock the following morning, remained on -his feet, por- ing over the poems of a poor and almost unknown negro boy. He then said : " Dr. Tobey, I thank you for giving me this oppor- tunity : in my opinion no poet has written such verses since Poe." " Majors and Minors " was soon published, and Dunbar went to Toledo to try to sell his books. Naturally shrinking and unnaturally timid, he met with poor suc- cess. To the great, unfeeling, uncaring public he was simply a shabby negro " book agent " for whom they had no time nor interest. His friends sent him to their friends, but almost always he met with discouragement. The average person thought : " What do I want with a ' nigger's ' book ? " He said when speaking of the book-agent experiences to his friends : " As a rule, if I can get through the front office, and meet the men to whom you send me, they are courteous and kind." With a soul as sensitive as a delicate flower the young bard was ill-fitted for so hard a r61e as that of a book- agent. It seemed that fate chose for this black singer the hardest lot she could devise. He had borne burdens all his life, but this was too heavy for him, and one night, after an unusually discouraging day, poor Dunbar went to see his friend, Dr. Tobey. " Well, my boy, how goes the battle ? " " Oh, doctor," replied Dunbar, with unbidden tears streaming down his cheeks, " I never can offer to sell an- other book to any man." " Paul, why don't you make up a speech ? " "Oh," he replied, "I have tried to do that, but my 52 THE LIFE AND WORKS tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, and I cannot say a word." The doctor, though full of sympathy, replied : " You're no good book agent. I was down town to- day for a few hours and I sold three of your books to as many of the most prominent men of Toledo on condi- tion that you deliver them in person and make the ac- quaintance of each of the purchasers." That same evening D unbar, in his childlike way said, as though confessing a misdemeanor to a parent : " I ought not to have done it, I suppose, but I spent fifty cents to see * Shore Acres ' last night." That sum took him to the upper gallery in a back row of seats. " I saw it once before, and I could not resist the temptation. It is a poem from beginning to end. Have you seen it, doctor?" " No, but my wife and I are going to-morrow night." Dunbar answered : " Don't fail." The doctor, as though suddenly inspired,, said : " Paul, I'm glad you spoke of that play. From what I have heard of the author, Mr. Herne, I believe he would be interested in what you have done and are doing. I want you to take one of your books with your compli- ments, down to the Boody House, and leave it with the night clerk for Mr. Herne." The clerk, a Mr. Childs, had learned of Dunbar through Mr. Nixon's readings upon the night previously described in these pages. When this matter had been agreed upon between Mr. Dunbar and the doctor, the latter left him for a few mo- ments and went down to the public office of the Institu- tion. A representative of one of the greater New York OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 53 dailies was at the time a guest of Dr. Tobey and his family. Addressing him, Dr. Tobey said : " Mr. T , with your permission, I'm going to bring down here and introduce to you the most wonderful man you ever met." - The newspaper man looked somewhat incredulous, but knowing Dr. Tobey 's word could be relied upon, replied that he should be delighted to meet the wonderful indi- vidual to whom he referred. His host then went in search of Paul Dunbar, and not telling him what he had said to the New York man, brought him in and introduced them. If the scribe had been incredulous before he was even more so now when he saw a slender, bashful and shabbily dressed negro walk in with Dr. Tobey. Introductions over, Dr. Tobey said : "Paul, I have been telling this gentleman something about you and I want you to recite for us a few of your poems." Dunbar rose and in rising seemed to shake off the self- consciousness and restraint that had been upon him. His face grew radiant with the beautiful thoughts to which he gave utterance, and he read a number of his very finest verses with inimitable skill. When he had finished, the New York man compli- mented him, and thanked him profusely for the enter- tainment he had afforded. Then as soon as he could, he called Dr. Tobey aside and said : " Dr. Tobey, you have introduced me to the most won- derful man I ever met. His poems are sublime and his interpretation faultless. I can never thank you enough for having given me a chance to meet him/' 54 THE LIFE AND WORKS The next evening, in obedience to Dr. Tobey's request, Mr. Dunbar carried his little book to the hotel, and hav- ing inscribed it to Mr. Herne, would have left it there. It so chanced, however, that Mr. Herne had sought an- other hotel, where he could have greater quiet, and the Boody House clerk suggested to Dunbar that he take the book and give it to Mr. Herne, personally. This Dunbar said he would do, and the next morning went to Mr. Herne's hotel. In describing this incident in later years, Mr. Dunbar said : " I approached the hotel with fear and trembling and must confess that I was greatly relieved to find that Mr. Herne was out." He took the book back to the clerk at the Boody House, who kindly volunteered to see that it reached Mr. Herne. This he did, taking it himself to the clerk of the other hotel, and leaving it for the actor. That was on Friday, and the following Sunday after- noon the poet went out to the hospital, all aglow with joy over a letter which he had received from Mr. Herne. It read as follows : Detroit, Mich. MY DEAR MR. DUNBAR : While at Toledo, a copy of your poems was left at my hotel by a Mr. Childs. I tried very hard to find Mr. Childs to learn more of you. Your poems are won- derful. I shall acquaint William Dean Howells and other literary people with them. They are new to me and they may be to them. I send you by this same mail some things done by my daughter, Julia A. Herne. She is at school in Boston. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 55 Her scribblings may interest you. I would like your opinion. . . . A am an actor and a dramatist. My latest work " Shore Acres " you may have heard of. If it comes your way, I want you to see it, whether I am with it or not. How I wish I knew you personally 1 I wish you all the good fortune that you can wish for yourself. Yours very truly, JAMES A. HERNE. Later in that same good year of 1896 Paul Dunbar met a friend who was destined to be one of the stars of hope in his literary sky. Dr. Tobey, ever alert to the in- terests of his young friend, wrote to Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll in New York, and sent him a copy of " Majors and Minors," saying : " I know you are too busy a man to read all the poems in this book, so I take the liberty of marking a number which I consider the stronger ones. I do not profess to be literary, but think I probably have ordinary human feeling and common sense, and I would like you to read over the poems I have marked, and which I think un- usual. If after reading them you feel the same way, it would be a great consolation to Mr. Dunbar in his pov- erty and obscurity if you would ' write a letter of com- mendation." Ten days later the doctor received the following reply : MY DEAR DR. TOBEY: No. 220 Madison Avenue, April, 1896, New York City. At last I got the time to read the poems of Dun- bar. Some of them are really wonderful full of poetry 56 THE LIFE AND WORKS and philosophy. I am astonished at their depth and subtlety. Dunbar is a thinker. "The Mystery 1 ' is a poem worthy of the greatest. It is absolutely true, and proves that its author is a profound and thoughtful maa So the " Dirge " is very tender, dainty, intense and beau- tiful. " Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes " is a wonderful poem : the fifth verse is perfect. So "He Had His Dream " is very fine and many others. I have only time to say that Dunbar is a genius. Now, I ask what can be done for him ? I would like to help. Thanking you for the book, I remain Yours always, R. G. INGERSOLL. When one considers the youthfulness of the heart and hand that penned the poems to which Mr. Ingersoll re- ferred, one is filled with wonder and amaze. It will not be out of place to quote here that " perfect " fifth verse of "When Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes." It is as profound as " Thanatopsis " and as musical as " Hiawatha " or any of the " standard " poems of the world : " Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes How questioneth the soul that other soul, The inner sense that neither cheats nor lies, But self exposes unto self, a scroll Full writ with all life's acts, unwise or wise, In characters indelible and known : So trembling with the shock of sad surprise The soul doth view its awful self alone, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes." CHAPTER V A REMARKABLE BIRTHDAY PRESENT TRUE to his promise, Mr. Herne sent a copy of " Majors and Minors " to William Dean Ho wells, who was soon im- pressed (to quote part of a recent letter to the author of this biography) " by the little countrified volume, which inwardly was full of a new world." Modesty is a hall mark of genius. Dunbar had it in a superlative degree, and that Mr. Howells possesses the same beautiful trait is evident when one reads the next sentence of the letter written his biographer under date of June i, 1906 : " I want to say that many western friends fully felt the quality of Dunbar' s work before I had the good luck of drawing notice to it in a prominent place, and so far as any credit is concerned, it is they who deserve it." The " prominent place " to which Mr. Howells refers was Harpers Weekly. In the same issue which gave an account of William McKinley's first nomination at Minneapolis, which issue had an enormous circulation, appeared a full-page review of Paul Laurence Dunbar's little book " Majors and Minors," and an unprecedented appreciation of the young man's work by Mr. Howells. He could not have found a more opportune time for in- troducing the young poet to the reading world. No longer could the sweet singer of Ethiopia be spoken of as obscure or unknown. Like the sun which suddenly slips 57 5 8 THE LIFE AND WORKS from behind a sombre cloud and floods the world with glory, so the name of Paul Laurence Dunbar, swept into sight and passed majestically before the reviewing stand of the entire reading world. He literally retired one night unknown, and woke at the dawn of his twenty- fourth birthday to find himself a famous man. Advert- ently or inadvertently Mr. Howells had chosen June 27, 1896, for the appearance of his article, thus presenting the young man with the most magnificent birthday present he could ever hope to' receive. Having concluded his critique of " Majors and Minors," Mr. Howells remembering that the boy was possibly in need of something more substantial than appreciative phrases, dear as they would be, added : " I am sorry that I cannot give the publisher, as well as the author of this significant little book ; but I may say that it is printed by Hadley & Hadley of Toledo, Ohio." Immediately letters began pouring into the office of the printers, many were addressed to Dunbar, asking for his photograph and every imaginable kind of query. Others ordered the book. Among the orders was one from the American Consul at Athens, Greece. In fact demands came from all parts of the world. When Mr. Dunbar, having been told, by a friend, of the Harpers article, bought a copy at a Dayton news- stand he was almost overwhelmed with emotion, and, as he described it : " Didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but guessed he did a little of each." Mr. James Lane Allen became interested in Paul Dun- bar and his poems about this time, and called the atten- tion 'of several New York magazine editors and reviewers to the verses of the negro bard. These men gave the OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 59 young poet flattering notices and helped to make perma- nent his new-made fame. He and his mother had occasion to be absent from home for a few days about this time, and while they were away the postman slipped the mail through the slats of a front window shutter. When Mrs. Dunbar attempted to open this shutter, two hundred letters snowed down upon the floor. Many of these contained money for copies of " Majors and Minors." All exhibited a complimentary interest in the youthful poet and his wonderful verses. On the following Fourth of July, Dr. Tobey, real- izing that to insane persons, holidays are the most un- happy occasions of all, arranged, as was his custom, to hold an elaborate celebration. He invited Paul Laurence Dunbar and his mother to come to Toledo, as he wished him to give a number of readings. Unknown to the poet, he also invited fifty of sixty prominent persons from Toledo and elsewhere. Among these guests was the late Governor Foster. When Mr. Dunbar and his mother arrived at the Institution the)'- were given an affectionate greeting by Dr. Tobey and his family, and then the doctor told them of the dis- tinguished guests who had already arrived and were awaiting them. " It has all come at once, Paul. Mr. Howells has made you famous," said the doctor, with an arm about the younger man's shoulders. " They all want to meet you now. Those who ' made fun ' of you because of your color and your poverty are now eager to clasp your hand : those who were indifferent are now enthusiastic. This is going to be the testing day of your life. I hope you will 60 THE LIFE AND WORKS bear good fortune and popularity as well and as bravely as you have met your disappointments and your humili- ations. If so, that will indeed be a proof of greatness." It was with much difficulty that Dr. and Mrs. Tobey were able to prevail upon Mrs. Dunbar to go down to the recital. She could not understand why people wanted to meet her ! So little do many of the meek souls who are really worth while, realize their importance in the world. It is a question whether Dunbar would ever have been a poet, had it not been for his mother's passion for poetry, and the prenatal influence of this love upon her child. Many times she said to her son : " Oh, Paul, if I could have had an education I might have written poetry too." And loyal Paul would reply with love " j nd reverence beaming from his eyes, " Well, ma, you gave me the talent, and I am writing the songs for you." Some such conversation may have been the inspiration of his lovely poem " When Malindy Sings " which he dedicated to her. By many eloquent persuasions, that memorable Fourth of July morning, Matilda Dunbar was led to overcome her timidity and go down to the drawing-room. Had she cherished a remaining doubt as to her probable welcome there, it was instantly set at rest. Every one wanted to meet the " little black mammy " of the poet, and all gave her a hearty handshake and kindly word, and Paul's honors were divided that day with his beloved mother. Dunbar recited many poems that morning among them his " Ships that Pass in the Night " and of his ren- dition of that poem Governor Foster afterwards re- marked : "Of all things I ever heard, I never listened to any- OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 61 thing so impressive as his rendition of the ' Ships that Pass in the Night.' " That night, after the long, triumphant day was done, the poet sitting alone with his thoughts and his fame, poured out his soul to God in verse. The entire poem he called " The Crisis." The last stanza shows, as in a mir- ror, the honest soul of the young author and his ardent desire to be true to his better self, and thus a saviour to his race " Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune's frown, So I prevailed, for human strength was mine : But from the killing strength of great renown Naught may protect me save a strength divine. Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause, I scorn men's curses, but I dread applause 1 M CHAPTER VI DUNBAR'S MANAGER " SOON after the appearance of Mr. Ho wells* article in Harper's Weekly (June 27, 1896), Mr. Dunbar called at the office of a friend in Toledo, who volunteered to write Mr. Howells concerning a suitable manager for the poet- reader. Mr. Dunbar accepted this offer, and a three or four page letter was written Mr. Howells. The novelist soon responded, giving the name of a gentleman who he thought would be satisfactory to Mr. Dunbar and his friends. This gentleman also received a note from Mr. Howells, and at once began correspondence with the Toledo man in regard to Dunbar. He was anxious to have the poet come to New York, and his Toledo friend wrote the prospective manager that if he would take care of the young man after his arrival in New York, his fare to that city would be forthcoming, but that the boy had no money. Scarcely a year had elapsed since Dunbar, obscure and unread, had written his then unknown friend, Dr. Tobey, that he had " hoped year after year to be able to go to Washington, New York, Boston and Philadelphia but that it had been denied him." He had now given a suc- cessful evening of his readings at the national capital and was about to start for New York. The prospective " manager " wrote that he would pay his board while at the metropolis, and his Toledo friend, 62 OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 63 as good as his word, sent Dunbar a generous check for his passage and suitable clothing. It seemed to the young man that all his good things came from Toledo, and he christened that city his " adopted home." With high hope he started eastward, and in a few days made the acquaintance of his manager. Feeling that duty, as well as desire, demanded that he call on William Dean Howells and thank him for the great kindness he had done him, the young poet went to Far Rockaway Beach, where the novelist was spending the summer at his cottage. With fluttering heart, Paul Dunbar approached the door and rang the bell. The maid who answered it, see- ing only a very much embarrassed negro youth, was not particularly effusive, but left him standing while she car- ried his card to Mr. Howells. One may imagine her surprise when the novelist, hurrying to the door, caught Dunbar's hand with one of his, and throwing an arm about the young man's shoulders said : " Come in : come in : I am so happy to see you and to meet you personally." Mr. Dunbar arrived at Far Rockaway soon after luncheon, but Mr. Howells kept him for tea and until midnight. Of that visit he has written to the author of this biography saying : "I am glad you are writing his life, and I shall look for it with true interest. Perhaps you may like to set down that Dunbar came to see me in my cottage at Far Rockaway, and took tea with us there. I thought him one of the most refined and modest men I had ever met, and truly a gentleman. " Yours sincerely, " WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS." 64 THE LIFE AND WORKS Mr. Howells, being a genius and consequently an artist is " color-blind " so far as intellect and good breeding are concerned, and he could not have shown a royal guest more honor or deference than he gave the negro poet. When Dunbar was about to go, it was remarked that the night had grown chill. He had no overcoat, and Mr. Howells insisted upon putting his own coat upon his guest. The next morning, Dunbar returned the coat with a note in which he said : " In wearing your coat, I felt very much like the long-eared animal in the fable of the ass clad in the lion's skin." Early in August, 1896, while Mr. Dunbar was still in New York, his friend, Mr. Charles Thatcher, of Toledo, met him in the metropolis. He also met Major Pond, who was about to become Mr. Dunbar' s manager, and asked him what he thought of the poet. The Major replied : " I had him come over to my house a few evenings ago, and there give a reading to about thirty invited guests. The * white ' readers are not in it with him when it comes to delighting an audience. I want to make a contract to place him on the road for a period of two years, etc." Mr. Thatcher then learned from Mr. Dunbar that Major Pond had introduced him to several New York publishing houses, and that the manuscript for a third book of poems, which he had entitled " Lyrics of Lowly Life " had been left with Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company. Mr. Thatcher went to Narragansett Pier in a few days after this, telling Mr. Dunbar to be ready to go there if he received word to that effect. He carried with him to the pier a copy of " Majors and Minors." He read a number of the verses to friends who were spending the summer at OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 65 the New Matthewson Hotel there, and all expressed a de- sire to meet the author, and to hear him recite. There were several southern people among those who made this request. A telegram was sent to Mr. Dunbar to come at once prepared to give a recital. The proprietor of the hotel donated the ballroom and the services of an orchestra for the occasion. Dunbar never appeared to better advantage than upon that particular evening. Among other things selected for the program was his dialect poem " The Cornstalk Fiddle." The orchestra accompanied him while he chanted the lilting lines, and when he came to the sixth stanza "Salute your partners," comes the call, "All join hands and circle round," "Grand train back," and " Balance all," Footsteps lightly spurn the ground. " Take your lady and balance down the middle," To the merry strains of the corn-stalk riddle, he acted out the various figures of the country dance de- scribed. His lithe form, graceful as a gazelle's, glided about the stage, with a rhythm of movement which showed that his whole being responded to the music of the orchestra and to the beauty of his own conception. Every emotion depicted in the lines came out upon his face and found expression in his wonderful eyes. The audience went wild with excitement and the wine of their applause only served to stimulate his efforts. The recital was a great success, and the southern people who had been carried back to " old plantation days " by the vivid poem-pic- tures and skilful acting of the wonderful negro boy, were the most enthusiastic of the audience. 66 THE LIFE AND WORKS Before leaving Narragansett Pier, Mr. Dunbar was presented to the widow of Jefferson Davis, at her request. After a brief conversation with the young man, Mrs. Davis, who had been unable to attend the recital, asked him to give her a few readings, as a " special favor ! " So delighted was this stately daughter of the " Old Dominion " that she gave her unstinted praise and ap- plause when he finished. This scene is one worthy to go down in history as a signal triumph for the African race. A full-blooded negro reciting his own poems to the widow of Jeff Davis ! Great things had indeed come out of Nazareth ! Delightful events followed one another in rapid succes- sion in those days for Paul Dunbar. Before he went back to New York, Major Pond wrote him that Dodd, Mead & Company had accepted his manuscript, at a good price, and that if he desired they would advance him $400.00 on prospective royalties ! Resisting all temptations to spend this first large sum of money, according to his tastes, Mr. Dunbar paid it all out on debts which he felt that he owed to his friends who had " advanced " it to him. His arrangement with the new " manager " was not so satisfactory as it had promised to be, but Mr. Dunbar feeling that he needed such discipline, decided to go ahead with it, if possible. He and his mother, having taken up their residence in Chicago previous to his New York visit, Mr. Dunbar went there and resumed his readings. He also wrote many newspaper and magazine articles and numerous poems while in that city. CHAPTER VII ENGLAND IN January of 1897, Mr. Dunbar had an offer to go to England as a public entertainer with a daughter of his former New York manager, and feeling that this might be the only opportunity he would ever have of crossing the sea, he accepted the proposition, though the terms were hard and his manager extremely mercenary. Phil- osophically he said : " They are going to make it hard for me, but I need the training, and I shall try to keep my upper lip well starched." On February 8th, Mr. Dunbar sailed for England, and in a letter written his mother on shipboard, he confided ; " You will be surprised to hear that Alice Ruth Moore ran away from Boston, and came to bid me good-bye. She took everybody by storm. She was very much ashamed of having run away, but said she could not bear to have me go so far without bidding me good-bye. She is the brightest and sweetest little girl I have ever met, and I hope you will not think it is silly, but Alice and I are engaged. You know this is what I have wanted for two years." Thus, childlike and trustful, he wrote to his mother of the happy culmination of his first and only love affair. While in England he wrote again to his mother, saying he hoped to get " Alice to set the day," as soon as he re- turned to America. Although his " manager " soon deserted him, Mr. Dun- bar found a warm and influential friend in the American 67 68 THE LIFE AND WORKS embassador, Hon. John Hay, who arranged an entertain- ment at which Dunbar read several of his best poems be- fore a number of the brightest men and women of Lon- don. Other poems, having been set to music by promi- nent English musicians, were sung by them at this recital. He was a guest at a banquet given by the great Savage Club of London, where he was asked to recite, and after the first number, was lifted bodily to the table, and en- thusiastically encored. Writing of this occasion to a friend in America, Dun- bar said : " I have attended a banquet given by the great Savage Club of London. I was the guest of the secretary of the Royal Geological Society, and my host was more than gratified at the reception which I had when I was called upon to take part in the post-prandial program, as I re- ceived two requests to come back. The audience was very critical, and if they did not like a speaker would hiss him down. " I have also been entertained at tea by Mr. and Mrs. Henry M. Stanley. I there met some very decent people, but the men, poor fellows, did not have eye-glasses enough to go around, and so each had one stuck in the corner of his eye ! " Concerning an evening's entertainment which Mr. Dun- bar gave at the Southplace Institute, a London paper car- ried the following notice : " A large audience at the Southplace Institute, listened yesterday to Mr. Paul Laurence Dunbar' s recitations of some of his own poems, which have excited so much in- terest among literary men in the United States. Mr. Dunbar is thought to be the first of his race who has thor- OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 69 oughly interpreted the dialect, spirit and humor of the American negro, and his performance was indeed unique. The pieces selected were from his ' Lyrics of Lowly Life/ one of these, 'When Malindy Sings,' being an artistic blending of drollery and of pathos. Another, ' Accounta- bility/ represents the necessitarian philosophy of a stricken rogue: and a third was a pretty love-ballad. The poet made a very fine impression on all present." Paul Dunbar was never an idler, and although he would certainly have been justified in putting in his leisure hours, tramping about the interesting streets of old Lon- don, and adding to his store of new-world knowledge a veneer of old-world mould and tradition, he conscien- tiously remained at his poor lodgings, and wrote his first novel. By this act, he exhibited that desire to be provi- dent which is so frequently lacking in members of his race. The book, written in London, was his first serious prose effort, and was entitled "The Uncalled." It was really a history of his own life. So few were the avenues open to an educated colored man, that it was thought only " nat- ural" that Dunbar should turn to the ministry. His knowledge of negro ministers gave him to know that he was thoroughly capable in an intellectual way to cope with the best. Situated as he was, with the wolf of pov- erty ever growling and threatening at his door it is greatly to the credit of the young man that he did not yield to the temptation of entering the ministry as a " means of support." But, if Paul Dunbar was anything in those early days, he was honest. He did not believe in eternal punishment, and he would not preach it Realizing that he had not received the divine " call," he would not go. His novel reflects the struggle he had 70 THE LIFE AND WORKS and his final triumph. The book was dedicated to his fiancee, " Alice," who is the heroine of the story. It is painful to chronicle that at the very moment when Dunbar's recitals were about to bring him a few of the dollars of which he stood so sorely in need, his erstwhile " manager " returned and showing a contract of which she had never consented to give the poet a copy claimed all the proceeds 1 Thus he was left penniless in a strange land. In this condition he was compelled to send home to America for funds for his return voyage. Money was cabled him, and he returned to America, poorer in purse, but considerably richer in sad and happy experiences. As he said in a let- ter from London : "It amuses me to hear of the things the American papers are saying, when I am so halting over here be- tween doubt and fear 1 But let come what may, I have been to England 1 " As soon as Mr. Dunbar reached New York, he sold his novel to Lippincotfs Magazine. True to his innate hon- esty, he pressed upon his friend who had cabled him funds, the amount he owed, though by so doing, he liter- ally took the " bread out of his own mouth." " The Uncalled " received favorable comment, but not being in a popular vein did not prove especially success- ful when issued later in book form. Viewing his English venture as a whole, one may not describe it better than did the poet himself, upon his re- turn to America : " Do you know, disastrous as it was financially, I do not regret my trip. The last few weeks were a great compensation for all I suffered ! " DR. WILLIAM BURNS The young physician who was in constant attendance upon the poet during the last three years of his life, and whose sudden death was a terrible blow to Mr. Dunbar. They had been warm friends from childhood. COLONEL ROBERT G. INGERSOLL Who, attracted by the merit of Mr. Dunbar's poems, expressed a desire to " help," and who secured for him a situation ' in the Congressional Library at Washington, D. C. CHAPTER VIII THE CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY THE time had now arrived for Colonel Robert G. Inger- soll to make good his promise to " help." While Mr. Dunbar was in London, he received an encouraging let- ter from the Colonel, advising him that he thought it likely he could secure a position for Mr. Dunbar in the Congressional Library. How well this promise was ful- filled is shown by a paragraph in the records of the Library at Washington, which reads : " Paul Laurence Dunbar, appointed from New York to position assistant in Reading Room, Library of Congress, October i, 1897, at a salary of $720.00 per annum : re- signed December 31, 1898, to give full time to his literary work/' Mr. Daniel Murry, under whom Mr. Dunbar worked at the Library, wrote his biographer concerning the ap- pointment as follows : " In 1897, Mr. Dunbar was made an assistant to me that he might learn library methods and have, at the same time, one who would take an interest in his advancement. The late Colonel Robert Ingersoll was largely responsible for his taking the position, believing that it would afford him an opportunity to acquire information that could be turned to account in his literary career. . . ." Under a dating of October u, 1897, Dunbar said, in a letter to a friend : 5 73 74 THE LIFE AND WORKS " I have landed the position at Washington. It is a small one, but it means a regular income, the which I have always so much wanted. . . . " I am home for the purpose of getting my mother ready for the Washington trip. Her health is very far from good, and I want her settled with me, as soon as possible. Must leave here Saturday night at the latest." While Mr. Dunbar was happy to have obtained regular employment, and went to his work with his native en- thusiasm, it was with real regret that he said farewell to his childhood home at Dayton. Of this leave-taking he wrote while packing " I am at last at home getting things ready for our removal to the east. There are a good many dear mem- ories clustering around this rickety old house that awake to life on the thought of leaving it permanently." In going to Washington and becoming identified with the brilliant life of the national capital, Paul Dunbar did not forget his Toledo friend, through whose influence all this happiness and good fortune reached him, and at the very beginning of his career at the Library he wrote that friend thanking him and saying : "My dear Dr. Tobey I shall show little of human gratitude if I fail to deserve the kindness you have shown." It was this ever-manifest spirit of loving gratitude ex- hibited towards his benefactors that made them so eager and willing to do what they could to aid him. His heart, toward this particular friend, was always that of a trusting child. Having established his mother in a pretty home, Mr. Dunbar set conscientiously to work at the Library. The OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 75 exacting duties were hard for one of his temperament, but he made a brave struggle to master the detail cheer- fully. In December, 1897, he wrote an Ohio friend " I am working very hard these days, so if it is only for the idle that the devil runs his employment bureau, I have no need of his services." He has spoken of this year as " his pouring time " as so many offers of positions and so many requests for poems and stories " poured in " upon him. One of the flattering offers that came to him was the tender of a professorship in Literature and Rhetoric at Claflin University, South Carolina. He did not accept this, but was pleased to know that it had been offered him. The colored people of the country were anxious that he be given work which they thought would be consistent with his brilliant attain- ments, and they did not think that the Library position was of any special credit to Paul Laurence Dunbar. But the poet, having " come up through great tribulation " wisely chose to stand by this post which insured him a " regular income," and afforded him such splendid oppor- tunities for extending the scope of his knowledge. From the first Mr. Dunbar's articles were in demand by the Washington dailies, but these contributions were, for the most part, in prose and Paul Dunbar was essentially a poet. Of the newspaper efforts he said : " The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age. So, I am writing prose." This mood was not of long duration. As well try to compel the lark to ape the cackle of a chicken, as to guide Paul Dunbar's pen for long in the paths of prose. His work was very creditable, because whatever he did was 76 THE LIFE AND WORKS done well, but to write thus was to " plod," and he pre- ferred, as he so gracefully said in one of his poems : " To fling his poetical wings to the breeze, and soar in a song, etc." One of the notable song-poems written while he was in the capital city was the college song composed for Booker T. Washington's school at Tuskegee, Alabama. Almost a decade later, this was sung by a choir of fif- teen hundred student voices upon the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of Tuskegee In- stitute. The verses called " Tuskegee Song," and set to the music of " Fair Harvard," follow : Tuskegee, thou pride of the swift-growing South, We pay thee our homage to-day, For the worth of thy teaching, the joy of thy care, And the good we have known 'neath thy sway. Oh, long-striving mother of diligent sons, And of daughters whose strength is their pride, We will love thee forever, and ever shall walk Thro' the oncoming years at thy side. Thy hand we have held up the difficult steeps, When painful and slow was the pace, And onward and upward we've labored with thee For the glory of God and our race. The fields smile to greet us, the forests are glad, The ring of the anvil and hoe Have a music as thrilling and sweet as a harp Which thou taught us to hear and know. Oh, Mother Tuskegee, thou shinest to-day As a gem in the fairest of lands, Thou gavest the heaven -blessed power to see The worth of our minds and our hands. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 77 We thank thee, we bless thee, we pray for thee years Imploring, with grateful accord Full fruit for thy striving, time longer to strive, Sweet love and true labor's reward. The last line of the fifth stanza " The worth of our minds and our hands " voices in a phrase the dominant note in Paul Dunbar's philosophy. First educate the mind, then the hand. Many of his contemporaries in both races teach otherwise, believing that the negro's " hand " should first be given cunning, then his brain cultivated. D unbar very shrewdly exclaimed upon one occasion : " How could his hand be educated without his head to direct it ? " And again, in speaking to a young woman who had come to interview him, he said, in quick re- sponse to her exclamation : " The head and hand must work together." "Why do you say that? So many people will not agree with me when I tell them that." Thus, even in the Tuskegee song, Mr. Dunbar incul- cates his theory. He fully appreciated Tuskegee, how- ever, and its famous founder, and once wrote a very ex- cellent tribute to Mr. Washington. The days at the Library were the most strenuous in the life of Paul Laurence Dunbar. After his office hours were over, he would work far into the night at his writ- ing. Before he had been in Washington six months he had written all the stories found in his prose book " Folks from Dixie," which appeared, singly, in the Cosmopolitan and then were collected into book form. No one can read these beautiful southern stories without realizing the 78 THE LIFE AND WORKS sense of justice to each race which Mr. Dunbar inculcates. There are no bitter tirades against the masters : no exag- gerated pen pictures of down-trodden negroes : he simply tells the truth 1 This book was dedicated to Dr. H. A. Tobey, to whom in sending a first copy of the volume the poet wrote : 11 1 am afraid that the wish to express my gratitude to you and something of the pleasure and pride I take in our friendship has led me to take some liberties with your name. But I can only hope that you will take the dedi- cation in the spirit in which it is offered that of grati- tude, friendship and respect for the man who has brought light to so many of my dark hours." Having reached a place where he felt justified in such a step, he was married on March 6, 1898, to his boyhood sweetheart, Miss Alice Ruth Moore of New Orleans. Miss Moore was a young woman of great talents and beauty, and had gained no enviable position in the world of letters. Perhaps the poet's own words, quoted from a letter sent to Dr. Tobey at the time, will describe the affair better than any others could do : as it shows his childlike love and trust for his old friend, and his desire that the " doctor " be pleased. Washington, D. C. , '98. DEAR DOCTOR ; I am almost afraid to write you, but out it must come. I am married ! I would have consulted you, but the matter was very quickly done. People, my wife's parents and others were doing everything to separate us. She was worried and harassed until she was ill. So she telegraphed me and I went to OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 79 New York. We were married Sunday night by the bishop (Bishop Potter of the Episcopal Church a great friend of the poet's) but hope to keep it secret for a while, as she does not wish to give up her school. Everything is clean and honorable and save for the fear of separation there was no compulsion to the step. I hope you will not think I have been too rash. Sincerely yours, PAUL L. DUNBAR. Dr. Tobey answered this letter in a few days, and Dun- bar again wrote him Washington, D. C., April 6 y 1898. MY DEAR DR. TOBEY : I was very glad to get your letter and find that you did not think ill of my step. I must confess I was very anxious as to how you would take it. As to mother I told her before it took place she was in the secret, though not at first willing. All has come around all right now and my wife will be with me on the i8th. My announce- ment cards will then go out. Mother is quite enthusiastic and my new mother-in-law has yielded and gracefully ac- cepted the situation. Aren't you saying I had better have got out of debt be- fore taking a wife ? Honest, aren't you ? Well, see her and know her and I won't need to make any plea for my- self. Her own personality will do that. To his biographer to whom was given the privilege of reading letters covering a long period of years, it was very evident that those bearing dates of his first married years contained the only mention of real happiness that came into his shadowed life. The confining and exacting work at the Library, to- gether with the dust from the books made distressing in- roads upon the never abundant health of the poet. The 80 THE LIFE AND WORKS consuming thirst for knowledge and the irrepressible de- sire to create new beauties for the art galleries of literature, were out of proportion to his physical resources, and in the autumn of 1898 he resigned his library position to de- vote what strength he could spare to literary and orator- ical effort. While still employed at the Library, Mr. Dunbar was called to New York to attend a meeting at which the higher education of the negro was discussed. He was invited to recite and did so. A gentleman from Boston, who had gone to the meeting, intending to discourage the higher education of the negro, immediately subscribed one thousand dollars for a fund towards that end. Dun- bar afterwards smilingly said to an acquaintance, when re- lating this incident : " Little did he know that I had never been beyond the high schools of Dayton." In the audience was a gentleman from Albany, who on his return told Mrs. Merrill a prominent society woman of Albany, New York, that when she desired to give another public function she could not do better than to secure Dunbar, and before the poet left New York, a tele- gram was sent to his Washington address by Mrs. Mer- rill, asking terms for a recital. Up to that time $50.00 had been the amount received. His wife, appreciating that he must be wanted badly, answered : " One hundred dollars." The offer was accepted, and the time fixed for the recital. When Mr. Dunbar alighted at the Albany station, upon the occasion of this second visit to that city, he handed the check for his trunk to a negro porter. The man looked at him in poorly concealed surprise and said : OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 81 " Wha' do yo' want dat trunk to go ? " Dunbar answered, " To the Kenmore Hotel.' 1 " Yo' gwine to wuk dah ? " " No/' said the poet, and started on. Again he was addressed by the porter: "Wha' yo' want dat trunk to go ? " " To the Kenmore," said Dunbar with dignity. The man stared at him incredulously and for the third time ventured a question : " What yo' gwine to do dah ? " Dunbar answered, " Stop." The porter's amazement had now reached the superla- tive degree but he regained his speech long enough to say: "Well, goon!" So did the shadow of prejudice ever fall across the path of poor Paul Dunbar. The negro porter is only a type. Having been held so long in the bonds of slavery, and having been taught from the cradle that the black man is his white brother's intellectual inferior, it is impossible for some of the race to realize the fact that there are excep- tions to the rule. This truth was ever present in Dun- bar's mind, and once he exclaimed bitterly : " My position is most unfortunate. I am a black white man," and so he was. Upon reaching the Kenmore Hotel, Mr. Dunbar was shown to a suite of rooms, consisting of sitting-room, bed- room and bath. Soon a negro waiter came to take his order for dinner, and looked at him in surprise. Then he said: " How did you get dese rooms ? Dese is de rooms dat Helen Gould occupied las' week. Guess Mis' Merrill done seed de pr'ietah." He would not have dared say 82 THE LIFE AND WORKS such words to a white patron, regardless of his mental calibre, but here was one of the greatest geniuses that the world has known, insulted because of his color, by one of his own race 1 Blind, narrow, prejudiced humanity 1 How small all this will look in the light of eternity ! This recital at Albany was one of the most successful that Mr. Dunbar had ever given, and brought him in touch with the best of Albany society, and with many of the leading men of the state. That Paul Dunbar made good use of the opportunities afforded at the Library for broadening the horizon of his mind was ever after evident. It was seldom, indeed, that a conversation on any important theme was inaugurated in his presence, that he was not able to join it intelligently. He made a thorough and unbiased study of race prob- lems, and although he was always loyal to and hopeful for the man of pure African blood, and while he realized the wholesome results of centuries of refinement, educa- tion and culture in the Caucasian, he was far too loyal and too honest not to realize that each race and every race has its own peculiar gifts and graces. Among his papers, found after he passed away, was a scrap on which he had written : " It is one of the peculiar phases of Anglo-Saxon con- ceit to refuse to believe that every black man does not want to be white." When Horace J. Rollin, the pioneer exponent of the ultimate wholesome and beneficent result of race-blending, embodied the evolutionary theory in his notable novel, " Yetta Segal," Paul Dunbar, to whom the author sent a OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 83 copy of the book, wrote a most remarkable letter. It is such a revelation of the depths of research which his plummet had sounded, and is couched in such character- istically courteous, though cautious phrase, that it is given in full herewith : Library of Congress, Washington, D. C., July 28, '98. MY DEAR MR. ROLLIN: The delay which I have allowed in answering your letter so long ago received, does not denote me truly ! It is all false in indicating that I am not greatly interested in your inquiry into the psychic phenomena of race blending. While so far I have found the observable result of race blending less strong than either of the parent races, yet, I can see how the cosmopolite of the future might be the combination of the best in all the divisions of the human family each race supplying what all the others lacked. Your letter has made me think, and I am glad to see such a work as yours coming from Ohio which has done too little in the scientific and literary world. I hope your work will have the success which I really believe its importance deserves. Thanking you for your good letter and asking your forgiveness for an unavoidable delay in answering, I am Sincerely yours, PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR. CHAPTER IX TUSKEGEE, THE SOUTH, BREAKING HEALTH IN February, 1899, Mr. Dunbar went to the Tuskegee School of Booker T. Washington, and while there gave a reading in the chapel to the students and teachers. He also gave a number of lectures on English composition before the two advanced classes of the school. The annual conference of negro farmers convened dur- ing Mr. Dunbar' s visit to Tuskegee, and he reported this for the Philadelphia Press. A story is told of a little in- cident which occurred in connection with this convention. Mr. Washington is said to have gone to Mr. Dunbar's room the evening before the convention, and is quoted as having said, more in a spirit of mischief than earnest : . " Paul, I want you to write me a poem of welcome to be read to-morrow." Dunbar, with a serious face and just the twinkle of a smile in his eyes, replied : "All right, sir, you shall have it." That night, Paul Dunbar burned the midnight oil, but next day when it came his turn to say a word of welcome to the members of the conference, he rose with alacrity, and stepping to the front of the stage, read a poem of such beauty and appropriateness that his audience was charmed. No congratulations were more extravagant than those of Booker T. Washington, for he alone knew that the poem was the product of the past twenty-four hours! 84 OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 85 Mr. Dunbar made a rather extensive tour of the south before going back to Washington. It will be remembered by the observant reader of this biography that in an early letter of Mr. Dunbar' s he said that he wished to make a thorough study of his black brother in the North before seeing him in the South. It is interesting and pleasing to reflect that Mr. Dunbar was one of the rare few, who, planning their life-work from the beginning, are able to carry these plans through as originally designed. Mr. Dunbar had certainly had ample opportunity for the study of the negro in the North before he made his itinerary of the southern states. His stories called " The Strength of Gideon/' written south of Mason and Dixon's line, and published in northern magazines, and a second book, published four years later, under title of " In Old Plantation Days," shows that he did not exhaust his fund of Dixie-folk lore in the " Strength of Gideon." Soon after Mr. Dunbar's return to Washington, in March, 1899, he received a very flattering call to come to Boston and read at the Hollis Street Theatre (at a meet- ing held in the interests of Tuskegee Institute). He ac- cepted, but that his strength was unequal to the effort is shown by a letter, written to an Ohio friend from West Medford, Mass., dated March 2Oth, 1899: " I am lying in bed ill and Mrs. Dunbar is kind enough to take down my letters for me. " My readings here have been very successful, the one at the Hollis Street Theatre, Boston, having quite a triumph. But they have been a little too much for me, and I am now suffering from a cold, fatigue and a bad throat. 86 THE LIFE AND WORKS " I thank you for writing Mr. T. I hope I am not too poetical to take an interest in the realities of life of which he speaks. He may be sure I am doing what I can in my humble way for the betterment of my brother in the South." Mr. Dunbar's fourth book of verse " Lyrics of the Hearthside" came out in 1899, and was very appro- priately dedicated to " Alice," his wife, who was also his amanuensis, his secretary and his wise counselor. In April of 1899, Mr. Dunbar read his poems at Lex- ington, Kentucky, with great success. He then made preparations to go to Albany, where he was to have given a recital before a distinguished audience and to have been introduced by the Governor, Theodore Roose- velt. With his doting mother and devoted wife he began the eastern journey, but when he reached New York, he was taken ill with pneumonia, and obliged to go to the home of an old friend of his own race, who lived in humble rooms on an upper floor of a shabby apartment building. As soon as Dunbar' s friends learned of his serious ill- ness, they began sending him messages, flowers and lux- uries. They sought him out too, and called in person. Not wishing to disturb him, but being extremely anxious to know about his health, William Dean Howells went to his humble lodgings, and toiling up the stairs, inquired about him at the back door ! When he was able to hold a pen he wrote to his friends. In one of these letters he said : " I am going to trust myself to write, though I am pretty weak yet. . . . After leaving the hospital, my doctor insists that I must go to the Adirondacks, and OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 87 stay there through October, then to Colorado. They think I am a millionaire ! But there are pleasant things ! Yesterday Bishop Potter sent me two basket-loads of luxuries. To-day I received notice from the board of trustees (white) of Atlanta University (colored) that they had conferred on me the honorary degree of Master of Arts in recognition of my literary work. Of course it is an empty honor, but very pleasant." Three weeks later Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar went to Brod- head's Bridge, New York, where they might have the mountain air and the benefit of beautiful surroundings. Mr. Dunbar' s mother spent that summer in Hampton, Virginia. Concerning this outing of his mother's the poet wrote a friend : " Mother, I may have told you, is at Hampton, and thereby hangs a tale, which I think you can appreciate. When she first went down, the woman with whom she stopped charged her a very reasonable price. Then there was an influx of visitors, and inquiries poured in as to my health. When the landlady found out that she was the mother of the author she had read of, she raised the board. Sic Fama I " Although the poet went to the Catskills for recreation and quiet, his feverish desire to work gave him no rest, and according to his own account, he wrote and had ac- cepted in the first month he was there, one three-thousand word article, two stories and three poems, and many other things not catalogued. E. C. Stedman wrote Mr. Dunbar asking permission to use some of his work in a new American Anthology, and this was readily given by the poet. 88 THE LIFE AND WORKS Many persons suffering from pulmonary troubles have found relief in the balmy air of the Catskills, but poor Paul Dunbar was so little benefited that he was com- pelled to take the much-dreaded journey to Colorado. Mrs. Matilda Dunbar returned from Virginia and accom- panied her son and his wife on their western journey. Their first stop was at Denver, and Mr. Dunbar sent a note to Dr. Tobey, which is important in that it shows how Dunbar' s fame had gone before him. Denver, Colorado, September 12, 'pp. MY DEAR DOCTOR : Here we are, the whole " kit and bilin' " in Denver, and already I feel considerably reconciled to my fate. I am well impressed with the town, though I have been here but a few hours. Only one thing or really, several things in one have bothered me the reporters. They have taken the house and I have not yet had time to rest from my journey. . . . The Denver Post wishes to pay my expenses if I will travel slowly over the state and give occasionally my impressions of it. They wired me at Chicago, and have sent two men to interview me since I have been there. They claim the trips would be healthful, that my wife could go along with the best accommodations, and that I only need do what I want in the way of writing. These people are the New York Journal of the west ! In the early days of October, 1899, the Dunbars found a suitable home at Harmon, a small town near Denver. Mr. Dunbar described this temporary domicile as a " dainty little house, very pleasant and sunny. 1 ' From Harmon he wrote, soon after going there, to an Ohio friend, " I have an old cob of a hor.se, and some kind OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 89 of a buggy for me to jog in as the doctor forbids much walking and entirely prohibits bicycling." This " old cob of a horse " became so dear to the poet that he immortalized her in his dialect poem " That oF mare of mine," for which he received a sum equal to half the price he paid for the mare. That Mr. Dunbar realized his cure could not be perma- nent, but that he was determined to be patient and cheer- ful is manifested by a few paragraphs in a Denver letter of his : " Well, it is something to sit down under the shadow of the Rocky Mountains even if one only goes there to die." " Have you been reading Stevenson's letters as they run in the ScribneSs Magazine ? There was a brave fel- low for you, and I always feel stronger for reading his manly lines." He speaks in this same characteristic epistle of his health and of the doctors having examined his sputum, and says, " I too have looked upon the * little red hair-like devils' who are eating up my lungs. So many of us are cowards when we look into the cold, white eyes of death, and I suppose I am no better or braver than the rest of humanity." The life of Paul Laurence Dunbar while in Colorado was a long, losing fight for health. Hope and fear were alternate guests in his heart, but while his naturally optimistic spirit drank deep of the sunshine, his lungs constantly weakened by the ravages of the "little red devils" of disease could not assimilate the beneficent qualties of the light and air. As often as his strength would permit he recited, many of the wealthiest homes of Denver being opened to 90 THE LIFE AND WORKS him, and he also made a number of short trips to various other towns and cities. One of the stars in Dunbar's social firmament was the friendship for him of Major William Cooke Daniels, a young merchant of Denver. The young man was pas- sionately fond of Paul Dunbar and of his poetry. Almost every day he rode out to see Dunbar, or sent his carriage and coachman for him to come to the palatial home in the city. But, Dunbar was proud and sensitive, and although he fairly worshiped young Daniels, we find him writing an Ohio friend " I must tell you more about this friend of mine some time. He is just two years my senior, but was Major in Law ton's Division, and commended for bravery and efficiency. He is a fine fellow, but I am going to termi- nate my friendship with him. You will wonder why. Well he is immensely wealthy for his age, possessing something like two millions of dollars, and all the favors come from his side. I spend an afternoon each week with him. He has the finest private library in Denver, and he presses upon me the loan of expensive books. He wants to take me duck-shooting and provide everything. We smoke together and read and chat for hours, but the books and cigars are always his. When I was doing my new story, he actually took time from his business (the management of the finest department store here) to help me on a stampede scene. He is an enthusiast and I like him, but somehow I always feel a bit cheaper by his kind- ness, though I know I should not, for he is very genuine." The friend to whom Dunbar wrote this letter wisely pointed out to him that Mr. Daniels was no doubt receiv- ing as much as he gave, and that he doubtless prized the OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 91 poet's charming society more than silver or gold. It is therefore with satisfaction that we note the " new novel " called " The Love of Landry," dedicated to " my friend Major William Cooke Daniels." It is a Colorado novel, and shows how quickly and naturally Mr. Dunbar learned to write of the western plains and ranches. He was a veritable mental chameleon, taking on the exact color of his surroundings, but better still, he was able to transmit his impressions to paper so vividly that the characters and scenes stand out before the reader's vision as though painted on canvas. CHAPTER X BACK TO WASHINGTON IN the spring of 1900, the Dunbars went back to Wash- ington. The Colorado trip did not accomplish for Mr. Dunbar's health what they had all hoped it might, but he returned to Washington, trusting that he should now be able to live there and make it his headquarters. Early in the summer, however, it was found necessary for him to " move on 1 * again, and he and his wife went again to the Catskills. A rather pleasant summer was spent there, but the ravages of consumption had only been checked, and it was with a sinking heart that the gifted man returned once more to Washington. It has seemed right to quote just here a paragraph or two from an article which appeared in the March, 1906, issue of Talent Magazine. This quotation will explain at last an incident of which many of Mr. Dunbar's friends read with much surprise and regret at the time of its occurrence. While one must acknowledge, with the poet, that he made a grievous mistake, still this admission is tinged with a feeling of shame that American newspapers must needs have heralded the unfortunate affair all over the country. The incident to which Mr. Pearson of Talent refers happened late in the autumn of 1900. " It has been frequently reported in the public prints that Dunbar was a drunkard. Though it was founded on 92 OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 93 truth, it was not the whole truth. With a friend I had engaged Dunbar to give an evening of readings at Evans- ton, Illinois. We had thoroughly advertised the event, and a large audience from the University and the city were present to hear him. At eight o'clock, a messenger brought me word that he had broken a dinner engage- ment at the Woman's College, and that no word had been received from him. After an anxious delay he ar- rived a half hour late and with him were a nurse, a phy- sician and his half-brother, Mr. Murphy. The first num- ber or two could not be heard, but not until he had read one poem the second time did we suspect the true cause of his difficulty in speaking. His condition grew steadily worse, so that most of the people left in disgust. The report was passed about that he was intoxicated. The Chicago papers printed full accounts of the incident, and it was copied throughout the country. " The following letter which has never been published, explains the situation. " 321 Spruce St., Washington, D. C. " PROFESSOR P. M. PEARSON : " DEAR SIR : Now that I am at home and settled, I feel that an explanation is due you from me. I could not see you as you asked, because I was ashamed to. My brother went, but you were gone. " The clipping you sent is too nearly true to be an- swered. I had been drinking. This had partially in- toxicated me. The only injustice lies in the writer's not knowing that there was a cause behind it all, beyond mere inclination. On Friday afternoon I had a severe hemor- rhage. This I was fool enough to try to conceal from my family, for, as I had had one the week before, I knew they would not want me to read. Well, I was nervously anx- 94 THE LIFE AND WORKS ious not to disappoint you, and so I tried to bolster myself up on stimulants. It was the only way that I could have stood up at all. But I feel now that I had rather have dis- appointed you wholly than to have disgraced myself and made you ashamed. " As to the program, I had utterly forgotten that there was a printed one. I am very sorry and ashamed, be- cause I do not think that the cause excuses the act. " I have cancelled all my engagements and given up reading entirely. They are trying to force me back to Denver, but I am ill and discouraged, and don't care much what happens. " Don't think that this is an attempt at vindication. It is not. Try to forgive me as far as forgiveness is possible. " Sincerely yours, " PAUL L. DUNBAR. " P. S. I have not told you that I was under the doctor's care and in bed up until the very day I left here for Chi- cago. There had been a similar flow, and I came against advice, and now I see the result. "Such an explanation silences criticism. But the re- port has been widely circulated, and afterwards it was often revived, without cause." The winter of 1900-01 was spent with Washington as his permanent address, but even though his health would ill permit of it, he made a number of trips to various parts of the country to recite. On March ist, 1901, Mr. Dunbar received a parchment appointing him as aid with rank of colonel in the Inau- gural Parade of President McKinley. Concerning this appointment, Mr. Dunbar said, several years later to his biographer, "When the document was brought to me, I refused OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 95 positively to appear in the parade, as I did not consider myself a sufficiently good horseman. So I sent the gen- tleman away with that answer, but as soon as he was out of the house, my wife and mother made siege upon me, and compelled me to run after him. I remember the oc- casion well, how I ran down my front steps in house- jacket and slippers and calling to my late visitor, told him that I had changed my mind, perforce." Mr. Dunbar appeared in the inaugural parade, three days afterwards. A month later finds him writing from Jacksonville, Florida, to a friend in the North : " Down here one finds my poems recited everywhere. Young men help themselves through school by speaking them, and the schools help their own funds by sending readers out with them to the winter hotels. Very largely I am out of it. Both my lungs and my throat are bad, and, from now on, it seems like merely a fighting race with Death. If this is to be so, I feel like pulling my horse, and letting the white rider go in without a contest.' 1 Fooled by the false courage that alternates with despair in the lives of tuberculosis sufferers, Dunbar spent a hope- ful summer, in spite of this spring-time discouragement. He even went so far as to buy a house and establish a beautiful home in Washington. But Fate did not intend that this darling child of Genius should enjoy for long any of the good things of life, and less than a year later, the most terrible tragedy of his life occurred. His home was broken up, and he left Washington forever. In such very personal and heart-touching matters it has always seemed to his biographer that the world should have no interest. This brilliant pair, having walked for several 96 THE LIFE AND WORKS years together, at last came to a parting of the ways. Neither has spoken to say why they parted there, each going ever after alone and, an attempt at explanation would be unkind to the living and unjust to the dead. One of his friends has given his biographer a letter writ- ten under date of July 27th, 1902, which being as much as the poet cared to reveal to a lifelong and trusted friend, should suffice even the most curious of those interested in the story of his life. He writes as follows : " You will be seriously shocked to hear that Mrs. Dun- bar and I are now living apart, and the beautiful home I had at Washington is a thing of the past. ... I am greatly discouraged and if I could do anything else, I should give up writing. Something within me seems to be dead. There is no spirit or energy left in me. My upper lip has taken on a droop." This letter is written from Chicago, where Mr. Dunbar went, accompanied by his faithful little mother, when the crash came. Mr. Dunbar wrote his old friend, Mr. Charles Thatcher at Toledo, in December of 1902 "My plans are few but definite. There is a mid- winter's book of poems forthcoming ' Lyrics of Love and Laughter/ and an illustrated one for next fall. An Ohio novel is promised to Lippincotfs, and dialect stories and verses to various periodicals. Besides this I shall possibly read in the southwest during the latter part of Jar.aary. My appearance is robust, but my cough is about as bad as it can be." Thus the unquenchable ambition of Paul Laurence Dunbar whipped the frail flesh to its labor and accom- plished an almost unbelievable amount of work in those OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 97 two years when his heart was broken and his spirit crushed. His days were not all cloudy, however, the sun shone sometimes and he was almost his old self again. A little story told his biographer by his mother, while the silent tears coursed down her cheeks, will serve to show how his hard lot was softened in at least one in- stance. " I was sitting one morning," said Mrs. Dunbar, " on our front steps, when I saw a lady and a little boy ap- proaching. Something told me that they were coming to our house. The boy carried a book, and when they came nearer I recognized it as one of my son's. Sure enough, they turned in at our steps and the lady said : " ' Is Mr. Dunbar living here? 1 " I replied, ' Yes.' " * Could we get to see him ? f " I asked them to come in, and I went to my son's room and summoned him. Paul was ill that morning, but he went down-stairs when he heard that a little boy wanted to see him. My son was very fond of children you know. " The lady introduced herself to my son as Mrs. Ada Barton Bogg and her son, Master Harry Barton Bogg. The boy told Paul that he had come to ask him to auto- graph the book of poems he had just bought. Of course Paul did it, and he and the boy held a very lively con- versation. As they were leaving we overheard Harry say to his mother : " * Why, mamma, he wasn't a bit like I thought he would be. I thought he would just sit up straight like he had a stick down his back, and never laugh at all.' 98 THE LIFE AND WORKS " Possibly an hour later, our door bell rang, and a box of flowers was handed in. The box was addressed to my son and contained a great bunch of gorgeous peonies with ' the boy's ' card. My son was so delighted that he put on his hat and went down town for a vase to put the flowers in, and wrote the child a letter beside." Out of this incident a correspondence sprang between the poet and the child, and a friendship was begun which lasted as long as Mr. Dunbar lived. So proud was the boy's mother of these letters that at the time of the poet's death, she reproduced several of them in Quill, the or- gan of the Illinois Woman's Press Association, of which she is president. They give one such a delightful glimpse into the child-heart of Paul Laurence Dunbar that with Mrs. Hogg's permission we have copied verbatim into this biography, the article, quoting from them. PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR In the passing of Paul Laurence Dunbar we have lost a friend who was dear to us because the friendship came through his love of " the boy," and because, too, of his own sweet personality. We shall always have with us the memory of his gentle presence, his courteous man- ner, his soft, musical voice, and as we turn the pages of a correspondence mostly to " the boy " our eyes are dimmed as we read. Here is one written during his last con- valescence from pneumonia, while here in Chicago : " My Dear little Friend : My peonies came with your card and I have sworn eternal friendship for you. My passion is for flowers and you, what have you done to me ? Sent me off spending my hard-earned dollars to get an antique vase to put them in. Thank you, my dear boy." HON. FREDERICK DOUGLASS Who gave Paul Dunbar a position in the Hayti building at the World's Columbian Exposition, paying him out of his own pocket, and who spoke of Dunbar as the "most promising young colored man in America." MASTER HARRY BARTON BOGG, JR. (Mr. Dunbar's favorite boy friend, with whom he corresponded to the day of his death.) OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 101 After he went to his home, in Dayton, he often wrote f< the boy," always cheerfully. In one letter he says : " My Dear Boy : It was a little earlier than this last year when you came and brought sunshine into my sick room, and I want to celebrate that day. From Ohio to Illinois let us say * good luck,' and I want to hope that your cheeks are glowing to-day as brightly as the flowers you brought." Again he writes : My Dear Boy : I call you " dear boy " because I love the name. This will be a great secret between us. ... I wrote yesterday to your mother, but, of course, you un- derstand that it is awfully different writing to grown-ups, and that they never see through the things that we see through their vision has gone beyond the sight of our dearer youth. ... I thank you exceedingly for your picture, which has cheered me unspeakably, and which I keep over on my dresser, where I can see it now and then among the medicine bottles. Lovingly, your boy friend. It was not long after this that Mr. Dunbar grew too weak to write, and the last letters were dictated. In one he speaks of " the boy's " strength and vigor, adding : " He looks, oh, so healthy ! I wish I were half so well. My love to him and tell him that I should love to run my ringers through those curls on his head." In one of his last letters he says : " The winter has kept me continuously in bed one may as well be in Patagonia as here. " To-day I struggled out and got a glimpse of the sun. I see only the four walls of my room, and I welcome any change am thankful for the rain on the window pane." 102 THE LIFE AND WORKS At the last a mutual friend in Dayton carried some blossoms to Mr. Dunbar for us, and afterwards wrote us : " Mrs. Dunbar (his mother) met me at the door and in- sisted on my seeing him. When he was told I brought him flowers, he said at once : ' They can't be from the boy, can they ? ' I told him he had guessed right, and I cannot express to you his pleasure. I left him a very weak but happy man." On the fly leaf of one of his books he wrote for us : An angel robed in spotless white Bent down and kissed the sleeping night ; Night woke to blush, the sprite was gone Men saw the blush and called it Dawn. A. B. B. LAST DAYS OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR (Being a Series of Personal Reminiscences of the Poet) One summer day in 1904, I was invited by the talented reader, Miss Anna Loy May, to accompany her to the home of Paul Laurence Dunbar, where she made frequent pilgrimages to recite for him the poems and sketches he loved to hear. Together we traversed the pretty street, which leads to the Dunbar home. The house is a com- modious brick structure, shaded by magnificent elms, and on the lawn, at a point where the sick man's eyes could rest upon it, when he sat by a southern window, was a luxuriant bed of pansies. As we stepped upon the piazza, Mr. Dunbar's collie dog inaugurated a rather too-friendly greeting, and in another moment, the door was opened by the poet him- self, who immediately apologized for his dog by saying: " My dog never barks at any one but poets : he is jealous for his master's reputation 1" He asked me sev- eral jocular questions, and then, looking at me in a quiz- zical sort of way, exclaimed : "Did you expect to find me a long-faced, sancti- monious individual of whom you would be afraid ? " "Y-es, Mr. Dunbar, I will confess it I had formed some such opinion/ ' " And now you are disappointed, aren't you ? " he asked laughing more like a mischievous schoolboy than a world-famous man and an invalid. " A trifle," I replied, " but very delightfully so." This pleased him greatly, and we began to talk of com- 103 104 THE LIFE AND WORKS mon acquaintances in both races, of art and literature and kindred themes. The " surprise " I sustained in finding Mr. Dunbar such a cheerful and optimistic person con- tinued during our entire call. A characteristic that appealed particularly to me was his impulsive way of showing delight when I chanced to mention the name of some one who proved to be a com- mon friend. After we had conversed for possibly an hour Mr. Dun- bar reminded Miss May that she had not yet " read" for him. As her cultured voice gave utterance to the lines of several of his favorite selections it was interesting to study the changing expressions upon the poet's face. At one point he laughed almost boisterously, at another he was moved to tears. In every line of his fine face one could see the evidences of culture and the shining of the poetic mind. His eyes were especially expressive, and were truly " windows of the soul." Mr. Dunbar's wit was so spon- taneous, and so much a part of him that one could not be long in his society without observing the glint of a golden mirth in his glance or conversation. After Miss May had finished reading that afternoon, the poet left the room for a few moments. When he came back a half-grown black chicken perched contentedly upon his shoulder. He made no remark, but sitting down quietly, began talking again. My knowledge of the chicken as a domestic pet was limited, and my amazement at the evident fearless- ness of this specimen caused me to exclaim : " Why, Mr. Dunbar, is that a chicken ? " " No, madame, it is a pig," replied the poet with never the ghost of a smile. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 105 Our laughter at this rejoinder brought to the door Paul Dunbar' s mother who feared the unusual excitement might bring on one of the distressing attacks of coughing which so wracked and weakened his delicate frame. Paul Dunbar' s mother ! How shall I describe her ? There is such a world to say about that " little black mammy" whom he so dearly loved 1 But the story of Paul Dunbar's last days, or any of his days, would have been impossible without frequent mention of his devoted mother. No "good angel" in human guise evermore faithfully fulfilled a heavenly mission than did she through all the weary years of her son's long illness. Framed by the oaken panels of the doorway, Matilda Dunbar presented a wholesome and attractive picture. She is small of stature, with the same beautiful eyes which were so noticeable in her son's face, the same bright smile and cordial way, and a gentility of manner and modula- tion of voice which show what possibilities there are for the negro woman if she will but take advantage of them. I shall never forget the looks of love upon his face and of pride upon hers as he introduced " my mother." Then in a tender and gentle tone she said : " Paul, dear, I fear you are over-doing. Aren't you talking too much ? " "No, no, ma, I'm having a most delightful time," he replied and bade her take a seat near him. A young colored man called to take the poet to drive. His embarrassment was apparent when he found Mr. Dunbar entertaining two " white " women friends, but Dunbar greeted him most 'affectionately, and presented him to us as his " talented friend Mr. H., who writes beau- tiful verses." What a graceful and generous thing it was 106 THE LIFE AND WORKS for the greatest poet of his race to thus bring to our knowledge immediately the fact that the new arrival possessed a talent for making verse. Too ill to go driv- ing, he was compelled to decline his friend's hospitality, but his beautiful words of gratitude sent the young man away with a beaming face and a happy heart. It never seemed to matter to Paul Dunbar whether a man was rich or poor, black or white or yellow, if he offered him a kindness or expressed a good wish, the poet took pains to show his appreciation in as public a way as he could. He was almost wholly free from the blight of ingratitude. Mr. Dunbar would have had us remain indefinitely, but knowing that we had already drawn over-deep upon his slender store of vitality, we literally " tore ourselves away " promising a speedy return. A CHINESE TEA PARTY Our second visit to Paul Laurence Dunbar was on a gray day in October. There was a chill in the air, and a drizzle from the clouds. A cold wind, like an advance agent for winter, was feeling the pulse of the people as though to discern how they felt to wards the coming show. If the world could have been judged that day, by our wishes, winter would have felt far from complimented. Knowing the tendency of the artistic temperament to be depressed when the sun is not shining, I expected to find the sick man indulging in an attack of the blues. On the contrary, as soon as he entered the room, we felt that it was flooded with sunshine. He was simply bubbling over with good cheer and fun, and we were soon ob- livious to the weather. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 107 " Now, ladies, we are going to have a Chinese tea party this afternoon, and I am to be chef," said our host. We expressed our delight and told him how compli- mented we felt to have a famous man for a " chef," but he laughed heartily at this, and asked us to follow him up-stairs to " Loafingholt." This is the name he gave his den or library, and it was well chosen, for there was every inducement to laziness and rest. The entire house was artistic in its appointments, and reflected everywhere the spirit of its master, but this room his own particular sanctum sanctorum was the most charmingly characteris- tic apartment of them all. The walls were lined with book-shelves, above which were hung illuminated mottoes from the works of Riley, Stevenson and others of his favorites. A framed certificate gave evidence of the fact that Mr. Dunbar was a member of the famous Pen and Pencil Club of Wasnington, with an office in that organi- zation. Another frame held an autograph copy of " My Country 'tis of Thee." On the top shelf of each book case were photographs of eminent men and women of both races, among them Black Patti, who called on Mr. Dunbar when giving a concert in Dayton, and presented him with her portrait. The pictures were almost all auto- graphed. Dainty bits of bric-&-brac showed the poet to be a connoisseur in other fields than that of literature. The books were almost all presented to him by the authors. An arts-and-crafts bookcase contained copies of his own productions, and the collection was not one of which he needed to be ashamed. His desk showed that he had been at work, recently, and there were bits of unfinished poems strewn upon it. A couch piled high with gay sofa pillows, afforded a io8 THE LIFE AND WORKS cozy place for the poet to rest when tired of writing or of guests, and an Indian blanket rug in bright crimson gave the dignified room its needed bit of vivacious coloring. There were sleepy-hollow chairs and other " loafing " places in the room, and altogether it was very appropri- ately named. In a corner near the door, was a handsome tabourette upon which was disposed the tea service. Such a pretty service it was with its foreign-looking sugar bowl and cream pitcher and its squatty little tea-pot, with the Jap- anese cups so delicate and thin that one could almost " see through them." While we admired his books and his pictures or en- gaged in merry conversation, Mr. Dunbar made the tea over his alcohol lamp and presently approached me with a cup of the fragrant brew. " This is genuine Chinese tea, ladies," he remarked. " It was brought to me by a friend direct from the Celes- tial Kingdom." He then offered us sugar and cream. I added sugar to my tea, and immediately regretted it, for he said in mock horror : " There, now ! you've spoiled it the idea of Chinese tea with sugar in it." I acknowledged my ignorance, and asked him why he offered me sugar for " Chinese tea." " Just to see if you knew," laughed Mr. Dunbar with a wickedly mischievous smile. Over the tea-cups there was interesting talk, interesting because one could not converse many moments with Paul Laurence Dunbar without hearing something entertaining or profitable. He liked to say things to make one OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 109 " think," as he once expressed it, and he usually suc- ceeded. He seemed to be alive to all the vital problems of the age, and to have decided opinions upon each and every one. He was exceedingly witty and often said brilliantly funny things at most unexpected moments. He was greatly gratified to learn that I had committed several of his language poems to memory and that I pre- ferred these to his dialect verses. The fact that the world at large, passing over his great productions in classic English, blindly " turned to praise a jingle in a broken tongue," was one of the real griefs that sapped his life and energy. " I am tired, so tired of dialect," he said. " I send out graceful little poems, suited for any of the maga- zines, but they are returned to me by editors who say, 'We would be very glad to have a dialect poem, Mr. Dunbar, but we do not care for the language composi- tions.' I have about decided to write under a nom de plume, and I have chosen a beautiful name." We asked him to satisfy feminine curiosity by telling us the name, but he refused to do so, saying he was determined to "fool the editors." He then told us laughingly of a " bright young lady " who wrote to him criticising him for using various kinds of negro dialect in one volume. " Just think of it ! a literary critic and yet doesn't know that there are as many variations of the negro dialect as there are states in the Union ! For instance an Alabama negro does not speak any more like a Virginia colored man than a Yankee talks like a man from Colorado." Thus again and again he proved how thoroughly he had studied his race, north and south, east and west, and how well equipped he was when he went to his task of writing dialect poems. He gave the world the first idealized i io THE LIFE AND WORKS negro verse, and he gave the white race and all races to know that there is more real sentiment and artistic feeling in the negro brain than was ever dreamed of in the philosophy of the average Caucasian Horatio. He re- marked early in life that he hoped to prove that his race was human as well as African, and he did much more he proved that they were artistic as well as humbly useful. After we had finished our tea, Mr. Dunbar was disposed to continue our talk indefinitely, but his strength was scarcely sufficient for such a long strain, and soon his mother called one of us outside for a moment and said : " I beg your pardon, ladies, but I expect you had better leave my son now as he may have a severe attack of coughing. Don't tell him I told you, for he will fear that it may offend you." We soon therefore begged another engagement, and left him, though he urged us to stay. Our conduct after we left him was not consistent with our protestations that we could not stay another moment, for we lingered below stairs to talk with his mother. We were startled to hear Mr. Dunbar call : " Miss May, oh, Miss May, come to the stairs a moment." She obeyed, and in a stage whisper he said : " You ladies had better not talk to mother, she may get to coughing." He had evidently overheard her warning to us, and was retaliating. Thus his love of fun and his inexhaustible wit, served to send us away with a smile and a hope that perhaps after all his life would be spared for many years to come. It was always difficult, when talking with him, to realize that his days were numbered and that the seal of Death was set upon him. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR in AN IMPROMPTU MUSICALE Among the things that were dear to the heart of Paul Laurence Dunbar was music vocal or instrumental he loved it, and he was, in his prime, no mean performer on the violin. One afternoon I went to see him on a matter of business, but ere I had been there long, he told me that I was " in luck," for there was to be a musicale in half an hour. Soon his guests began to arrive. Among them were prominent persons of both races. Mr. Dunbar sat on a couch smilling and chatting with every one, the gayest of the throng. One of the colored women began the program by singing several of Mr. Dunbar's favorite songs. One of these was " Lead Kindly Light." This was a great favorite of the poet's, and he once wrote a companion-piece to it which by many is thought to be as beautiful as the original poem. His poem is called a Hymn, and is really his own prayer to God for help in his illness. The last stanza is especially beautiful : " Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For fear that I may fall : I know not where to go Unless I hear thy call. My fainting soul doth yearn For thy green hills afar So let thy mercy burn My greater, guiding star ! " The young woman who sang for us that afternoon was wholly African, and her voice was typical of the race. Well may the negro be proud of his musical ability. Seldom indeed have I heard a soloist of any race whose tones could equal those that delighted us that day. The H2 THE LIFE AND WORKS poet's very soul came into his expressive eyes as he lis- tened. No applause was more earnest and no encore more sincere than his, as he asked for more and more. After the music a young woman of the party read sev- eral of her poems at Mr. Dunbar's request. His praise was very delicate and intelligent, and showed the poet's desire to accentuate the gifts of others. After the program Mr. Dunbar fell to talking of Theo- dore Roosevelt, of whom he spoke as one of his dearest friends. He asked his mother to bring him his " Christ- mas present, and when Mrs. Dunbar returned she brought with her two volumes, and Mr. Dunbar handed them around saying, " See ! I'm all ' puffed up' over these." The books were two of the works of the President, in- scribed as follows : " To Paul Laurence Dunbar from Theodore Roosevelt, Christmas, 1903." He then told of the poem he had sent Mr. Roosevelt at the time of his second campaign, and of the President's complimentary letter concerning it. All were enthusiastic and wanted to hear the poem. So, after much persuasion, Mr. Dunbar read for us the lines : " There's a mighty sound a comin', From the East and there's a hummin* And a bummin' from the bosom of the West, While the North has given tongue, And the South will be among Those who holler that our Roosevelt is best. ' We have heard of him in battle And amid the roar and rattle When the foemen fled like cattle to their stalls : We have seen him staunch and grim When the only battle hymn Was the shrieking of the Spanish Mauser balls. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 113 " Product of a worthy sireing. Fearless, honest, brave, untiring In the forefront of the firing, there he stands : And we're not afraid to show That we all revere him so, To dissentients of our own and other lands. " Now, the fight is on in earnest, And we care not if the sternest Of encounters try our valor or the quality of him, For they're few who stoop to fear As the glorious day draws near, For you'll find him hell to handle when he gets in fightin' trim." Ill as he then was and weakened by the ravages of the disease that was killing him, one's imagination could readily picture what he must have been in his prime. His eyes flashed, and there was a sparkle in them that told how much he enjoyed giving a proper interpretation to his own poems. Before I left him that afternoon, he took occasion to tell me that he was to have his " class " that night, and that he must rest a bit before the pupils came. I asked in amazement what class he meant, and he said, with an enthusiasm which left no doubt as to his heart-interest in the work : " Why my class in spelling and reading. Some people think our people should be nurses and boot-blacks, but I am determined that they shall not make menials out of all of us." This class he taught for weeks, giving liter- ally of his very life for the betterment of his race. AN " INTERVIEW" The fourth time I went to the Dunbar home, I had a H4 THE LIFE AND WORKS commission from a magazine to interview him. As the lower rooms were filled with callers, he took me up to " Loafingholt." He bade me take an easy chair, assur- ing me that my " job " would be very difficult, and then sat down opposite with the air of a martyr about to be tied to the stake. This was somewhat disconcerting, and I must have looked my embarrassment for he soon began talking naturally of his health and the pretty view from his window, etc., until I was quite at my ease and able to " ask questions." Presently I said, " Mr. Dunbar, tell me what is your real reason for writing? Do you write for fame, for money or just for the pleasure of creating art ? " " I ? why do I write ? ".he asked as though surprised at the query . " Why, I write just because I love it." Knowing that the majority of his race are noted for their superstitions, and having a curiosity to learn whether education and refinement would eradicate the racial trait, I asked him a leading question. " Well, I don't know," he ejaculated, with a far away look in his eyes. " Some people would laugh, I suppose, but things really do ' happen ' sometimes which are strange to say the least." " Yes ? " I encouraged. " Well, once when I was a small boy, just at the age when I thought I knew more than my mother a queer thing occurred. The flowers in our front yard all came out in bloom in the dead of winter. Our neighbors' plants did not bloom and " " Did anything come of it ? " I found myself breath- lessly asking. " Wait a moment," he said, " something else happened OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 115 too a pair of horses hitched to a hearse ran off and stopped before our gate." " Were you frightened ? " I asked. " Not I I was too * wise ' you know, but my mother was terribly worried. We had an old gentleman with us then, and, if you will believe me he took ill and died in two weeks. Even since then I have believed in the truth of the old nursery rhyme " * Flowers out of season, Trouble without reason ! ' " He recounted other instances which had come under his observation of the couplet's having " come true," speaking in a saddened tone of his having found a violet blossoming under his library window on All Saints' Day. This incident inspired three of his best known poems. The first he called " To a Violet Found on All-Saints' Day." The others are " Weltschmertz," and "The Monk's Walk," published in " Lyrics of Love and Laughter." " That was indeed a flower ' blooming out of season,' and I never had much real happiness after that," he said. I knew that he was thinking of his un- happy married life for the incident occurred in Wash- ington. Since then I have had more respect for so-called " superstitions " and if the wholly practical must call these things mere coincidences, to some of us they can but seem a trifle more. Mr. Dunbar patiently answered my other questions, and I left him, feeling how kind he was and how consid- erate, how lavish of his needed strength, and how gener- ous of himself. Ii6 THE LIFE AND WORKS POEMS "WHILE You WAIT" Doubtless there are hundreds of instances, memory- cherished by his friends, of Mr. Dunbar's having pro- duced impromptu verses of remarkable cleverness and beauty. One or two of these I will recount, merely as examples of his ability to work under high pressure a gift as rare as it is unusual. Having business in Dayton, I had not intended going out to see Mr. Dunbar, but as was my custom, I called him by telephone. As soon as he recognized my voice, he said : " I am feeling fine to-day, and you must come out be- fore leaving town. I shall have something for you when you get here 1 " He did not give me the slightest hint as to what the " something " would be, but I went out to see him. When I reached the house his mother admitted me, and Mr. Dunbar called from the parlor, where he sat curled up on a couch, for all the world like a small boy. " Just wait a moment, I'm hunting for a rhyme." Mrs. Dunbar and I had conversed but a few minutes when we heard him say exultantly : " Ah, that's it good ! " and the next instant he was with us, smiling and bowing to me, and holding towards me a scrap of paper on which he had written in his own delicate hand (a feat by no means common on those lat- ter days) the following : To A POET AND A LADY You sing, and the gift of a State's applause Is yours for the rune that is ringing, But tell me truly is that the cause ? Don't you sing for the love of singing ? OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 117 You think you are working for wealth and for fame, But ah, you are not and you know it, For Wife is the sweetest and loveliest name, And every good wife is a poet ! These lines, written to please me, and not meant for a public reading, nevertheless contain, as did everything he wrote, a grain of helpful truth, and a delicate suggestion of the poet's love for the home and its mistress. He did not prostitute his talent, but even when the occasion was of a trivial character, he conscientiously gave his story a new dignity in the telling. Mr. Dunbar was ever grateful for kindnesses shown him and took occasion to remark that day : " My stenographer is not here to-day, or she would type the verses for you." " Why, have you a secretary Mr. Dunbar ? " " Yes, the loveliest young woman in the world comes almost every day and does my writing for me, and she does it gratis will not think of accepting compensation." His face fairly beamed as he said it, and one could not help seeing how he appreciated this service from a young woman of his sister race. Could he but have heard what she said to me after he died, he would have understood why she came day after day to write for him " I never knew the beauty and breadth of life until I knew Paul Laurence Dunbar," said the young woman with moist eyes, " and I can never tell you what those days spent in his society meant to me." She then told me of his hav- ing composed aloud his last poem " Sling Along " while she wrote it down in shorthand. It was with great diffi- culty that he talked that day, because of the frequent spells of coughing that attacked him, but one can see n8 THE LIFE AND WORKS that even then he was possessed with a spirit of fun and happy humor. The lines which have not yet appeared in print are as follows : SLING ALONG. Sling along, sling along, sling along, De moon done riz, Dem eyes o' his Done sighted you Where you stopped to woo. Sling along, sling along, It ain't no use fu' to try to hide, De moonbeam allus at yo' side, He hang f 'om de fence, he drap f ' om de limb, Dey ain't no use bein' skeered o' him, Sling along, sling along. Sling along, sling along, sling along, De brook hit flow, Fu' to let you know, Dat he saw dat kiss, An' he know yo' bliss. Sling along, sling along. He run by yo' side, An' he say howdydo, "He ain't gine to tell but his eye is on you, You can lay all yo' troubles on de highest shelf Fu' de little ol' brook's jes talkin' to his se'f, Sling along, sling along. Sling along, sling along, sling along, De' possum grin, But he run lak sin, He know love's sweet, But he prize his meat, Sling along, sling along. He know you'd stop fu' to hunt his hide, If you los' a kiss and a hug beside, But de feas' will come and de folks will eat, When she tek yo' han' at de altah sea, Sling along, sling along. The Dunbar house, at 219 North Summit Street, Dayton, Ohio, where Mr. Dunbar's last days were spent, and where he died. His mother still resides in this house, which he bequeathed to her. Ir. Dunbar's desk and his arts and crafts bookcase, which contained copies of his own books, and autograph copies of the works of many of his contemporaries. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 121 Another instance of his wonderful skill in writing from inspiration, is the story of his " Rain Songs." The day was dark and the rain fell drearily outside his window. Only a poet's mind could have conceived any- thing beautiful in such a prospect. A young man friend was with him. Suddenly Mr. Dunbar, gazing intently out at the vision in the rain, said to his companion : " Did you ever think of the rain's looking like harp- strings ? " " No " said the young man, " I cannot say that I ever did." " Well how does this sound ? " and the poet is de- scribed as having repeated the words slowly, as though saying them after some one whose voice, audible to him, could not be heard by his companion " The rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky, The wind, that world-old harper sitteth by, And ever, as he sings his low refrain, He plays upon the harp-strings of the rain." DUNBAR'S LAST BIRTHDAY Feeling that the poet's days on earth were swiftly pass- ing by, and that perchance this (June 2yth, 1905) would be (as it proved) his last birthday, a number of his friends in Dayton, planned a surprise for him. It being a beautiful afternoon, Mr. Dunbar's physician gave him permission to go driving with a friend who, quite innocently, of course, called with a carriage. In the poet's absence his friends took possession of his home and made it ready for the " party." His chair, at the head of the table, was festooned in royal purple, and his favorite flowers were everywhere in evidence. A 122 THE LIFE AND WORKS great birthday cake and dainty viands made an ideal sup- per table. Upon his return from the drive, Mr. Dunbar came slowly up the steps and across the veranda. When he opened the door, he was met by a perfect avalanche of congratu- lations 1 Taken wholly unaware, he was for a moment unable to speak, but, with something of his old spirit, he entered into the affair, and was soon the gayest of them all. At supper there were clever speeches and happy rep- artee. One of the toasts was given by Dr. William Burns, Mr. Dunbar's dearest friend among his own people. This brilliant young physician was Mr. Dunbar's con- stant attendant for the last three years of his life, going with him whenever he ventured from home to recite, and caring for him always as tenderly as a brother. He was a man of sterling worth and beautiful personality, and it is small wonder that the poet loved him almost to idolatry. Special mention is thus made because in the following November the young physician was struck down in the very height of his professional successes and passed into the Mystery four months before his famous friend and pptient. The passing of Dr. Burns has been thought by many to have hastened the end of Paul Laurence Dunbar, and, ill as he was, at the time his physician died, he in- sisted on being taken in a carriage to his lodgings. Wit- nesses say that Mr. Dunbar took the hand of Dr. Burns, and talked to him just as though he were still there in spirit as well as flesh. He was driven back to his home, but always refused to admit that " Bud," as he called the doctor, was dead. His mind weakened by disease and sorrow, could not grasp this last dreadful tragedy. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 123 No gloomy forebodings, however, dimmed the happiness of the birthday supper, and the picture presented by that festal board is one worthy the brush of a master, because it was a revelation and a prophecy. Sitting side by side at the poet's table were young people of both the black and white races. Each face was of an exceptionally fine intellectual mould each individual was an artist in his line. An Episcopal clergyman of the Negro race, touched elbows wich a beautiful young business woman, a representative of Dayton's " Four Hundred " met on an equal intellectual footing the cultured young physician, whose skin alone was black. The sight must have been gratifying to the mind of Paul Laurence D unbar, for he could but have seen in this happy mingling of intellectual negroes and broad- minded whites an omen for the future of his race. His own personality had much to do with the matter, but if the race has produced one genius like Paul Dunbar, it can produce others, and therein lies its hope of final recognition. A short time after his birthday party, Mr. Dunbar was visited by a delegation from the Ohio Federation of Colored Woman's Clubs, meeting in Dayton, and enjoyed ex- ceedingly making the acquaintance of women of his own race who were interested in the higher education. During this convention, Mrs Mary Church Terrell, a Washington friend of Mr. D unbar' s, and a woman who has gained an enviable reputation in the world of letters was a house-guest at the Dunbar home. Writing of this visit in the April, 1906, issue of the Voice of the Negro, Mrs. Terrell pays so beautiful a tribute to Mr. Dunbar that a portion of it is given herewith. It shows 124 THE LIFE AND WORKS that Mr. Dunbar was appreciated by the more intellectual members of his own race as well as by those of the sister races. Mrs. Terrell says : " During the few days spent with Mr. Dunbar last summer I discovered there were depths in his character that I had never sounded and qualities of heart of which I had never dreamed, although I saw him frequently when he lived in Washington. " Owen Meredith says that " * The heart of a man is like that delicate weed Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed Ere it gives forth the fragrance you wish to extract. Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact.' " Whether affliction and sorrow always bring out the best there is in a man, I cannot say. I do know, however, that the physical and mental pain which Paul Laurence Dunbar endured for a year before he passed away, de- veloped the highest and noblest qualities hvhim. When I saw Paul Dunbar last summer, he was shut in, wasted and worn by disease, coughing his young and precious life away, yet full of cheer, when not actually racked with pain, and perfectly resigned to fate. I shall always think of his patience under his severe affliction as a veritable miracle of modern times. In the flush of early manhood, full of promise of still greater literary achievement in the future than he had been able to attain in the past, fond of life as the young should be and usually are, there he sat, rapidly losing his physical strength every hour, and yet, miracle of miracles, no bitter complaint of his cruel fate did I hear escape his lips a single time. The weakness and inertia of his worn^and wasted body con- OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 125 trasted sadly and strangely with the strength and ac- tivity of his vigorous mind. As I looked at him, pity for the afflicted man himself and pity for the race to which he belonged and which I knew would soon sustain such an irreparable loss in his death almost overcame me more than once. As incredible as it may appear, his moods were often sunny and then it was delightful to hear the flood of merriment roll cheerily from his lips. . . . " It was gratifying to see the homage paid Mr. D unbar by some of the most cultured and some of the wealthiest people of the dominant race in Dayton. . . . " On one occasion after some beautiful girls who had called to pay their respects to Mr. Dunbar, had gone, in a nervous effort to relieve the tension of my own feelings., I turned to him and said : " * Sometimes I am tempted to believe you are not half so ill as you pretend to be. I believe you are just playing the role of interesting invalid, so as to receive the sym- pathy and homage of these beautiful girls/ " ' Sometimes I think I am just loafing myself/ he laughingly replied. How well he remembered this was shown a short while after I returned home. He sent me a copy of his ' Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow/ which at that time was his latest book. On the fly leaf he had written with his own hand, a feat which during the first year of his illness he was often unable to perform, the following lines : "Look hyeah, Molly, Ain't it jolly, Jes 1 a loafin' 'oun' ? Tell the Jedge Not to hedge For I am still in town. 126 THE LIFE AND WORKS "Whether Paul Dunbar will be rated a great poet or not, no human being can tell. It is impossible for his contemporaries either to get a proper perspective of his achievement or to actually guage his genius. Person- ally I believe he will occupy as high a place in- American literature as Burns does in the British, if not higher. "But whether Paul Dunbar will be rated great or not, it is certain that he has rendered an invaluable service to his race. Because he has lived and wrought, the race to which he belonged has been lifted to a higher plane. Each and every person in the United States remotely identified with his race is held in higher esteem because of the ability which Paul Dunbar possessed and the suc- cess he undoubtedly attained. "Indeed the whole civilized world has greater respect for that race which some have the ignorance to underes- timate and others the hardihood to despise, because this black man, -through whose veins not a drop of Caucasian blood was known to flow, has given such a splendid and striking proof of its capacity for high intellectual achieve- ment." MY LAST VISIT TO PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR The austere face of a winter sun was hidden behind a veil of forbidding gray, and the earth and sky were monk- garbed and sombre-eyed that last day that I saw Dunbar. His bed had been brought down-stairs, so that his mother could be near him as she performed her house- hold duties, and as he lay there among the pillows one could see how weak he was, how wasted and how frail. But, as I entered the room, approached his bed and took OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 127 his hand, his smile was just as bright and his words were just as brave as they had been in the earlier days of our acquaintance. There was the customary badin- age, the never-failing inquiry as to why I had not been to see him for so long, and the pathetic enthusiasm over the world-interests which for him were so soon to be as naught. By and by he was permitted to sit in his chair by the window, and to me it seemed as a throne, where all the lovers of art should fall down and worship. But ah what a weak king he was, how like a little child ! Yet his great eyes were still bright, and his heart aglow with the flame that warmed it to the last. Presently as he sat there he said to his mother who was passing through the room " Ma, I never did get to see my flowers that came this morning." " Well, Paul, I have them in the parlor, where it is cold, so that they will keep till Sunday ! " "Oh, I forgot," he said with a sigh, "that the flowers cannot live in a room that is warm enough for me ! " In a few moments Mrs. Dunbar brought in a vase, filled with gorgeous American Beauty roses, and I placed them on a little stool at his feet, where he could look at them for a while. Oh, how he gazed at those flowers ! so wistfully, as though he envied them their glorious beauty and perfect development so tenderly, as though each rose had a human heart and an ache in it so reverently, as though the vase were a shrine and he an ardent devotee ! Then with moist eyes and a heart-breaking smile he said, turning to his mother 128 THE LIFE AND WORKS " Take them away, ma, so they may * keep for Sun- day.' " He then fell to talking of Wilberforce the African missionary of whom the papers were saying such dread- ful things at the time, claiming that he had gone back to savagery and cannibalism. " It is an outrage ! Oh, how I wish I were able to do something to correct those stories. They are absolutely false, and it is such an awful blow to the race ! " He spoke feelingly of the missionary who had been educated by the United Brethren church, and one could see how he chafed under the weakness that chained him down when he longed so to go forth and do battle for his race. That same day we chanced to speak of Alice and Phoebe Gary. I told him of several visits I* had made their brother at the old home near College Hill, Ohio, and of my having found in a history of the family a men- tion of the coat of arms, won by a remote Gary on English battle-fields. When I quoted the Latin legend, and gave him my version of the translation he thought I had it wrong, and was not satisfied till I went up to his library and found his Latin grammar. I shall never forget how eagerly he scanned the well-worn text-book, though his hand trembled so he could scarcely hold the volume. It was pitiful indeed to see him thus employed, when one knew how soon he must lay forever aside his precious books and leave them all behind. . That was the last time I saw him alive. Two months later, a message came over my telephone : " Paul Dunbar is dead." It was with a strange mixture of feelings that I started HON. BRAND WHITLOCK, MAYOR OF TOLEDO Who counted Dunbar as one of his dear friends, and who when asked for a word for this biography said: " Say that his picture hangs on my library wall with that of Walt Whitman, Thoreau and others of my favorites." OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 131 once more for Dayton on the day of Mr. Dunbar's funeral. Down town I bought a few flowers and was about to go in search of a messenger to take them out to the Dun- bar home, when I noticed a colored man with another florist's box, addressed in large letters : " For Paul Lau- rence Dunbar." The man was waiting for a car, and ap- proaching him I said : " Will you take my flowers too ? " " Yes, ma'am," he replied, and I could not but see that his eyes were full of tears. Handing him a bit of silver I said, " Here is your fee." I have never had any one look at me so reproachfully as did that poor colored man that day " Money ? No, indeed. It is all I can do for poor Paul now." Later I called at the Summit Street home, and saw him, for the first time, wholly at rest and free from pain. His DEATH AND BURIAL On February 9th, 1906, it became apparent, early in the afternoon, that Mr. Dunbar's end was fast approach- ing. A physician and then a minister came. Thrice the poet asked the time, and whether it was day or night. Then the minister read the Twenty-third Psalm, which had always been Mr. Dunbar's favorite portion of Scripture. The dying man lay quietly listening. When the reader ceased, Dunbar, in a fast-failing voice, began to repeat the psalm for himself, and when he came to the words " When I walk through the valley of the shadow " God must indeed have been " with him," for it was then that he fell asleep. 132 THE LIFE AND WORKS After all his shortcomings, his weaknesses and his mis- takes, he found at the last the peace that his life had never known. On the afternoon of February I2th at the Eaker Street A. M. E. Church in Dayton, the funeral services were held. On the church records of this little sanctuary, the name of Paul Laurence Dunbar had been written in his own hand in childhood days, and it had never been erased. His mother, therefore, thought it appropriate and right to have his burial service there. So many were the flowers sent that they not only banked the little pulpit and clus- tered about the casket, but beautiful bouquets were dis- tributed about the house. Eloquent tributes were paid the dead poet by the pastor of the church, Professor Scar- borough of Wilberforce University, and other clergymen of both races, but it seemed to me that the most touching of them all was the address of his loyal friend, Dr. H. A. Tobey, of Toledo. Among other things Dr. Tobey said : " I never loved a man so much. * Golden Rule Jones, Brand Whitlock and myself were three great cronies, be- cause we were three ' cranks,' I suppose, but we took Paul in and made him one of us." He spoke of Mr. Dunbar's distinguished friends, re- ferring particularly to Mr. William Dean Howells and Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll, paying Mr. Ingersoll a very high compliment on his own account. Dr. Tobey then read a letter, written him by Mr. Brand Whitlock, Mayor of Toledo, who was prevented from attending the obse- quies by reason of the critical illness of his aged mother. The letter, revealing as it does, the love of another author for Mr. Dunbar, and the high place he held in Mr. Whit- lock's esteem, is given verbatim : OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 133 629 Winthrop Street^ Toledo ', Ohio, ii February ', /potf. DEAR DOCTOR TOBEY : I wish I could be with you all to-morrow to pay my tribute to poor Paul. But I cannot, and feeling as I do his loss, I cannot now attempt any estimate of his won- derful personality that would be at all worthy. If friend- ship knew obligation, I would acknowledge . my debt to you for the boon of knowing Paul Dunbar. It is one of the countless good deeds to your credit that you were among the first to recognize the poet in him and help him to a larger and freer life. For Paul was a poet : and I find that when I have said that I have said the greatest and most splendid thing that can be said about a man. Men call this or that man great and load him with what the world holds to be honors its soldiers and its statesmen, its scholars and its scien- tists. This may all be very well, but I think we know that after all the soldiers and the statesmen and the savants are not concerned with the practical things of life, the things that are really worth while. Nature, who knows so much better than man about everything, cares nothing* at all for the little distinctions, and when she elects one of her children for her most important work, bestows on him the rich gift of poesy, and assigns him a post in the great- est of the arts, she invariably seizes the opportunity to show her contempt of rank and title and race and land and creed. She took Burns from a plow and Paul from an elevator, and Paul has done for his own people what Burns did for the peasants of Scotland he has expressed them in their own way and in their own words. There are many analogies between these two poets, just as there are many analogies between Paul and Shelley and Keats and Byron and Pushkin. They all died very young, they knew little of the joys that are common to common men, but they had their griefs, their sorrows, their sufferings, far beyond the common lot. But the terms on which Nature lets her darlings become poets are always or> 134 THE LIFE AND WORKS durate. To the poet, as Whitman says, agonies must be- come as changes of garment, he must suffer all things, hope all things, endure all things, and knowledge is not otherwise obtained. He must go through torments and pain, he must feel the dreadful hunger of the soul, and usually he must die young all for the sake of being a poet. And that is enough for him after all, for if the com- mon joys and satisfactions rest and peace and home and all that are denied him, he has the joy of artistic crea- tion, which is the highest man may know. It is enough for the poet that he is a poet, yet this is not his glory. His glory is that through this experience he expresses for the race all joy and grief, all the moods and emotions, exalted or depressed, of the human soul, and myriads of voiceless people, living about him and living after him, find the solace and relief that come of expression which, were it not for him, they would be compelled to go with- out and suffer dumbly. I have spoken of our friend as 'a poet of his own people and this he was : he expressed his own race its humor, its kindliness, its fancy, its love of grace and melody : he expressed, too, its great sufferings, and what race has suffered more, or more unjustly, or what race has borne its sufferings with sublimer patience ? It is a race that has produced many great and worthy men, in the very face of untold opposition and prejudice, but the work of these men has been more or less confined to their race. But without the least disparagement, I think I can say that Paul's range and appeal were wider than those of any other of his race : if they had not been he would not have been a poet. For the true poet is universal as is the love he incarnates in himself, and Paul's best poetry has this quality of universality. I am very glad that he was so thoroughly American and democratic. He might have been a poet without having been an American, but he could not have been a poet without having been democratic, and I believe I may safely add that he could not have been a poet without OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 135 having had at least the spirit of America. For all poets have had this spirit : they have loved liberty, equality and fraternity. You know Browning says : Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley were with us they watch from their graves. There was nothing foreign in Paul's poetry, nothing imported, nothing imitated : it was all original, native and indigenous. Thus he becomes the poet not of his own race alone I wish I could make people see this but the poet of you and of me and of all men everywhere. You and I know something of his deeper sufferings, something of the disease that really killed him. I can never forget the things he said about this that last even- ing we spent together. I know nothing anywhere so pathetic as this brave, gentle, loving spirit with its poet's heart, moving among men, who, though far his inferior in intellectual and spiritual endowment, yet claimed to be but I must not recall such things now. The deep melancholy this caused him has been expressed over and over in his poems. " The Warrior's Prayer," " We wear the Mask," and others are veritably steeped in it. Let that suffice. That last evening he recited oh, what a voice he had ! his " Ships that Pass in the Night." You will re- member. I sat and listened sadly conscious that I would not hear him often again, knowing that voice would soon be mute. I can hear him now and see the expression on his fine face as he said " Passing ! Passing ! " It was pro- phetic. We shall hear that deep, melodious voice no more : his humor, his drollery, his exquisite mimicry these are gone. And to-morrow you will lay his tired body away, fittingly enough, on Lincoln's birthday. But his songs will live and give his beautiful personality an immortality in this world, and we we can remember that he is with Theocritus to-night. Yours very sincerely, BRAND WHITLOCK. I 3 6 THE LIFE AND WORKS Dr. Davis W. Clark, of the Methodist Episcopal Church, one of the most scholarly men of that com- munion, offered the final prayer at Mr. Dunbar's .funeral. Dr. Clark was so impressed by the occasion that he soon after set about securing funds for a monument to the poet's memory. Speaking of the event a few weeks afterwards Dr. Clark said : " When I saw him lying there in his casket, he seemed to me a prince." The remains of Paul Laurence Dunbar were placed in the vault at the beautiful Woodland Cemetery in Dayton, and two months later, he was buried. The site of his grave is well chosen, being at the summit of a little hill, and in selecting it his mother endeavored to follow as nearly as might be, the wishes voiced by her son in his " Death Song." She will plant a willow near the mound, so that by and by he will be lying " neaf de willers in de grass." He is near also to " de noises in de road," for the grave is in view of one of the entrances to the cemetery. . . . Summing it all up, this short, feverish, brilliant life an honest observer can but agree with the poet's best be- loved friend Dr. Tobey, who when a sympathetic admirer of Mr. Dunbar's said: "It is such a pity he had to die," exclaimed : . " No, thank God, I'm glad he's gone this world was too sad a place for him." PART II The Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES This poem is one of the most profound that Mr. Dunbar ever wrote, though it is one of his early productions. It attracted the attention of many learned persons be- fore the poet became famous. Among those who spoke of it especially, were the playwright James A. Herne and Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll. ERE sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought The magic gold which from the seeker flies; Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought, And make the waking world a world of lies, Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn, That say life's full of aches and tears and sighs, Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, How all the griefs and heartaches we have known Come up like pois'nous vapors that arise From some base witch's caldron, when the crone, To work some potent spell, her magic plies. The past which held its share of bitter pain, Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise, Comes up, is lived and suffered o'er again, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room ; What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom. What echoes faint of saa and soul sick cries, And pangs of vague inexplicable pain That pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise, Come thronging through the chambers of the brain, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, Where ranges forth the spirit far and free? Through what strange realms and unfa- miliar skies Tends her far course to lands of mys- tery ? To lands unspeakable beyond surmise, Where shapes unknowable to being spring, Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies Much wearied with the spirit's journey- ing, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. 137 138 THE LIFE AND WORKS Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, How questioneth the soul that other soul, The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies, But self exposes unto self, a scroll Full writ with all life's acts unwise or wise, In characters indelible and known ; So, trembling with the shock of sad sur- prise, The soul doth view its awful self alone, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes, The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm, And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize For kissing all our passions into calm, Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world's cries, Or seek to probe th' eternal mystery, Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies, At glooms through which our visions cannot see, When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes. THE POET AND HIS SONG A song is but a little thing, And yet what joy it is to sing ! In hours of toil it gives me zest, And when at eve I long for rest ; When cows come home along the bars, And in the fold I hear the bell, As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars, I sing my song, and all is well. There are no ears to hear my lays, No lips to lift a word of praise ; But still, with faith unfaltering, I live and laugh and love and sing. What matters yon unheeding throng ? They cannot feel my spirit's spell, Since life is sweet and love is long, I sing my song, and all is well. My days are never days of ease ; I till my ground and prune my trees. When ripened gold is all the plain, I put my sickle to the grain. I labor hard, and toil and sweat, While others dream within the dell ; But even while my brow is wet, I sing my song, and all is well. Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot, My garden makes a desert spot ; Sometimes a blight upon the tree Takes all my fruit away from me ; And then with throes of bitter pain Rebellious passions rise and swell ; But life is more than fruit or grain, And so I sing, and all is well. RETORT " Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart, " Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art, To be led astray by the trick of a tress, By a smiling face or a ribbon smart ; " And my heart was in sore distress. Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair, The light gleamed soft on her raven hair ; And her lips were blooming a rosy red. Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air: " Thou art worse than a fool, O head ! " ACCOUNTABILITY Folks ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits ; Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits. Him dat built de gread big mountains hol- lered out de little valleys, Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys. We is all constructed diff' ent, d'ain't no two of us de same ; We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se bad we ain't to blame. Ef we'se good, we needn't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin' We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin*. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 139 But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill, An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill. John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an* Sally ain't alike ; Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike. When you come to think about it, how it's all planned out it's splendid, Nuthin's done er evah happens, 'dout hit's somefin' dat's intended ; Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an* hit sholy beats de dickens, Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o* mastah s chickens. FREDERICK DOUGLASS A hush is over all the teeming lists, And there is pause, a breath-space in the strife ; A spirit brave has passed beyond the mists And vapors that obscure the sun of life. And Ethiopia, with bosom torn, Laments the passing of her noblest born. She weeps for him a mother's burning tears She loved him with a mother's deepest love. He was her champion thro' direful years, And held her weal all other ends above. When Bondage held her bleeding in the dust, He raised her up and whispered, " Hope and Trust." For her his voice, a fearless clarion, rung That broke in warning on the ears of men ; For her the strong bow of his power he strung, And sent his arrows to the very den Where grim Oppression held his bloody place And gloated o'er the mis'ries of a race. And he was no soft-tongued apologist ; He spoke straightforward, fearlessly un- cowed j The sunlight of his truth dispelled the mist, And set in bold relief each dark-hued cloud ; To sin and crime he gave their proper hue, And hurled at evil what was evil's due. Through good and ill report he cleaved his way Right onward, with his face set toward the heights, Nor feared to face the foeman's dread array, The lash of scorn, the sting of petty spites. He dared the lightning in the lightning's track, And answered thunder with his thunder back. When men maligned him, and their torrent wrath In furious imprecations o'er him broke, He kept his counsel as he kept his path ; 'Twas for his race, not for himself, he spoke. He knew the import of his Master's call, And felt himself too mighty to be small. No miser in the good he held was he, His kindness followed his horizon's rim. His heart, his talents, and his hands were free To all who truly needed aught of him. Where poverty and ignorance were rife, He gave his bounty as he gave his life. The place and cause that first aroused his might Still proved its power until his latest day. In Freedom's lists and for the aid of Right Still in the foremost rank he waged the fray; Wrong lived; his occupation was not gone. He died in action with his armor on ! We weep for him, but we have touched his hand, 140 THE LIFE AND WORKS And felt the magic of his presence nigh, The current that he sent throughout the land, The kindling spirit of his battle-cry. O'er all that holds us we shall triumph yet, And place our banner where his hopes were set ! Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the shore, But still thy voice is ringing o'er the gale! Thou'st taught thy race how high her hopes may soar, And bade her seek the heights, nor faint, nor fail. She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring cry, She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh, And, rising from beneath the chast'ning rod, She stretches out her bleeding hands to God! LIFE It is doubtful if any modern poem has had a wider reading than this. It was a favorite selection of Mr. Dunbar's when reciting, and his reading of it was very impressive. It is peculiarly typical of his own experiences in life as well as of those of us all. In spite of his frank acknowl- edgment of the predominance of the " groans," however, he would not end the poem without a bit of exhortation and a crumb of comfort for, after all, it is true, as he sings, that " Joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter," and the man of sorrows is the man who wins the ear and the heart of the world. A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double ; And that is life ! A crust and a corner that love makes precious, With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us ; And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter ; And that is life ! THE LESSON My cot was down by a cypress grove, And I sat by my window the whole night long, And heard well up from the deep dark wood A mocking-bird's passionate song. And I thought of myself so sad and lone, And my life's cold winter that knew no spring ; Of my mind so weary and sick and wild, Of my heart too sad to sing. But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song, A thought stole into my saddened heart, And I said, " I can cheer some other soul By a carol's simple art." For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives Come songs that brim with joy and light, As out of the gloom of the cypress grove The mocking-bird sings at night. So I sang a lay for a brother's ear In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre, Though mine was a feeble art. But at his smile I smiled in turn, And into my soul there came a ray : In trying to soothe another's woes Mine own had passed away. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 141 THE RISING OF THE STORM The lake's dark breast Is all unrest, It heaves with a sob and a sigh. Like a tremulous bird, From its slumber stirred, The moon is a-tilt in the sky. From the silent deep The waters sweep, But faint on the cold white stones, And the wavelets fly With a plaintive cry O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones. And the spray upsprings On its ghost-white wings, And tosses a kiss at the stars ; While a water-sprite, In sea-pearls dight, Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars. Far out in the night, On the wavering sight I see a dark hull loom ; And its light on high, Like a Cyclops' eye, Shines out through the mist and gloom. Now the winds well up From the earth's deep cup, And fall on the sea and shore, And against the pier The waters rear And break with a sullen roar. Up comes the gale, And the mist-wrought veil Gives way to the lightning's glare, And the cloud-drifts fall, A sombre pall, O'er water, earth, and air. The storm-king flies, His whip he plies, And bellows down the wind. The lightning rash With blinding flash Comes pricking on behind. Rise, waters, rise, And taunt the skies With your swift-flitting form. Sweep, wild winds, sweep, And tear the deep To atoms in the storm. And the waters leapt, And the wild winds swept, And blew out the moon in the sky, ' And I laughed with glee, It was joy to me As the storm went raging by ! SUNSET The river sleeps beneath the sky, And clasps the shadows to its breast; The crescent moon shines dim on high ; And in the lately radiant west The gold is fading into gray. Now stills the lark his festive lay, And mourns with me the dying day. While in the south the first faint star Lifts to the night its silver face, And twinkles to the moon afar Across the heaven's graying space, Low murmurs reach me from the town, As Day puts on her sombre crown, And snakes her mantle darkly down. THE OLD APPLE-TREE There's a memory keeps a-runnin* Through my weary head to-night, An' I see a picture dancin' In the fire-flames' ruddy light ; 'Tis the picture of an orchard Wrapped in autumn's purple haze, With the tender light about it That I loved in other days. An' a-standin' in a corner Once again I seem to see The verdant leaves an' branches Of an old apple-tree. You perhaps would call it ugly, An' I don't know but it's so, When you look the tree all over 142 THE LIFE AND WORKS Unadorned by memory's glow ; For its boughs are gnarled an' crooked, An' its leaves are gettin* thin, An' the apples of its bearin' Wouldn't fill so large a bin As they used to. But I tell you, When it comes to pleasin' me, It's the dearest in the orchard, Is that old apple-tree. I would hide within its shelter, Settlin' in some cozy nook, Where no calls nor threats could stir me From the pages o f my book. Oh, that quiet, sweet seclusion In its fulness passeth words ! It was deeper than the. deepest That my sanctum now affords. Why, the jaybirds an' the robins, They was hand in glove with me, As they winked at me an' warbled In that old apple-tree. It was on its sturdy branches That in summers long ago I would tie my swing an' dangle In contentment to an' fro, Idly dreamin' childish fancies, Buildin' castles in the air, Makin' o' myself a hero Of romances rich an' rare. I kin shet my eyes an' see it Jest as plain as plain kin be, That same old swing a-danglin' To the old apple-tree. There's a rustic seat beneath it That I never kin forget. It's the place where me an' Hallie Little sweetheart used to set, When we'd wander to the orchard So's no listenin' ones could hear As I whispered sugared nonsense Into her little willin' ear. Now my gray old wife is Hallie, An' I'm grayer still than she, But I'll not forget our courtin' 'Neath the old apple-tree. Life for us ain't all been summer, But I guess we've had our share Of its flittin' joys an* pleasures, An' a sprinklin' of its care. Oft the skies have smiled upon us ; Then again we've seen 'em frown, Though our load was ne'er so heavy That we longed to lay it down. But when death does come a-callin', This my last request shall be, That they'll bury me an' Hallie 'Neath the old apple-tree. A PRAYER O Lord, the hard- won miles Have worn my stumbling feet : Oh, soothe me with thy smiles, And make my life complete. The thorns were thick and keen Where'er I trembling trod ; The way was long between My wounded feet and God. Where healing waters flow Do thou my footsteps lead. My heart is aching so ; Thy gracious balm I need. PASSION AND LOVE A maiden wept and, as a comforter, Came one who cried, " I love thee," and he seized Her in his arms and kissed her with hot breath, That dried the tears upon her flaming cheeks. While evermore his boldly blazing eye Burned into hers ; but she uncomforted Shrank from his arms and only wept the more. Then one came and gazed mutely in her face With wide and wistful eyes ; but still aloof He held himself; as with a reverent fear, As one who knows some sacred presence nigh. And as she wept he mingled tear with tear, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 143 That cheered her soul like dew a dusty flower, Until she smiled, approached, and touched his hand ! THE SEEDLING As a quiet little seedling Lay within its darksome bed, To itself it fell a-talking. And this is what it said : " I am not so very robust, But I'll do the best I can ; " And the seedling from that moment Its work of life began. . So it pushed a little leaflet Up into the light of day, To examine the surroundings And show the rest the way. The leaflet liked the prospect, So it called its brother, Stem ; Then two other leaflets heard it, And quickly followed them. To be sure, the haste and hurry Made the seedling sweat and pant ; But almost before it knew it It found itself a plant. The sunshine poured upon it, And the clouds they gave a shower; And the little plant kept growing Till it found itself a flower. Little folks, be like the seedling, Always do the best you can ; Every child must share life's labor Just as well as every man. And the sun and showers will help you Through the lonesome, struggling hours,, Till you raise to light and beauty Virtue's fair, unfading flowers. PROMISE AND FULFILMENT This pair of poems was so admired by Minnie Maddern Fiske that she wrote the author asking permission to use them on the stage. This was granted, and the lines were read many times with flattering applause. It is pathetic to reflect upon the fact that this very thing came in after years, to be a real part of the poet's heart history. At the moment when his joy should have been at its height, and his rose of love was ready for the blooming, it was discovered, alas, that, in very deed, a " worm was at its heart." I grew a rose within a garden fair, And, tending it with more than loving care, I thought how, with the glory of its bloom, I should the darkness of my life illume ; And, watching, ever smiled to see the lusty bud Drink freely in the summer sun to tinct its blood. My rose began to open, and its hue Was sweet to me as to it sun and dew ; I watched it taking on its ruddy flame Until the day of perfect blooming came, Then hasted I with smiles to find it blush- ing red Too late! Some thoughtless child had plucked my rose and fled ! FULFILMENT I grew a rose once more to please mine eyes. All things to aid it dew, sun, wind, fair skies Were kindly ; and to shield it from de- spoil, I fenced it safely in with grateful toil. No other hand than mine shall pluck this flower, said I, And I was jealous of the bee that hovered nigh. It grew for days ; I stood hour after hour To watch the slow unfolding of the flower, 144 THE LIFE AND WORKS And then I did not leave its side at all, Lest some mischance my flower should befall. At last, oh, joy! the central petals burst apart. It blossomed but, alas ! a worm was at its heart ! SONG My heart to thy heart, My hand to thine ; My lips to thy lips, Kisses are wine Brewed for the lover in sunshine and shade ; Let me drink deep, then, my African maid. Lily to lily, Rose unto rose ; My love to thy love Tenderly grows. Rend not the oak and the ivy in twain, Nor the swart maid from her swarthier AN ANTE-BELLUM SERMON We is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs, In dis howlin' wildaness, Fu' to speak some words of comfo't To each othah in distress. An' we chooses fu' ouah subjic' Dis we'll 'splain it by an' by ; " An' de Lawd said, Moses, Moses,' An* de man said, Hyeah am I.' " Now ole Pher'oh, down in Egypt, Was de wuss man evah bo'n, An' he had de Hebrew chillun Down dah wukin' in his co'n ; 'Twell de Lawd got tiahed o* his foolin', An' sez he : " I'll let him know Look hyeah, Moses, go tell Pher'oh Fu' to let dem chillun go. " An' ef he refuse to do it, I will make him rue de houah, Fu' I'll empty down on Egypt All de vials of my powah." Yes, he did an' Pher'oh's ahmy Wasn't wuth a ha'f a dime ; Fu' de Lawd will he'p his chillun, You kin trust him evah time. An' yo' enemies may 'sail you In de back an' in de front; But de Lawd is all aroun' you, Fu' to ba' de battle's brunt, Dey kin fo'ge yo' chains an' shackles F'om de mountains to de sea ; But de Lawd will sen' some Moses Fu' to set his chillun free. An' de Ian' shall hyeah his thundah, Lak a bias' f om Gab'el's ho'n, Fu' de Lawd of hosts is mighty When he girds his ahmor on. But fu' feah some one mistakes me, I will pause right hyeah to say, Dat I'm still a-preachin' ancient, I ain't talkin' 'bout to-day. But I tell you, fellah christuns, Things '11 happen mighty strange ; Now, de Lawd done dis fu' Isrul, An' his ways don't nevah change, An' de love he showed to Isrul Wasn't all on Isrul spent ; Now don't run an' tell yo' mastahs Dat I's preachin' discontent. 'Cause I isn't ; I'se a-judgin* Bible people by deir ac's ; I'se a-givin' you de Scriptuah, I'se a-handin* you de fac's. Cose ole Pher'oh b'lieved in slav'ry, But de Lawd he let him see, Dat de people he put bref in, Evah mothah's son was free. An' dahs othahs thinks lak Pher'oh, But dey calls de Scriptuah liar, Fu' de Bible says " a servant Is a-worthy of his hire." An' you cain't git roun' nor thoo dat, An' you cain't git ovah it, Fu' whatevah place you git in, Dis hyeah Bible too '11 fit. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR So you see de Lawd's intention, Evah sence de worl' began, Was dat his almighty freedom Should belong to evah man, But I think it would be bettah, Ef I'd pause agin to say, Dat I'm talkin' 'bout ouah freedom In a Bibleistic way. But de Moses is a-comin', An' he's comin', suah and fas' We kin hyeah his feet a-trompin', We kin hyeah his trumpit bias'. But I want to wa'n you people, Don't you git too brigity ; An' don't you git to braggin' 'Bout dese things, you wait an' see. But when Moses wit his powah Comes an' sets us chillun free, We will praise de gracious Mastah Dat has gin us liberty ; An' we'll shout ouah halleluyahs, On dat mighty reck'nin' day, When we's reco'nized ez citiz' Huh uh ! Chillun, let us pray ! ODE TO ETHIOPIA Mother Race ! to thee I bring This pledge of faith unwavering, This tribute to thy glory. 1 know the pangs which thou didst feel, When Slavery crushed thee with its heel, With thy dear blood all gory. Sad days were those ah, sad indeed ! But through the land the fruitful seed Of better times was growing. The plant of freedom upward sprung, And spread its leaves so fresh and young Its blossoms now are blowing. On every hand in this fair land, Proud Ethiope's swarthy children stand Beside their fairer neighbor ; The forests flee before their stroke, Their hammers ring, their forges smoke, They stir in honest labour. They tread the fields where honor calls ; Their voices sound through senate halls In majesty and power. To right they cling ; the hymns they sing Up to the skies in beauty ring, And bolder grow each hour. Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul: Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll In characters of fire. High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly, And truth shall lift them higher. Thou hast the right to noble pride, Whose spotless robes were purified By blood's severe baptism. Upon thy brow the cross was laid, And labor's painful sweat-beads made A consecrating chrism. No other race, or white or black, When bound as thou wert, to the rack, So seldom stooped to grieving ; No other race, when free ; gain, Forgot the past and proved them men So noble in forgiving. Go on and up ! Our souls and eyes Shall follow thy continuous rise ; Our ears shall list thy story From bards who from thy root shall spring, And proudly tune their lyres to sing Of Ethiopia's glory. THE CORN-STALK FIDDLE When the corn's all cut and the bright stalks shine Like the burnished spears of a field of gold; When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine, And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold; Then it's heigho! fellows and hi-diddle- diddle, For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle. 146 THE LIFE AND WORKS And you take a stalk that is straight and long, With an expert eye to its worthy points, And you think of the bubbling strains of song That are bound between its pithy joints Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle, With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle. Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow O'er the yielding strings with a prac- ticed hand ! And the music's flow never loud but low Is the concert note of a fairy band. Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle. When the eve comes on, and our work is done, And the run drops down with a tender glam e, With their hearts all prime for the harm- less fun, Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance, And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle More time than tune from the corn-stalk fiddle. Then brother Jabez takes the bow, While Ned stands off with Susan Bland, Then Henry stops by Milly Snow, And John takes Nellie Jones's hand, While I pair off with Mandy Biddle, And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn- stalk fiddle. " Salute your partners," comes the call, " All join hands and circle round," " Grand train back," and " Balance all," Footsteps lightly spurn the ground. " Take your lady and balance down the middle " To the merry strains of the corn stalk fiddle. So the night goes on and the dance is o'er And the merry girls are homeward gone But I see it all in my sleep once more, And I dream till the very break of dawn Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle. THE MASTER PLAYER An old, worn harp that had been played Till all its strings were loose and frayed, Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed, To play. But each in turn had found No sweet responsiveness of sound. Then Love the Master-Player came With heaving breast and eyes aflame ; The Harp he took all undismayed, Smote on its strings, still strange to song, And brought forth music sweet and strong. THE MYSTERY I was not ; now I am a few days hence I shall not be ; I fain would look before And after, but can neither do ; some Power Or lack of power says " no " to all I would. I stand upon a wide and sunless plain, Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright. Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move, I grope without direction and by chance. Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom. But I I hear no voice and touch no hand, Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list, And strain my hearing to supernal sounds ; Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach, And stretch my hand to find that other hand. I question of th' eternal bending skies That seem to neighbor with the novice earth ; But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes On me, as I one day shall do on them, And tell me not the secret that I ask. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR TWO SONGS A bee that was searching for sweets one day Through the gate of a rose garden hap- pened to stray. In the heart of a rose he hid away, And forgot in his bliss the light of day, As sipping his honey he buzzed in song; Though day was waning, he lingered long, For the rose was sweet, so sweet. A robin sits pluming his ruddy breast, And a madrigal sings to his love in her nest: " Oh, the skies they are blue, the fields are green, And the birds in your nest will soon be seen ! " She hangs on his words with a thrill of love, And chirps to him as he sits above, For the song is sweet, sj sweet. A maiden was out on a summer's day With the winds and the waves and the flowers at play; And she met with a youth of gentle air, With the light of the sunshine on his hair. Together they wandered the flowers among; They loved, and loving they lingered long, For to love is sweet, so sweet. Bird of my lady's bower, Sing her a song; Tell her that every hour, All the day long, Thoughts of her come to me, Filling my brain With the warm ecstasy Of love's refrain. Little bird ! happy bird ! Being so near, Where e'en her slightest word Thou mayest hear, Seeing her glancing eyes, Sheen of her hair, Thou art in paradise, Would I were there. I am so far away, Thou art so near ; Plead with her, birdling gay, Plead with my dear. Rich be thy recompense, Fine be thy fee, If through thine eloquence She hearken me. THE PATH There are no beaten paths to Glory's height, There are no rules to compass greatness known ; Each for himself must cleave a path alone, And press his own way forward in the fight. Smooth is the way to ease and calm de- light, And soft the road Sloth chooseth for her own ; But he who craves the flower of life full- blown, Must struggle up in all his armor dight ! What though the burden bear him sorely down And crush to dust the mountain of his pride, Oh, then, with strong heart let him still abide ; For rugged is the roadway to renown, Nor may he hope to gain the envied crown Till he hath thrust the looming rocks aside. THE LAWYER'S WAYS This poem, written in the earlier years of Paul Laurence Dunbar's life is doubt- less the fruit of his observations when a page in the Dayton court-house, and the discoveries that it shows he made even in his youth of the instability of the law, may have been one reason why he gave up his chances and his ambitions to be- 148 THE LIFE AND WORKS come a lawyer, preferring to be a poet and an inspiration for his race. I've been list'nin' to them lawyers In the court house up the street, An' I've come to the conclusion That I'm most completely beat. Fust one feller riz to argy, An* he boldly waded in As he dressed the tremblin' pris'ner In a coat o' deep-dyed sin. Why, he painted him all over In a hue o' blackest crime, An' he smeared his reputation With the thickest kind o' grime, Tell I found myself a-wond'rin', In a misty way and dim, How the Lord had come to fashion Sich an awful man as him. Then the other lawyer started, An', with brimmin', tearful eyes, Said his client was a martyr That was brought to sacrifice. An' he give to that same pris'ner Every blessed human grace, Tell I saw the light o' virtue Fairly shinin' from his face. Then I own 'at I was puzzled How sich things could rightly be ; An' this aggervatin' question Seems to keep a-puzzlin' me. So, will some one please inform me, An' this mystery unroll How an angel an' a devil Can persess the self-same soul ? LONGING If you could sit with me beside the sea to- day, And whisper with me sweetest dreamings o'er and o'er ; I think I should not find the clouds so dim and gray, And not so loud the waves complaining at the shore. If you could sit with me upon the shore to-day, And hold my hand in yours as in the days of old, I think I should not mind the chill baptis- mal spray, Nor find my hand and heart and all the world so cold. If you could walk with me upon the strand to-day, And tell me that my longing love had won your own, I think all my sad thoughts would then be put away, And I could give back laughter for the Ocean's moan ! A BANJO SONG Oh, dere's lots o' keer an' trouble In dis world to swaller down ; An' oP Sorrer's purty lively In her way o' gittin' roun*. Yet dere's times when I furgit 'em, Aches an' pains an' troubles all, An' it's when I tek at ebenin' My oP banjo f 'om de wall. 'Bout de time dat night is fallin' An' my daily wu'k is done, An' above de shady hilltops I kin see de settin' sun ; When de quiet, restful shadders- Is beginnin' jes' to fall, Den I take de little banjo F'om its place upon de wall. Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me In de fadin' o' de light, Ez I strike de strings to try 'em Ef dey all is tuned er-right. An' it seems we're so nigh heaben We kin hyeah de angels sing When de music o' dat banjo Sets my cabin all er-ring. OH, DERE'S LOTS o' KEER AN' TROUBLE MALE AN' FEMALE, SMALL AN' Bi< OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 15* An' my wife an' all de othahs, Male an' female, small an' big, Even up to gray-haired granny, Seem jes' boun' to do a jig ; 'Twell I change de style o' music, Change de movement an' de time, An' de ringin' little banjo Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime. An' somehow my th'oat gits choky, An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water Dat was flowin' to my eyes ; An' I feel dat I could sorter Knock de socks clean off o' sin Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in. Den we all th'ow in our voices Fu' to he'p de chune out too, Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry Tryin' to sing a mou'nah tb'oo. An' our th'oahts let out de music, Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free, 'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin Echo wif de melody. Oh, de music o' de banjo, Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow, Is de greates' joy an' solace Dat a weary slave kin know ! So jes' let me hyeah it ringin', Dough de chune be po' an' rough, It's a pleasure ; an' de pleasures O' dis life is few enough. Now, de blessed little angels Up in heaben, we are told, Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime 'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold. Now I think heaben 'd be mo* home- like Ef we'd hyeah some music fall F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo, Like dat one upon de wall. NOT THEY WHO SOAR Not they who soar, but they who plod Their rugged way, unhelped, to God Are heroes ; they who higher fare, And, flying, fan the upper air, Miss all the toil that hugs the sod. 'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod, Whose feet have pressed the path unshod, May smile upon defeated care, Not they who soar. High up there are no thorns to prod, Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod To turn the keenness of the share, For flight is ever free and rare ; But heroes they the soil who've trod, Not they who soar ! WHITTIER Not o'er thy dust let there be spent The gush of maudlin sentiment ; Such drift as that is not for thee, Whose life and deeds and songs agree, Sublime in their simplicity. Nor shall the sorrowing tear be shed. O singer sweet, thou art not dead ! In spite of time's malignant chill, With living fire thy songs shall thrill, And men shall say, He liveth still 1 " Great poets never die, for Earth Doth count their lives of too great worth To lose them from her treasured store; So shalt thou live for evermore Though far thy form from mortal ken Deep in the hearts and minds of men. ODE FOR MEMORIAL DAY Done are the toils and the wearisome marches, Done is the summons of bugle and drum. Softly and sweetly the sky overarches, Shelt'ring a land where Rebellion is dumb. Dark were the days of the country's de- rangement, Sad were the hours when the conflict was on, But through the gloom of fraternal es- trangement God sent his light, and we welcome the dawn. O'er the expanse of our mighty dominions, 152 THE LIFE AND WORKS Sweeping away to the uttermost parts, Peace, the wide-flying, on untiring pin- ions, Bringeth her message of joy to our hearts. Ah, but this joy which our minds cannot measure, What did it cost for our fathers to gain ! Bought at the price of the heart's dearest treasure, Born out of travail and sorrow and pain ; Born in the battle where fleet Death was flying, Slaying with sabre-stroke bloody and fell; Born where the heroes and martyrs were dying, Torn by the fury of bullet and shell. Ah, but the day is past : silent the rattle, And the confusion that followed the fight. Peace to the heroes who died in the battle, Martyrs to truth and the crowning of Right ! Out of the blood of a conflict fraternal, Out of the dust and the dimness of death, Burst into blossoms of glory eternal Flowers that sweeten the world with .their breath. Flowers of charity, peace, and devotion Bloom in the hearts that are empty of strife ; Love that is boundless and broad as the ocean Leaps into beau y and fulness of life. So, with the singing of paeans and chorals, And with the flag flashing high in the sun, Place on the graves of our heroes the laurels Which their unfaltering valor has won ! PREMONITION Dear heart, good-night ! Nay, list awhile that sweet voice singing When the world is all so bright, And the sound of song sets the heart a-ringing, Oh, love, it is not right Not then to say, " Good-night." Dear heart, good-night ! The late winds in the lake weeds shiver, And the spray flies cold and white. And the voice that sings gives a telltale quiver " Ah, yes, the world is bright, But, dearest heart, good-night ! " Dear heart, good-night ! And do not longer seek to hold me ! For my soul is in affright As the fearful glooms in their pall enfold me. See him who sang how white And still ; so, dear, good-night. Dear heart, good-night ! Thy hand I'll press no more forever, And mine eyes shall lose the light ; For the great white wraith by the winding river Shall check my steps with might. So, dear, good-night, good-night ! RETROSPECTION When you and I were young, the days Were filled with scent of pink and rose, And full of joy from dawn till close, From morning's mist till evening's haze. And when the robin sung his song The verdant woodland ways along, We whistled louder than he sung. And school was joy, and work was sport For which the hours were all too short, When you and I were young, my boy, When you and I were young. When you and I were young, the woods Brimmed bravely o'er with every joy To charm the happy-hearted boy. The quail turned out her timid broods ; The prickly copse, a hostess fine, Held high black cups of harmless wine; And low the laden grape-vine swung With beads of night-kissed amethyst Where buzzing lovers held their tryst, When you and I were young, my boy, When you and I were young. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 153 When you and I were young, the cool And fresh wind fanned our fevered brows When tumbling o'er the seer ted mows, Or stripping by the dimpling pool. Sedge-fringed about its shimmering face, Save where we'd worn an ent'ring place. How with our shouts the calm banks rung! How flashed the spray as we plunged in, Pure gems that never caused a sin ! When you and I were young, my boy, When you and I were young. When you and I were young, we heard All sounds of Nature with delight, The whirr of wing in sudden flight, The chirping of the baby-bird. The columbine's red bells were rung ; The locust's vested chorus sung ; While every wind his zithern strung To high and holy-sounding keys, And played sonatas in the trees When you and I were young, my boy, When you and I were young. When you and I were young, we knew To shout and laugh, to work and play, And night was partner to the day In all our joys. So swift time flew On silent wings that, ere we wist, The fleeting years had fled unmissed ; And from our hearts this cry was wrung To fill with fond regret and tears The days of our remaining years " When you and I were young, my boy, When you and I were young." UNEXPRESSED Deep in my heart that aches with the re- pression, And strives with plenitude of bitter pain, There lives a thought that clamors for ex- pression, And spends its undelivered force in vain. What boots it that some other may have thought it ? The right of thoughts' expression is divine ; The price of pain I pay for it has bought it, I care not who lays claim to it 'tis mine ! And yet not mine until it be delivered ; The manner of its birth shall prove the test. Alas, alas, my rock of pride is shivered I beat my brow the thought still unex- pressed. SPRING SONG A blue-bell springs upon the ledge, A lark sits singing in the hedge ; Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air, And life is brimming everywhere. What lark and breeze and bluebird sing, Is Spring, Spring, Spring ! Nor more the air is sharp and cold ; The planter wends across the wold, And, glad, beneath the shining sky We wander forth, my love and I. And ever in our hearts doth ring This song of Spring, Spring ! For life is life and love is love, 'Twixt maid and man or dove and dove. Life may be short, life may be long, But love will come, and to its song Shall this refrain forever cling Of Spring, Spring, Spring ! SONG OF SUMMER Dis is gospel weathah sho' Hills is sawt o' hazy. Meddahs level ez a flo' Callin' to de lazy. Sky all white wif streaks o' blue, Sunshine softly gleamin', D'ain't no wuk hit's right to do, Nothin' 's right but dreamin'. Dreamin' by de rivah side Wif de watahs glist'nin', Feelin* good an' satisfied Ez you lay a-list'nin* 154 THE LIFE AND WORKS To the little nakid boys Splashin' in de watah, Hollerin' fu' to spress deir joys Jes' lak youngsters ought to. Squir'l a-tippin' on his toes, So's to hide an' view you ; Whole flocks o' camp-meetin' crows Shoutin' hallelujah. Peckahwood erpon de tree Tappin' lak a hammah ; Jaybird chattin' wif a bee, Tryin' to teach him grammah. Breeze is blowin' wif perfume, Jes' enough to tease you ; Hollyhocks is all in bloom, Smellin' fu' to please you. Go 'way, folks, an' let me 'lone, Times is gettin' dearah Summah's settin' on de th'one, An' I'm a-layin' neah huh ! TO LOUISE When Paul Laurence Dunbar, young and full of timidity, was trying to sell his little book " Majors & Minors-," from house to house, he sometimes became greatly discouraged. Upon the evening of a par- ticularly disheartening day, he went to the home of his patron, Dr. H. A. Tobey, in Toledo, Ohio, and told him that he would never again have the courage to offer a book for sale to any man. His friend endeavored to encourage him, but he was despondent, and left the doctor with tears streaming down his cheeks. Just as poor Dunbar was leaving, the little daughter of his host, Miss Louise Tobey, ran to him and in the sweet, half-bashful way of a child, gave him a beautiful rose. The next morning, the young poet sought the " wee lassie," and handed her a bit of paper. Upon this sheet was written one of the most perfect of his poems " Lines to Louise." Oh, the poets may sing of their Lady Irenes, And may rave in their rhymes about won- derful queens ; But I throw my poetical wings to the bree.-e, And soar in a song to my Lady Louise. A sweet little maid, who is dearer, I ween, Than any fair duchess, or even a queen. When speaking of her I can't plod in my prose, For she's the wee lassie who gave me a rose. Since poets, from seeing a lady's lip curled, Have written fair verse that has sweetened the world ; Why, then, should not I give the space of an hour To making a song in return for a flower ? I have found in my life it has not been so long There are too few of flowers too little of song. So out of that blossom, this lay of mine grows, For the dear little lady who gave me the rose. I thank God for innocence, dearer than Art, That lights on a by-way which leads to the heart, And led by an impulse no less than divine, Walks into the temple and sits at the shrine. I would rather pluck daisies that grow in the wild, Or take one simple rose from the hand of a child, Than to breathe the rich fragrance of flowers that bide In the gardens of luxury, passion, and pride. I know not, my wee one, how came you to know Which way to my heart was the right way to go ; Unless in your purity, soul-clean and clear, God whispers his messages into your ear. You have now had my song, let me end with a prayer OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 155 That your life may be always sweet, happy, and fair ; That your joys may be many, and absent your woes, O dear little lady who gave me the rose ! THE RIVALS 'Twas three an' thirty year ago When I was ruther young, you know, I had my last an' only fight About a gal one summer night. 'Twas me an' Zekel Johnson ; Zeke < 'N' me'd be'n spattin' 'bout a week, Each of us tryin' his best to show That he was Liza Jones's beau. We couldn't neither prove the thing, Fur she was fur too sharp to fling One over fur the other one An' by so doin' stop the fun That we chaps didn't have the sense To see she got at our expense, But that's the way a feller does, Fur boys is fools an' allus was. An' when they's females in the game I reckon men's about the same. Well, Zeke an' me went on that way An' fussed an' quarreled day by day ; While Liza, mindin' not the fuss, Jest kep' a-goin' with both of us, Tell we pore chaps, that's Zeke an' me, Was jest plum mad with jealousy. Well, fur a time we kep' our places, An' only showed by frownin' faces An' looks 'at well our meanin' boded How full o' fight we both was loaded. At last it come, the thing broke out, An' this is how it come about. One night ('twas fair, you'll all agree) I got Eliza's company, An' leavin' Zekel in the lurch, Went trottin' off with her to church. An' jest as we had took our seat (Eliza lookin' fair an' sweet), Why, I jest couldn't help but grin When Zekel come a bouncin' in As furious as the law allows. He'd jest be'n up to Liza's house, To find her gone, then come to church To have this end put to his search. I guess I laffed that meetin' through, An* not a mortal word I knew Of what the preacher preached er read Er what the choir sung er said. Fur every time I'd turn my head I couldn't skeercely help but see 'At Zekel had his eye on me. An' he 'ud sort o' turn an' twist An' grind his teeth an' shake his fist. I laughed, fur la ! the hull church seen us, An' knowed that suthin' was between us. Well, meetin' out, we started hum, I sorter feelin' what would come. We'd jest got out, when up stepped Zeke, An' said, " Scuse me, I'd like to speak To you a minute." " Cert," said I A-nudgin' Liza on the sly An' laughin' in my sleeve with glee, I asked her, please, to pardon me. We walked away a step er two, Jest to git out o' Liza's view, An' then Zeke said, " I want to know Ef you think you're Eliza's beau, An' 'at I'm goin' to let her go Hum with sich a chap as you ? " An' I said bold, You bet I do." Then Zekel, sneerin', said 'at he Didn't want to hender me. But then he 'lowed the gal was his An' 'at he guessed he knowed his biz, An' wasn't feared o' all my kin With all my friends an' chums throwed in. Some other things he mentioned there That no born man could noways bear Er think o' ca'mly tryin' to stan' Ef Zeke had be'n the bigges' man In town, an' not the leanest runt 'At time an' labor ever stunt. An' so I let my fist go " bim," I thought I'd mos' nigh finished him. But Zekel didn't take it so. He jest ducked down an' dodged my blow An' then come back at me so hard, I guess I must 'a' hurt the yard, Er spilet the grass plot where I fell, An' sakes alive it hurt me ; well, It wouldn't be'n so bad, you see, But he jest kep' a-hittin' me. An' I hit back an' kicked an' pawed, 156 THE LIFE AND WORKS But 't seemed 'twas mostly air I clawed, While Zekel used his science well A-makin' every motion tell. He punched an' hit, why, goodness lands, Seemed like he had a dozen hands. Well, afterwhile they stopped the fuss, An' some one kindly parted us. All beat an' cuffed an' clawed an' scratched, An' needin' both our faces patched, Each started hum a different way ; An' what o' Liza, do you say, Why, Liza little humbug dern her, Why, she'd gone home with Hiram Turner. THE LOVER AND THE MOON A lover whom duty called over the wave, With himself communed : " Will my love be true If left to herself? Had I better not sue Some friend to watch over her, good and grave ? But my friend might fail in my need," he said, " And I return to find love dead. Since friendships fade like the flow'rs of June, I will leave her in charge of the stable Then he said to the moon : " O dear old moon, Who for years and years from thy throne above Hast nurtured and guarded young lovers and love, My heart has but come to its waiting June, And the promise time of the budding vine ; Oh, guard thee well this love of mine." And he harked him then while all was still, And the pale moon answered and said, I will." And he sailed in his ship o'er many seas, And he wandered wide o'er strange far strands : In isles of the south and in Orient lands, Where pestilence lurks in the breath of the breeze. But his star was high, so he braved the main, And sailed him blithely home again ; And with joy he bended his footsteps soon To learn of his love from the matron moon. She sat as of yore, in her olden place, Serene as death, in her silver chair. A white rose gleamed in her whiter hair, And the tint of a blush was on her face. At sight of the youth she sadly bowed And hid her face 'neath a gracious cloud. She faltered faint on the night's dim marge, But " How," spoke the youth, " have you kept your charge ? " The moon was sad at a trust ill-kept ; The blush went out in her blanching cheek, And her voice was timid and low and weak, As she made her plea and sighed and wept. " Oh, another prayed and another plead, And I couldn't resist," she answering said ; " But love still grows in the hearts of men : Go forth, dear youth, and love again," But he turned him away from her proffered grace. " Thou art false, O moon, as the hearts of men, I will not, will not love again." And he turned sheer 'round with a soul- sick face To the sea, and cried : " Sea, curse the moon, Who makes her vows and forgets so soon." And the awful sea with anger stirred, And his breast heaved hard as he lay and heard. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 157 And ever tha moon wept down in rain, And ever her sighs rose high in wind ; But the earth and sea were deaf and blind, And she wept and sighed her griefs in vain. And ever at night, when the storm is fierce, The cries of a wraith through the thun- ders pierce ; And the waves strain their awful hands on high To tear the false moon from the sky. CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE " Good-bye," I said to my conscience " Good-bye for aye and aye," And I put her hands off harshly, And turned my face away ; And conscience smitten sorely Returned not from that day. But a time came when my spirit Grew weary of its pace ; And I cried : " Come back, my conscience ; I long to see thy face." But conscience cried : "I cannot; Remorse sits in my place." IONE I Ah, yes, 'tis sweet still to remember, Though 'twere less painful to forget ; For while my heart glows like an ember, Mine eyes with sorrow's drops are wet, And, oh, my heart is aching yet. It is a law of mortal pain That old wounds, long accounted well, Beneath the memory's potent spell, Will wake to life and bleed again. So 'tis with me ; it might be better If I should turn no look behind, If I could curb my heart, and fetter From reminiscent gaze my mind, Or let my soul go blind go blind ! But would I do it if I could ? Nay ! ease at such a price were spurned ; For, since my love was once returned, All that I suffer seemeth good. I know, I know it is the fashion, When love has left some heart distressed, To weight the air with wordful passion ! But I am glad that in my breast I ever held so dear a guest. Love does not come at every nod, Or every voice that calleth " hasten " ; He seeketh out some heart to chasten, And whips it, wailing, up to God ! Love is no random road wayfarer Who where he may must sip his glass. Love is the King, the Purple-Wearer, Whose guard recks not of tree or grass To blaze the way that he may pass. What if my heart be in the blast That heralds his triumphant way ; Shall I repine, shall I not say : " Rejoice, my heart,, the King has passed ! " In life, each heart holds some sad story The saddest ones are never told. I, too, have dreamed of fame and glory, And viewed the future bright with gold ; But that is ar a tale long told. Mine eyes hav lost their youthful flash, My cunning nand has lost its art ; I am not old, but in my heart The ember lies beneath the ash. I loved ! Why not ? My heart was youthful, My mind was filled with healthy thought. He doubts not whose own self is truthful, Doubt by dishonesty is taught ; So loved I boldly, fearing naught. I did not walk this lowly earth ; Mine was a newer, higher sphere, W T here youth was long and life was dear, And all save love was little worth. Her likeness ! Would that I might limn it, As Love did, with enduring art ; Nor dust of days nor death may dim it, Where it lies graven on my heart, Of this sad fabric of my life a part. I would that I might paint her now As I beheld her in that day, Ere her first bloom had passed away, And left the lines upon her brow. THE LIFE AND WORKS A face serene that, beaming brightly, Disarmed the hot sun's glances bold. A foot that kissed the ground so lightly, He frowned in wrath and deemed her cold, But loved her still though he was old. A form where every maiden grace Bloomed to perfection's richest flower, The statued pose of conscious power, Like lithe-limbed Dian's of the chase. Beneath a brow too fair for frowning, Like moonlit deeps that glass the skies Till all the hosts above seem drowning, Looked forth her steadfast hazel eyes, With gaze serene and purely wise. And over all, her tresses rare, Which, when, with his desire grown weak, The Night bent down to kiss her cheek, Entrapped and held him captive there. This was lone ; a spirit finer Ne'er burned to ash its house of clay ; A soul instinct with fire diviner Ne'er fled athwart the face of day, And tempted Time with earthly stay. Her loveliness was not alone Of face and form and tresses' hue ; For aye a pure, high soul shone through Her every act : this was lone. II 'Twas in the radiant summer weather, When God looked, smiling, from the sky; And we went wand'ring much together By wood and lane, lone and I, Attracted by the subtle tie Of common thoughts and common tastes, Of eyes whose vision saw the same, And freely granted beauty's claim Where others found but worthless wastes. We paused to hear the far bells ringing Across the distance, sweet and clear. We listened to the wild bird's singing The song he meant for his mate's ear, And deemed our chance to do so dear We loved to watch the warrior Sun, With flaming shield and flaunting crest, Go striding down the gory West, When Day's long fight was fought and And life became a different story ; Where'er I looked, I saw new light. Earth's self assumed a greater glory, Mine eyes were cleared to fuller sight. Then first I saw the need and might Of that fair band, the singing throng, Who, gifted with the skill divine, Take up the threads of life, spun fine, And weave them into soulful song. They sung for me, whose passion pressing My soul, found vent in song nor line. They bore the burden of expressing All that I felt, with art's design, And every word of theirs was mine. I read them to lone, ofttimes, By hill and shore, beneath fair skies, And she looked deeply in mine eyes, And knew my love spoke through their rhymes. Her life was like the stream that floweth, And mine was like the waiting sea ; Her love was like the flower that bloweth, And mine was like the searching bee I found her sweetness all for me. God plied him in the mint of time, And coined for us a golden day, And rolled it ringing down life's way With love's sweet music in its chime. And God unclasped the Book of Ages, And laid it open to our sight ; Upon the dimness of its pages, So long consigned to rayless night, He shed the glory of his light. We read them well, we read them long, And ever thrilling did we see That love ruled all humanity, The master passion, pure and strong. Ill To-day my skies are bare and ashen, And bend on me without a beam. Since love is held the master-passion, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 159 Its loss must be the pain supreme And grinning Fate has wrecked my dream. But pardon, dear departed Guest, I will not rant, I will not rail ; For good the grain must feel the flail ; There are whom love has never blessed. I had and have a younger brother, One whom I loved and love to-day As never fond and doting mother Adored the babe who found its way From heavenly scenes into her day. Oh, he was full of youth's new wine, A man on life's ascending slope, Flushed with ambition, full of hope ; And every wish of his was mine. A kingly youth ; the way before him Was thronged with victories to be won ; So joyous, too, the heavens o'er him Were bright with an unchanging sun, His days with rhyme were overrun. Toil had not taught him Nature's prose, Tears had not dimmed his brilliant eyes, And sorrow had not made him wise ; His life was in the budding rose. I know not how I came to waken, Some instinct pricked my soul to sight ; My heart by some vague thrill was shaken, A thrill so true and yet so slight, I hardly deemed I read aright. As when a sleeper, ign'rant why, Not knowing what mysterious hand Has called him out of slumberland, Starts up to find some danger nigh. Love is a guest that comes, unbidden, But, having come, asserts his right ; He will not be repressed nor hidden. And so my brother's dawning plight Became uncovered to my sight. Some sound-mote in his passing tone Caught in the meshes of my ear ; Some little glance, a shade too dear, Betrayed the love he bore lone. What could I do ? He was my brother, And young, and full of hope and trust ; I could not, dared not try to smother His flame, and turn his heart to dust. I knew how oft life gives a crust To starving men who cry for bread ; But he was young, so few his days, He had not learned the great world's ways, Nor Disappointment's volumes read. However fair and rich the booty, I could not make his loss my gain. ' For love is dear, but dearer, duty, And here my way was clear and plain. I saw how I could save him pain. And so, with all my day grown dim, That this loved brother's sun might shine, I joined his suit, gave over mine, And sought lone, to plead for him. I found her in an eastern bower, Where all day long the am'rous sun Lay by to woo a timid flower. This day his course was well-nigh run, But still with lingering art he spun Gold fancies on the shadowed wall. The vines waved soft and green above, And there where one might tell his love, I told my griefs I told her all ! I told her all, and as she hearkened, A tear-drop fell upon her dress. With grief her flushing brow was darkened ; One sob that she could not repress Betrayed the depths of her distress. Upon her grief my sorrow fed, And I was bowed with unlived years, My heart swelled with a sea of tears, The tears my manhood could not shed. The world is Rome, and Fate is Nero, Disporting in the hour of doom. God made us men ; times make the hero But in that awful space of gloom I gave no thought but sorrow's room. All all was dim within that bower, What time the sun divorced the day; And all the shadows, glooming gray, Proclaimed the sadness of the hour. She could not speak no word was needed ; Her look, half strength and half despair, i6o THE LIFE AND WORKS Told me I had not vainly pleaded, That she would not ignore my prayer. And so she turned and left me there, And as she went, so passed my bliss ; She loved me, I could not mistake But for her own and my love's sake, Her womanhood could rise to this ! My wounded heart fled swift to cover, And life at times seemed very drear. My brother proved an ardent lover What had so young a man to fear ? He wed lone within the year. No shadow clouds her tranquil brow, Men speak her husband's name with pride, While she sits honored at his side She is she must be happy now ! I doubt the course I took no longer, Since those I love seem satisfied. The bond between them will grow stronger As they go forward side by side ; Then will my pains be justified. Their joy is mine, and that is best I am not totally bereft ; For I have still the mem'ry left Love stopped with me a Royal Guest ! RELIGION It was doubtless about the time that Mr. Dunbar reached his final decision not to enter the ministry that he wrote these lines, which have at least the ring of sin- cerity to recommend them. One of Mr. Dunbar's marked characteristics was fear- lessness, and he usually wrote to the point regardless of public prejudices or opinions. I am no priest of crooks nor creeds, For human wants and human needs Are more to me than prophets' deeds ; And human tears and human cares Affect me more than human prayers. Go, cease your wail, lugubrious saint ! You fret high Heaven with your plaint. Is this the " Christian's joy " you paint? Is this the Christian's boasted bliss? Avails your faith no more than this ? Take up your arms, come out with me, Let Heav'n alone ; humanity Needs more and Heaven less from thee. With pity for mankind look 'round; Help them to rise and Heaven is found. DEACON JONES' GRIEVANCE I've been watchin* of 'em, parson, An' I'm sorry fur to say 'At my mind is not contented With the loose an' keerless way 'At the young folks treat the music; 'Tain't the proper sort o' choir. Then I don't believe in Christuns A-singin' hymns for hire. But I never would 'a' murmured An' the matter might 'a' gone Ef it wasn't fur the antics 'At I've seen 'em kerry on ; So I thought it was my dooty Fur to come to you an' ask Ef you wouldn't sort o' gently Take them singin' folks to task. Fust, the music they've be'n singin' Will disgrace us mighty soon ; It's a cross between a opry An' a ol' cotillion tune. With its dashes an' its quavers An* its highfalutin style Why, it sets my head to swimmin' When I'm comin' down the aisle. Now it might be almost decent Ef it wasn't fur the way 'At they git up there an' sing it, Hey dum diddle, loud and gay. Why, it shames the name o' sacred In its brazen worldliness, An' they've even got " OP Hundred " In a bold, new-fangled dress. You'll excuse me, Mr. Parson, Ef I seem a little sore ; But I've sung the songs of Isr'el For threescore years an* more, An' it sort o' hurts my feelin's OF PAUL LAURENCE D UNBAR 161 Fur to see 'em put away Fur these harum-scarum ditties 'At is capturin' the day. There's anuther little happ'nin' 'At I'll mention while I'm here, Jes' to show 'at my objections All is offered sound and clear. It was one day they was singin' An' was doin' well enough Singin' good as people could sing Sich an awful mess o' stuff When the choir give a holler, An' the organ give a groan, An' they left one weak- voiced feller A-singin' there alone ! But he stuck right to the music, Tho' 'twas tryin' as could be ; An' when I tried to help him, Why, the hull church scowled at me. You say that's so-low singin', Well, I pray the Lord that I Growed up when folks was willin' To sing their hymns so high. > Why, we never had sich doin's In the good oP Bethel days, When the folks was all contented With the simple songs of praise. Now I may have spoke too open, But 'twas too hard to keep still, An' I hope you'll tell the singers 'At I bear 'em no ill-will. 'At they all may git to glory Is my wish an' my desire, But they'll need some extry trainin' 'Fore they jine the heavenly choir. ALICE Know you, winds that blow your course Down the verdant valleys, That somewhere you must, perforce, Kiss the brow of Alice ? When her gentle face you find, Kiss it softly, naughty wind. Roses waving fair and sweet Thro* the garden alleys, 10 Grow into a glory meet For the eye of Alice ; Let the wind your offering bear Of sweet perfume, faint and rare. Lily holding crystal dew In your pure white chalice, Nature kind hath fashioned you Like the soul of Alice; It of purest white is wrought, Filled with gems of crystal thought. AFTER THE QUARREL So we, who've supped the self-same cup, To-night must lay our friendship by ; Your wrath has burned your judgment up, Hot breath has blown the ashes high. You say that you are wronged ah, well, I count that friendship poor, at best A bauble, a mere bagatelle, That cannot stand so slight a test. I fain would still have been your friend, And talked and laughed and loved with you; But since it must, why, let it end ; ^ The false but dies, 'tis not the true. So we are favored, you and I, Who only want the living truth. It was not good to nurse the lie ; Tis well it died in harmless youth. I go from you to-night to sleep. Why, what's the odds ? why should I grieve ? I have no fund of tears to weep For happenings that undeceive. The days shall come, the days shall go Just as they came and went before. The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow Though you and I are friends no more. And in the volume of my years, Where all my thoughts and acts shall be, The page whereon your name appears Shall be forever sealed to me. Not that I hate you over-much, Tis less of hate than love defied ; 1 62 THE LIFE AND WORKS Howe'er, our hands no more shall touch, We'll go our ways, the world is wide. BEYOND THE YEARS Beyond the years the answer lies, Beyond where brood the grieving skies And Night drops tears. Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise And doff its fears, And carping Sorrow pines and dies Beyond the years. Beyond the years the prayer for rest Shall beat no more within the breast ; The darkness clears, And Morn perched on the mountain's crest Her form uprears The day that is to come is best, Beyond the years. in Beyond the years the soul shall find That endless peace for which it pined, For light appears, And to the eyes that still were blind With blood and tears, Their sight shall come all unconfined Beyond the years. AFTER A VISIT I be'n down in ole Kentucky Fur a week er two, an' say, 'Twuz ez hard ez breakin' oxen Fur to tear myse'f away. Allus argerin' 'bout fren'ship An' yer hospitality Y' ain't no right to talk about it Tell you be'n down there to see. See jest how they give you welcome To the best that's in the land, Feel the sort o' grip they give you When they take you by the hand. Hear 'em say, " We're glad to have you, Better stay a week er two ; " An* the way they treat you makes you Feel that ev'ry word is true. Feed you tell you hear the buttons Crackin' on yore Sunday vest ; Haul you roun' to see the wonders Tell you have to cry for rest. Drink yer health an' pet an' praise you Tell you git to feel ez great Ez the Sheriff o' the county Er the Gov'ner o' the State. Wife, she sez I must be crazy 'Cause I go on so, an' Nelse He 'lows, " Goodness gracious ! daddy, Cain't you talk about nuthin' el"e ? " Well, pleg-gone it, I'm jes' tickled, Bein' tickled ain't no sin ; I be'n down in ole Kentucky, An' I want o' go ag'in. CURTAIN Villain shows his indiscretion, Villain's partner makes confession. Juvenile, with golden tresses, Finds her pa and dons long dresses. Scapegrace comes home money-laden, Hero comforts tearful maiden, Soubrette marries loyal chappie Villain skips, and all are happy. THE SPELLIN'-BEE I never shall furgit that night when father hitched up Dobbin, An' all us youngsters clambered in an' down the road went bobbin' To school where we was kep' .at work in every kind o' weather, But where that night a spellin'-bee was callin' us together. 'Twas one o' Heaven's banner nights, the stars was all a glitter, The moon was shinin' like the hand o' God had jest then lit her. The ground was white with spotless snow, the blast was sort o' stingin' ; But underneath our round-abouts, you bet our hearts was singin'. That spellin'-bee had be'n the talk o' many a precious moment, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 163 The youngsters all was wild to see jes' what the precious show meant, An' we whose years was in their teens was little less desirous O' gittin' to the meetin' so's our sweet- hearts could admire us. So on we went so anxious fur to satisfy our mission That father had to box our ears, to smother our ambition. But boxin' ears was too short work to hin- der our arrivin', He jest turned roun' an* smacked us all, an' kep' right on a-drivin'. Well, soon the schoolhouse hove in sight, the winders beamin' brightly ; The sound o' talkin' reached our ears, and voices laffin' lightly. It puffed us up so full an' big 'at I'll jest bet a dollar, There wa'n't a feller there but felt the strain upon his collar. So down we jumped an' iii we went ez sprightly ez you make 'em, But somethin' grabbed us by the knees an' straight began to shake 'em. Fur once within that lighted room, our feelin's took a canter, An' scurried to the zero mark ez quick ez Tarn O'Shanter. 'Cause there was crowds o' people there, both sexes an' all stations ; It looked like all the town had come an* brought all their relations. The first I saw was Nettie Gray, I thought that girl was dearer 'N' gold ; an' when I got a chance, you bet I aidged up near her. An' Farmer Dobbs's girl was there, the one 'at Jim was sweet on, An' Cyrus Jones an' Mandy Smith an' Faith an' Patience Deaton. Then Parson Brown an' Lawyer Jones were present all attention, An' piles on piles of other folks too nu- merous to mention. The master rose an' briefly said : " Good friends, dear brother Crawford, To spur the pupils' minds along, a little prize has offered. To him who spells the best to-night or 't may be her ' no tellin' He offers ez a jest reward, this precious work on spellin'." A little blue- backed spellin'-book with fancy scarlet trimmin', We boys devoured it with our eyes so did the girls an' women. He held it up where all could see, then on the table set it, An' ev'ry speller in the house felt mortal bound to get it. At his command we fell in line, prepared to do our dooty, Outspell the rest an' set 'em down, an' carry home the booty. 'Twas then the merry times began, the blunders, an' the laffin', The nudges an' the nods an' winks an' stale good-natured chaffin'. Ole Uncle Hiram Dane was there, the clostest man a-livin', Whose only bugbear seemed to be the dreadful fear o' givin'. His beard was long, his hair uncut, his clothes all bare an' dingy ; It wasn't 'cause the man was pore, but jest so mortal stingy. An' there he sot by Sally Riggs a-smilin' an' a-smirkin', An' all his childern lef ' to home a diggin' an* a-workin'. A widower he was, an' Sal was thinkin' 'at she'd wing him ; I reckon he was wond'rin* what them rings o' hern would bring him. An' when the spellin'-test commenced, he up an' took his station, A-spellin' with the best o' them to beat the very nation. An* when he'd spell some youngster down, he'd turn to look at Sally, An' say : " The teachin' nowadays can't be o' no great vally." But true enough the adage says, " Pride walks in slipp'ry places," Fur soon a thing occurred that put a smile on all our faces. The laffter jest kep' ripplin' 'roun' an* teacher couldn't quell it, Fur when he give out " charity " ole Hiram couldn't spell it. But laffin' 's ketchin' an' it throwed some others off their bases, I6 4 THE LIFE AND WORKS An' folks Vd miss the very word that seemed to fit their cases. Why, fickle little Jessie Lee come near the house upsettin' By puttin' in a double " kay " to spell the word " coquettin'." An' when it come to Cyrus Jones, it tickled me all over Him settin' up to Mandy Smith an' got sot down on " lover." But Lawyer Jones of all gone men did shorely look the gonest, When he found out that he'd furgot to put the " h " in " honest." An' Parson Brown, whose sermons were too long fur toleration, Caused lots o' smiles by missin' when they give out " condensation." So one by one they giv' it up the big words kep' a-landin', Till me an' Nettie Gray was left, the only ones a-standin', An' then my inward strife began I guess my mind was petty I did so want that spellin'-book ; but then to spell down Nettie Jest sort o' went ag'in my grain I some- how couldn't do it, An' when I git a notion fixed, I'm great on stickin' to it. So when they giv' the next word out I hadn't orter tell it, But then 'twas all fur Nettie's sake I missed so's she could spell it. She spelt the word, then looked at me so lovin'-like an' mello', I tell you 't sent a hunderd pins a-shootin through a fello'. O' course I had to stand the jokes an' chaffin' of the fello's, But when they handed her the book I vow I wasn't jealous. We sung a hymn, an' Parson Brown dis- missed us like he orter, Fur, la ! he'd learned a thing er two an' made his blessin' shorter. Twas late an' cold when we got out, but Nettie liked cold weather, An* so did I, so we agreed we'd jest walk home together. We both wuz silent, fur of words we nuther had a surplus, 'Til she spoke out quite sudden like " You missed that word on purpose." Well, I declare it frightened me ; at first I tried denyin', But Nettie, she jest smiled an' smiled, she knowed that I was lyin'. Sez she : " That book is yourn by right ; " sez I : "It never could be I I you ah " an' there I stuck, an' well she understood me. So we agreed that later on when age had giv' us tether, We'd jine our lots an' settle down to own that book together. KEEP A-PLUGGIN' AWAY I've a humble little motto That is homely, though it's true, Keep a-pluggin' away. It's a thing when I've an object That I always try to do, Keep a-pluggin' away. When you've rising storms to quell, When opposing waters swell, It will never fail to tell, Keep a-pluggin' away. If the hills are high before And the paths are hard to climb, Keep a-pluggin' away. And remember that successes Come to him who bides his time, Keep a pluggin' away. From the greatest to the least, None are from the rule released. Be thou toiler, poet, priest, Keep a-pluggin' away. Delve away beneath the surface, There is treasure farther down, Keep a-pluggin' away. Let the rain come down in torrents, Let the threat'ning heavens frown, Keep a-pluggin' away. When the clouds have rolled away, There will come a brighter day All your labor to repay, Keep a-pluggin' away. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 165 There'll be lots of sneers to swallow, There'll be lots of pain to bear, Keep a-pluggin' away. If you've got your eye on heaven, Some bright day you'll wake up there, Keep a-pluggin' away. Perseverance still Is king ; Time its sure reward will bring ; Work and wait unwearying, Keep a-pluggin' away. NIGHT OF LOVE The moon has left the sky, love, The stars are hiding now, And frowning on the world, love, Night bares her sable brow. The snow is on the ground, love, And cold and keen the air is. ' I'm singing here to you, love; You're dreaming there in Paris. But this is Nature's law, love, Though just it may not seem, That men should wake to sing, love, While maidens sleep and dream. Them care may not molest, love, Nor stir them from their slumbers, Though midnight find the swain, love, Still halting o'er his numbers. I watch the rosy dawn, love, Come stealing up the east, While all things round rejoice, love, That Night her reign has ceased. The lark will soon be heard, love, And on his way be winging ; When Nature's poets wake, love, Why should a man be singing? COLUMBIAN ODE I Four hundred years ago a tangled waste Lay sleeping on the west Atlantic's side ; Their devious ways the Old World's mil- lions traced Content, and loved, and labored, dared and died, While students still believed the charts they conned, And reveled in their thriftless igno- rance, Nor dreamed of other lands that lay be- yond Old Ocean's dense, indefinite expanse. II But deep within her heart old Nature knew That she had once arrayed, at Earth's behest, Another offspring, fine and fair to view, The chosen suckling of the mother's breast. The child was wrapped in vestments soft and fine, Each fold a work of Nature's matchless art; The mother looked on it with love divine, And strained the loved one closely to her heart. And there it lay, and with the warmth grew strong And hearty, by the salt sea breezes fanned, Till Time with mellowing touches passed along, And changed the infant to a mighty land. Ill But men knew naught of this, till there arose That mighty mariner, the Genoese, Who dared to try, in spite of fears and foes, The unknown fortunes of unsounded seas. O noblest of Italia's sons, thy bark Went not alone into that shrouding night ! O dauntless darer of the rayless dark, The world sailed with thee to eternal light ! The deer-haunts that with game were crowded then To-day are tilled and cultivated lands ; The schoolhouse tow'rs where Bruin had his den, 1 66 THE LIFE AND WORKS And where the wigwam stood, the chapel stands ; The place that nurtured men of savage mien Now teems with men of Nature's noblest types ; Where moved the forest-foliage banner green, Now flutters in the breeze the stars and stripes ! A BORDER BALLAD Oh, I haven't got long to live, for we all Die soon, e'en those who live longest ; And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance Along with the richest and strongest. So it's heigho for a glass and a song, And a bright eye over the table, And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush, And the pick of a gentleman's stable. There is Dimmock o' Dune, he was here yesternight, But he's rotting to-day on Glen Arragh ; 'Twas the hand o' MacPherson that gave him the blow, And the vultures shall feast on his mar- row. But it's heigho for a brave old song And a glass while we are able ; Here's a health to death and anothe*r cup To the bright eye over the table. I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest, But who argues now on appearance ? A blow or a thrust or a stumble at best May send me to-day to my clearance. Then it's heigho for the things I love, My mother'll be soon wearing sable, But give me my horse and my dog and my glass, And a bright eye over the table. AN EASY-COIN' FELLER Ther' ain't no use in all this strife, An' hurryin', pell-mell, right thro' life. I don't believe in goin' too fast To see what kind o' road you've passed. It ain't no mortal kind o' good, 'N' I wouldn't hurry ef I could. I like to jest go joggin' 'long, To limber up my soul with song ; To stop awhile 'n' chat the men, 'N' drink some cider now an' then. Do' want no boss a-standin' by To see me work; I allus try To do my dooty right straight up, An' earn what fills my plate an' cup. An' ez fur boss, I'll be my own, I like to jest be let alone, To plough my strip an' tend my bees, An' do jest like I doggoned please. My head's all right, an' my heart's meller, But I'm a easy-goin' feller. THE DILETTANTE: A MODERN TYPE He scribbles some in prose and verse, And now and then he prints it ; He paints a little, gathers some Of nature's gold and mints it. He plays a little, sings a song, Acts tragic roles, or funny ; He does, because his love is strong, But not, oh, not for money ! He studies almost everything From social art to science ; A thirsty mind, a flowing spring, Demand and swift compliance. He looms above the sordid crowd At least through friendly lenses ; While his mamma looks pleased and proud, And kindly pays expenses. BY THE STREAM By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass, How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens pass, And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 167 Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads. And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go, For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show, And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wondrous mysteries, When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees. NATURE AND ART TO MY FRIEND CHARLES BOOTH NET- TLETON The young queen Nature, ever sweet t and fair, Once on a time fell upon evil days. From hearing oft herself discussed with praise, There grew within her heart the longing rare To see herself; and every passing air The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze. Full oft she sought this end by devious ways, But sought in vain, so fell she in despair. For none within her train nor by her side Could solve the task or give the envied boon. So day and night, beneath the sun and moon, She wandered to and fro unsatisfied, Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf, And made a glass wherein she saw her- self. II Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self, Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought, Commanded that the skilful wight be brought That she might dower him with lands and pelf. Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf And up the hills and on the downs they sought Him who so well and wondrously had wrought ; And with much search found and brought home the elf. But he put by all gifts with sad replies, And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine : " O queen, I want no gift but thee," he said. She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes, Gave him her hand, low murmuring, " I am thine," And at the morrow's dawning they were wed. AFTER WHILE A POEM OF FAITH I think that though the clouds be dark, That though the waves dash o'er the bark, Yet after while the light will come, And in calm waters safe at home The bark will anchor. Weep not, my sad-eyed, gray-robed maid, Because your fairest blossoms fade, That sorrow still o'erruns your cup, And even though you root them up, The weeds grow ranker. For after while your tears shall cease, And sorrow shall give way to peace ; The flowers shall bloom, the weeds shall die, And in that faith seen, by and by Thy woes shall perish. Smile at old Fortune's adverse tide, Smile when the scoffers sneer and chide. Oh, not for you the gems that pale, And not for you the flowers that fail ; Let this thought cherish : That after while the clouds will part, And then with joy the waiting heart Shall feel the light come stealing in, That drives away the cloud of sin And breaks its power. And you shall burst your chrysalis, And wing away to realms of bliss, Untrammeled, pure, divinely free, Above all earth's anxiety From that same hour. 168 THE LIFE AND WORKS A NEGRO LOVE SONG This poem illustrates the way in which Mr. Dunbar utilized the most humble of happenings as material for his verses. During the World's Fair he served for a short time as hotel waiter. When the negroes were not busy they had a custom of congregating and talking about their sweethearts. Then a man with a tray would come along and, as the dining-room was frequently crowded, he would say, when in need of passing-room : " Jump back, honey, jump back." Out of these commonplace confidences, he wove the musical little composition " A Negro Love Song." Seen my lady home las' night, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh, Seen a light gleam f om huh eye, An' a smile go flittin' by Jump back, honey, jump back. Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine, Jump back, honey, jump back. Mockin'-bird was singin' fine, Jump back, honey, jump back. An* my hea't was beatin' so, When I reached my lady's do', Dat I couldn't ba* to go Jump back, honey, jump back. Put my ahm aroun' huh wais', Jump back, honey, jump back. Raised huh lips an* took a tase, Jump back, honey, jump back. Love me, honey, love me true ? Love me well ez I love you ? An' she answe'd, " 'Cose I do" Jump back, honey, jump back. THE COLORED SOLDIERS If the muse were mine to tempt it And my feeble voice were strong, If my tongue were trained to measures, 1 would sing a stirring song. I would sing a song heroic Of those noble sons of Ham, Of the gallant colored soldiers Who fought for Uncle Sam ! In the early days you scorned them, And with many a flip and flout Said " These battles are the white man's, And the whites will fight them out." Up the hills you fought and faltered, In the vales you strove and bled, While your ears still heard the thunder Of the foes' advancing tread. Then distress fell on the nation, And the flag was drooping low ; Should the dust pollute your banner ? Noi the nation shouted, No ! So when War, in savage triumph, Spread abroad his funeral pall Then you called the colored soldiers, And they answered to your call. And like hounds unleashed and eager For the life blood of the prey, Sprung they forth and bore them bravely In the thickest of the fray. And where'er the fight was hottest, Where the bullets fastest fell, There they pressed unblanched and fear- less At the very mouth of hell. Ah, they rallied to the standard To uphold it by their might ; None were stronger in the labors, None were braver in the fight. From the blazing breach of Wagner To the plains of Olustee, They were foremost in the fight Of the battles of the free. And at Pillow ! God have mercy On the deeds committed there, And the souls of those poor victims Sent to Thee without a prayer. Let the fulness of Thy pity O'er the hot wrought spirits sway Of the gallant colored soldiers Who fell fighting on that day ! SEEN MY LADY HOME LAS' NIGHT WHEN DE CO'N PONE'S HOT OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom, And they won it dearly, too ; For the life blood of their thousands Did the southern fields bedew. In the darkness of their bondage, In the depths of slavery's night, Their muskets flashed the dawning, And they fought their way to light. They were comrades then and brothers, Are they more or less to-day ? They were good to stop a bullet And to front the fearful fray. They were citizens and soldiers, When rebellion raised its head ; And the traits that made them worthy, Ah ! those virtues are not dead. They have shared your nightly vigils, They have shared your daily toil ; And their blood with yours commingling Has enriched the Southern soil. They have slept and marched and suffered 'Neath the same dark skies as you, They have met as fierce a foeman, And have been as brave and true. And their deeds shall find a record In the registry of Fame ; For their blood has cleansed completely Every blot of Slavery's shame. So all honor and all glory To those noble sons of Ham The gallant colored soldiers Who fought for Uncle Sam ! WHEN DE CO'N PONE'S HOT Dey is times in life when Nature Seems to slip a cog an' go, Jes' a-rattlin' down creation, Lak an ocean's overflow ; When de worl' jes' stahts a-spinnin' Lak a picaninny's top, An' yo' cup o' joy is brimmin' 'Twell it seems about to slop, An' you feel jes' lak a racah, Dat is trainin' fu' to trot When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone's hot. When you set down at de table, Kin' o' weary lak an' sad, An' you'se jes' a little tiahed An' purhaps a little mad ; How yo' gloom tu'ns into gladness, How yo' joy drives out de doubt When de oven do' is opened, An' de smell comes po'in' out ; Why, de 'lectric light o' Heaven Seems to settle on de spot, When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone's hot. When de cabbage pot is steamin' An' de bacon good an' fat, When de chittlins is a-sputter'n' So's to show you whah dey's at ; Tek away yo' sody biscuit, Tek away yo' cake an' pie, Fu' de glory time is comin', An' it's 'proachin' mighty nigh, An* you want to jump an' hollah, Dough you know you'd bettah not, When yo' mammy says de blessin', An' de co'n pone's hot. I have hyeahd o' lots o' sermons, An' I've hyeahd o' lots o' prayers, An* I've listened to some singin* Dat has tuk me up de stairs Of de Glory-Lan' an' set me Jes' below de Mahstah's th'one, An' have lef ' my hea't a-singin' In a happy aftah tone ; But dem wu'ds so sweetly murmured Seem to tech de softes' spot, When my mammy says de blessin', An' de co'n pone's hot. THE OL' TUNES You kin talk about yer anthems An' yer arias an* sich, An' yer modern choir-singin' That you think so awful rich ; But you orter heerd us youngsters In the times now far away, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. There was some of us sung treble An' a few of us growled bass, An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly 172 THE LIFE AND WORKS With its 'comp'niment o' grace ; There was spirit in that music, An' a kind o' solemn sway, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. I remember oft o' standin' In my homespun pantaloons On my face the bronze an' freckles O' the suns o' youthful Junes Thinkin' that no mortal minstrel Ever chanted sich a lay As the ol' tunes we was singin' In the ol'-fashioned way. The boys 'ud always lead us, An' the girls 'ud all chime in, Till the sweetness o' the singin' Robbed the list'nin' soul o' sin ; An' I used to tell the parson 'Twas as good to sing as pray, When the people sung the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. How I long ag'in to hear 'em Pourin' forth from soul to soul, With the treble high an' meller, An* the bass's mighty roll ; But the times is very diff rent, An' the music heerd to-day Ain't the singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. Little screechin' by a woman, Little squawkin' by a man, Then the organ's twiddle-twaddle, Jest the empty space to span, An' ef you should even think it, 'Tisn't proper fur to say That you want to hear the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. But I think that some bright mornin', When the toils of life air o'er, An' the sun o' heaven arisin' Glads with light the happy shore, I shall hear the angel chorus, In the realms of endless day, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. MELANCHOLIA Silently without my window, Tapping gently at the pane, Falls the rain. Through the trees sighs the breeze Like a soul in pain. Here alone I sit and weep ; Thought hath banished sleep. Wearily I sit and listen To the water's ceaseless drip. To my lip Fate turns up the bitter cup, Forcing me to sip ; 'Tis a bitter, bitter drink, Thus I sit and think, Thinking things unknown and awful, Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes, Waking dreams. Spectres dark, corpses stark, Show the gaping seams Whence the cold and cruel knife Stole away their life. Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring, Gazing ghastly into mine ; Blood like wine On the brow clotted now Shows death's dreadful sign. Lonely vigil still I keep ; Would that I might sleep ! Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling! Still runs on my stream of thought ; I am caught . In the net fate hath set. Mind and soul are brought To destruction's very brink ; Yet I can but think ! Eyes that look into the future, Peeping forth from out my mind. They will find Some new weight, soon or late, On my soul to bind, Crushing all its courage out, Heavier than doubt. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 173 Dawn, the Eastern monarch's daughter, Rising from her dewy bed, Lays her head 'Gainst the clouds' sombre shrouds Now half fringed with red. O'er the land she 'gins to peep ; Come, O gentle Sleep ! Hark ! the morning cock is crowing ; Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away ; Tis the day. Rosy morn now is born ; Dark thoughts may not stay. Day my brain from foes will keep ; Now, my soul, I sleep. THE WOOING A youth went faring up and down, Alack and well-a-day. He fared him to the market town, Alack and well-a-day. And there he met a maiden fair, With hazel eyes and auburn hair ; His heart went from him then and there, Alack and well-a-day. She posies sold right merrily, Alack and well-a-day ; But not a flower was fair as she, Alack and well-a-day. He bought a rose and sighed a sigh, " Ah, dearest maiden, would that I Might dare the seller too to buy ! " Alack and well-a-day. She tossed her head, the coy coquette, Alack and well-a-day. " I'm not, sir, in the market.yet," Alack and well-a-day. " Your love must cool upon a shelf; Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf, I'm yet too young to sell myself," Alack and well-a-day. The youth was filled with sorrow sore, Alack and well-a-day ; And looked he at the maid once more, Alack and well-a-day. Then loud he cried, " Fair maiden, if Too young to sell, now as I live, You're not too young yourself to give," Alack and well-a-day. The little maid cast down her eyes, Alack and well-a-day, And many a flush began to rise, Alack and well-a-day. " Why, since you are so bold," she said, " I doubt not you are highly bred, So take me ! " and the twain were wed, Alack and well-a-day. MERRY AUTUMN It's all a farce, these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and d ;11, Because the year is dying. Such principles are most absurd, I care not who first taught 'em ; There's nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn. In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You'll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing. Now purple tints are all around ; The sky is blue and mellow ; And e'en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow. The seed burrs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson ; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson. A butterfly goes winging by ; A singing bird comes after ; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o'er with laughter. The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses ; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses. The earth is just so full of fun It really can't contain it ; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it. 174 THE LIFE AND WORKS Don't talk to me of solemn days In autumn's time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender. Why, it's the climax of the year, The highest time of living ! Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving. BALLAD I know my love is true. And oh the day is fair. The sky is clear and blue, The flowers are rich of hue, The air I breathe is rare, I have no grief or care ; For my own love is true, And oh the day is fair. My love is false I find, And oh the day is dark. Blows sadly down the wind, While sorrow holds my mind ; I do not hear the lark, For quenched is life's dear spark, My love is false I find, And oh the day is dark ! For love doth make the day Or dark or doubly bright ; Her beams along the way Dispel the gloom and gray. She lives and all is bright, She dies and life is night. For love doth make the day, Or dark or doubly bright. THE CHANGE HAS COME The change has come, and Helen sleeps Not sleeps ; but wakes to greater deeps Of wisdom, glory, truth, and light, Than ever blessed her seeking sight, In this low, long, lethargic night, Worn out with strife Which men call life. The change has come, and who would say " I would it were not come to-day " ? What were the respite till to-morrow ? Postponement of a certain sorrow, From which each passing day would borrow ! Let grief be dumb, The change has come. COMPARISON The sky of brightest gray seems dark To one whose sky was ever white. To one who never knew a spark, Thro' all his life, of love or light, The grayest cloud seems over- bright. The robin sounds a beggar's note Where one the nightingale has heard, But he for whom no silver throat Its liquid music ever stirred, Deems robin still the sweetest bird. DISCOVERED Seen you down at chu'ch las' night, Nevah min', Miss Lucy. What I mean ? oh, dat's all right, Nevah min', Miss Lucy. You was sma't ez sma't could be, But you couldn't hide f 'om me. Ain't I got two eyes to see ! Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Guess you thought you's awful keen ; Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Evahthing you done, I seen ; Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Seen him tek yo' ahm jes' so, When he got outside de do' Oh, I know dat man's yo' beau ! Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Say now, honey, wha'd he say ? Nevah min', Miss Lucy ! Keep yo' secrets dat's yo' way Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Won't tell me an' I'm yo' pal I'm gwine tell his othah gal, Know huh, too, huh name is Sal ; Nevah min', Miss Lucy ! OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 175 DISAPPOINTED An old man planted and dug and tended, Toiling in joy from dew to dew ; The sun was kind, and the rain befriended ; Fine grew his orchard and fair to view. Then he said: "I will quiet my thrifty fears, For here is fruit for my failing years." But even then the storm-clo' Is gathered, Swallowing up the azure ^Ky; The sweeping winds into white foam lathered The placid breast of the bay, hard by ; Then the spirits that raged in the dark- ened air Swept o'er his orchard and left it bare. The old man stood in the rain, uncaring, Viewing the place the storm had swept ; And then with a cry from his soul despair- ing, He bowed him down to the earth and wept. But a voice cried aldud from the driving rain; " Arise, old man, and plant again ! " INVITATION TO LOVE Come when the nights are bright with stars Or when the moon is mellow ; Come when the sun his golden bars Drops on the hay-field yellow. Come in the twilight soft and gray, Come in the night or come in the day, Come, O Love, whene'er you may, And you are welcome, welcome. You are sweet, O Love, dear Love, You are soft as the nesting dove. Come to my heart and bring it rest As the bird flies home to its welcome nest. Come when my heart is full of grief Or when my heart is merry ; Come with the falling of the leaf Or with the redd'ning cherry. Come when the year's first blossom blows, Come when the summer gleams and glows, Come with the winter's drifting snows, And you are welcome, welcome. HE HAD HIS DREAM He had his dream, and all through life, Worked up to it through toil and strife. Afloat fore'er before his eyes, It colored for him all his skies : The storm-cloud dark Above his bark, The calm and listless vault of blue Took on its hopeful hue, It tinctured every passing beam He had his dream. He labored hard and failed at last, His sails too weak to bear the blast, The raging tempests tore away And sent his beating bark astray. But what cared he For wind or sea ! He said, " The tempest will be short, My bark will come to port." He saw through every cloud a gleam He had his dream. GOOD-NIGHT The lark is silent in his nest, The breeze is sighingoin its flight, Sleep, Love, and peaceful be thy rest. Good-night, my love, good-night, good- night. Sweet dreams attend thee in thy sleep, To soothe thy rest till morning's light, And angels round thee vigil keep. Good-night, my love, good-night, good- night. Sleep well, my love, on night's dark breast, And ease thy soul with slumber bright ; Be joy but thine and I am blest. Good-night, my love, good-night, good- night. A COQUETTE CONQUERED Yes, my ha't's ez ha'd ez stone Go 'way, Sam, an' lemme 'lone. 176 THE LIFE AND WORKS No ; I ain't gwine change my min* Ain't gwine ma'y you nuffin' de kin'. Phiny loves you true an' deah ? Go ma'y Phiny ; whut I keer ? Oh, you needn't mou'n an' cry I don't keer how soon you die. Got a present ! Whut you got ? SomePn fu' de pan er pot ! Huh ! yo' sass do sholy beat Think I don't git 'nough to eat ? Whut's dat un'neaf yo' coat ? Looks des lak a little shoat. 'Tain't no possum ! Bless de Lamb ! Yes, it is, you rascal, Sam ! Gin it to me ; whut you say ? Ain't you sma't now ! Oh, go 'way ! Possum do look mighty nice, But you ax too big a price. Tell me, is you talkin' true, Dat's de gal's whut ma'ies you ? Come back, Sam ; now whah's you gwine? Co'se you knows dat possum's mine ! NORA: A SERENADE Ah, Nora, my Ndra, the light fades away, While Night like a spirit steals up o'er the hills ; The thrush from his tree where he chanted all day, No longer his music in ecstasy trills. Then, Nora, be near me; thy presence doth cheer me, . Thine eye hath a gleam that is truer than gold. I cannot but love thee ; so do not reprove me, If the strength of my passion should make me too bold. Nora, pride of my heart, Rosy cheeks, cherry lips, sparkling with glee, Wake from thy slumbers, wherever thou art; Wake from thy slumbers to me. Ah, Nora, my Nora, there's love in the air,- It stirs in the numbers that thrill in my brain ; Oh, sweet, sweet is love with its mingling of care, Though joy travels only a step before pain. Be roused from thy slumbers and list to my m nbers ; My heart i. poured out in this song unto thee. Oh, be thou not cruel, thou treasure, thou jewel; Turn thine ear to my pleading and hearken to me. OCTOBER October is the treasurer of the year, And all the months pay bounty to her store ; The fields and orchards still their tribute bear, And fill her brimming coffers more and more. But she, with youthful lavishness, Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress, And decks herself in garments bold Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold. She heedeth not how swift the hours fly, But smiles and sings her happy life along ; She only sees above a shining sky ; She only hears the breezes' voice in song. Her garments trail the woodlands through. And gather pearls of early dew That sparkle, till the roguish Sun Creeps up and steals them every one. But what cares she that jewels should be lost, When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers ? Though princely fortunes may have been their cost, Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs. Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free, She lives her life out joyously, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 177 Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way And turns her auburn locks to gray. A SUMMER'S NIGHT. The night is dewy as a maiden's mouth, The skies are bright as are a maiden's eyes, Soft as a maiden's breath the wind that flies Up from the perfumed bosom of the South. Like sentinels, the pines stand in the park ; And hither hastening, like rakes that roam, With lamps to light their wayward foot- steps home, The fireflies come stagg'ring down the dark. SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing ; I look far out into the pregnant night, Where I can hear a solemn booming gun And catch the gleaming of a random light, That tells me that the ship I seek is pass- ing, passing. My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing ; For I would hail and check that ship of ships. I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips, And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing. O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! Is there no hope for me ? Is there no way That I may sight and check that speed- ing bark Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing ? THE DELINQUENT Goo'-by, Jinks, I got to hump, Got to mek dis pony jump ; See dat sun a-goin' down 'N* me a-foolin' hyeah in town ! Git up, Suke go long ! Guess Mirandy'll think FS tight, Me not home an' comin' on night. What's dat stan'in' by de fence ? Pshaw ! why don't I lu'n some sense ? Git up, Suke go long ! Guess I spent down dah at Jinks' Mos' a dollah fur de drinks. Bless yo'r soul, you see dat star ? Lawd, but won't Mirandy rar ? Git up, Suke go long ! Went dis mo'nin', hyeah it's night, Dah's de cabin dah in sight. Who's dat stan'in' in de do' ? Dat must be Mirandy, sho', Git up, Suke go long ! Got de close-stick in huh han', Dat look funny, goodness Ian', Sakes alibe, but she look glum ! Hyeah, Mirandy, hyeah I come ! Git up, Suke go long ! Ef 't hadn't a be'n fur you, you slow ole fool, I'd a' be'n home long fo' now ! DAWN An angel, robed in spotless white, Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night. Night woke to blush ; the sprite was gone. Men saw the blush and called it Dawn. A DROWSY DAY This poem, written before its author was twenty years of age, was greatly ad- mired and brought him many encourag- ing letters. Among these was a note from James Whitcomb Riley, mentioned otherwhere in this volume, in which Mr. Riley says : " Certainly your gift as evidenced by this Drowsy Day ' poem alone is a superior one, and therefore its fortunate possessor should bear it with a becoming sense of gratitude and meekness, always feeling 178 THE LIFE AND WORKS that for any resultant good God is the glory, the singer his very humble instru- ment. Already you have many friends, and can have thousands more by being simply honest, unaffected and just to your- self and the high source of your endow- ment." The air is dark, the sky is gray, The misty shadows come and go, And here within my dusky room Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom. Outside the rain falls cold and slow Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray. Each slightest sound is magnified, For drowsy quiet holds her reign ; The burnt stick in the fireplace breaks, The nodding cat with start awakes, And then to sleep drops off again, Unheeding Towser at her side. I look far out across the lawn, Where huddled stand the silly sheep ; My work lies idle at my hands, My thoughts fly out like scattered strands Of thread, and on the verge of sleep Still half awake I dream and yawn. What spirits rise before my eyes ! How various of kind and form ! Sweet memories of days long past, The dreams of youth that could not last, Each smiling calm, each raging storm, That swept across my early skies. Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs Before my window sweep and sway, And chafe in tortures of unrest. My chin sinks down upon my breast ; I cannot work on such a day, But only sit and dream and drowse. DIRGE Place this bunch of mignonette In her cold, dead hand ; When the golden sun is set, Where the poplars stand, Bury her from sun and day, Lay my little love away From my sight. She was like a modest flower Blown in sunny June, Warm as sun at noon's high hour, Chaster than the moon. Ah, her day was brief and bright, Earth has lost a star of light ; She is dead. Softly breathe her name to me, Ah, I loved her so. Gentle let your tribute be ; None may better know Her true worth than I who weep O'er her as she lies asleep Soft asleep. Lay these lilies on her breast, They are not more white Than the soul of her, at rest 'Neath their petals bright. Chant your aves soft and low, Solemn be your tread and slow, She is dead. Lay her here beneath the grass, Cool and green and sweet, Where the gentle brook may pass Crooning at her feet. Nature's bards shall come and sing, And the fairest flowers shall spring Where she lies. Safe above the water's swirl, She has crossed the bar ; Earth has lost a precious pearl, Heaven has gained a star, That shall ever sing and shine, Till it quells this grief of mine For my love. HYMN When storms arise And dark'ning skies About me threat'ning lower, To thee, O Lord, I raise mine eyes, To thee my tortured spirit flies For solace in that hour. Thy mighty arm Will let no harm OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 179 Come near me nor befall me ; Thy voice shall quiet my alarm, When life's great battle waxeth warm No foeman shall appall me. Upon thy breast Secure I rest, From sorrow and vexation ; No more by sinful cares oppressed, But in thy presence ever blest, O God of my salvation. PREPARATION The little bird sits in the nest and sings A shy, soft song to the morning light ; And it flutters a little and prunes its wings. The song is halting and poor and brief, And the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf; But the note is a prelude to sweeter things, And the busy bill and the flutter slight Are proving the wings for a bolder flight! THE SECRET What says the wind to the waving trees ? What says the wave to the river ? What means the sigh in the passing breeze ? Why do the rushes quiver ? Have you not heard the fainting cry Of the flowers that said " Good-bye, good- bye"? List how the gray dove moans and grieves Under the woodland cover ; List to the drift of the falling leaves, List to the wail of the lover. Have you not caught the message heard Already by wave and breeze and bird ? Come, come away to the river's bank, Come in the early morning ; Come when the grass with dew is dank, There you will find the warning A hint in the kiss of the quickening air Of the secret that birds and breezes bear. 11 THE WIND AND THE SEA I stood by the shore at the death of day, As the sun sank flaming red ; And the face of the waters that spread away Was as gray as the face of the dead. And I heard the cry of the wanton sea And the moan of the wailing wind ; For love's sweet pain in his heart had he, But the gray old sea had sinned. The wind was young and the sea was old But their cries went up together ; The wind was warm and the sea was cold, For age makes wintry weather. So they cried aloud and they wept amain Till the sky grew dark to hear it ; And out of its folds crept the misty rain, In its shroud, like a troubled spirit. For the wind was wild with a hopeless love, And the sea was sad at heart At many a crime that he wot of, Wherein he had played his part. He thought of the gallant ships gone down By the will of his wicked waves ; And he thought how the churchyard in the town Held the sea-made widows' graves. The wild wind thought of the love he had left Afar in an Eastern land, And he longed, as long the much bereft, For the touch of her perfumed hand. In his winding wail and his deep-heaved sigh His aching grief found vent ; While the sea looked up at the bending sky And murmured : " I repent." But e'en as he spoke, a ship came by, That bravely ploughed the main, And a light came into the sea's green eye, And his heart grew hard again. THE LIFE AND WORKS Then he spoke to the wind : " Friend, seest thou not Yon vessel is eastward bound ? Pray speed with it to the happy spot Where thy loved one may be found." And the wind rose up in a dear delight, And after the good ship sped ; But the crafty sea by his wicked might Kept the vessel ever ahead. Till the wind grew fierce in his despair, And white on the brow and lip. He tore his garments and tore his hair, And fell on the flying ship. And the ship went down, for a rock was there, And the sailless sea loomed black ; While burdened again with dole and care, The wind came moaning back. And still he moans from his bosom hot Where his raging grief lies pent, And ever when the ships come not, The sea says : " I repent." THE DESERTED PLANTATION Oh, de grubbin'-hoe's a-rustin* in de co'nah, An' de plow's a-tumblin' down in de fiel', While de whippo'will's a-wailin' lak a mou'nah When his stubbo'n hea't is tryin' ha'd to yiel'. In de furrers whah de co'n was allus wavin', Now de weeds is growin' green an' rank an' tall ; An' de s wallers roun' de whole place is a-bravin' Lak dey thought deir folks had allus owned it all. An* de big house Stan's all quiet lak an' solemn, Not a blessed soul in pa'lor, po'ch, er lawn; Not a guest, ner not a ca'iage lef to haul 'em, Fu' de ones dat tu'ned de latch-string out air gone. An' de banjo's voice is silent in de qua'ters, D'ain't a hymn ner co'n-song ringin' in de air; But de murmur of a branch's passin' waters Is de only soun' dat breks de stillness dere. Whah's de da'kies, dem dat used to be a dancin* Evry night befo' de ole cabin do' ? Whah's de chillun, dem dat used to be a-prancin* Er a-rollin' in de san' er on de flo' ? Whah's ole' Uncle Mordecai an' Uncle Aaron ? Whah's Aunt Doshy, Sam, an' Kit, an' all de res' ? Whah's ole Tom de da'ky fiddlah, how's he farin'? Whah's de gals dat used to sing an' dance de bes' ? Gone ! not one o' dem is lef to tell de story ; Dey have lef de deah ole place to fall away. Couldn't one o' dem dat seed it in its glory Stay to watch it in de hour of decay ? Dey have lef de ole plantation to de swallers, But it hoi's in me a lover till de las' ; Fu' I fin' hyeah in de memory dat follers All dat loved me an' dat I loved in de pas'. So I'll stay an' watch de deah ole place an' tend it Ez I used to in de happy days gone by. 'Twell de othah Mastah thinks it's time to end it, An' calls me to my qua'ters in de sky. DE PLOW'S A-TUMBLIN' DOWN IN DE KIEL' -_ O'ER THE FIELDS WITH HEAVY TREAD OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 183 A CORN-SONG On the wide veranda white, In the purple failing light, Sits the master while the sun is slowly burning ; And his dreamy thoughts are drowned In the softly flowing sound Of the corn-songs of the field-hands slow returning. Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n ; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done. O'er the fields with heavy tread, Light of heart and high of head, Though the halting steps be labored, slow, and weary ; Still the spirits brave and strong Find a comforter in song, And their corn song rises ever loud and cheery. Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n ; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done. To the master in his seat, Comes the burden, full and sweet, Of the mellow minor music growing clearer, As the toilers raise the hymn, Thro' the silence dusk and dim, To the cabin's restful shelter drawing nearer. Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n ; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done. And a tear is in the eye Of the master sitting by, As he listens to the echoes low-replying To the music's fading calls As it faints away and falls Into silence, deep within the cabin dying. Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n ; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done. RIDING TO TOWN When labor is light and the morning is fair, I find it a pleasure beyond all compare To hitch up my nag and go hurrying down And take Katie May for a ride into town ; For bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la our lay. There's joy in a song as we rattle along In the light of the glorious day. A coach would be fine, but a spring wagon's good ; My jeans are a match for Kate's gingham and hood ; The hills take us up and the vales take us down, But what matters that ? we are riding to town, And bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la sing we. There's never a care may live in the air That is filled with the breath of our glee. And after we've started, there's naught can repress The thrill of our hearts in their wild hap- piness ; The heavens may smile or the heavens may frown, And it's all one to us when we're riding to town. For bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la we shout, For our hearts they are clear and there's nothing to fear, And we've never a pain nor a doubt. The wagon is weak and the roadway is rough, And tho' it is long it is not long enough, For mid all my ecstasies this is the crown To sit beside Katie and ride into town, When bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la our song ; 184 THE LIFE AND WORKS And if I had my way, I'd be willing to pay If the road could be made twice as long. WE WEAR THE MASK We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, This debt we pay to human guile ; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties. Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs ? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask. We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile ; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask ! THE MEADOW LARK Though the winds be dank, And the sky be sober, And the grieving Day In a mantle gray Hath let her waiting maiden robe her, All the fields along I can hear the song Of the meadow lark, As she flits and flutters, And laughs at the thunder when it mutters. . O happy bird, of heart most gay To sing when skies are gray ! When the clouds are full, And the tempest master Lets the loud winds sweep From his bosom deep Like heralds of some dire disaster, Then the heart alone To itself makes moan ; And the songs come slow, While the tears fall fleeter, And silence than song by far seems sweeter. Oh, few are they along the way Who sing when skies are gray ! ONE LIFE Oh, I am hurt to death, my Love ; The shafts of Fate have pierced my striving heart, And I am sick and weary of The endless pain and smart. My soul is weary of the strife, And chafes at life, and chafes at life. Time mocks me with fair promises ; A blooming future grows a barren past, Like rain my fair full-blossomed Irees Unburdened in the blast. The harvest fails on grain and tree, Nor comes to me, nor comes to me. The stream that bears my hopes abreast Turns ever from my way its pregnant tide. My laden boat, torn from its rest, Drifts to the other side. So all my hopes are set astray, And drift away, and drift away. The lark sings to me at the morn, And near me wings her skyward-soaring flight; But pleasure dies as soon as born, The owl takes up the night, And night seems long and doubly dark ; I miss the lark, I miss the lark. Let others labor as they may, I'll sing and sigh alone, and write my line. Their fate is theirs, or grave or gay, And mine shall still be mine. I know the world holds joy and glee, But not for me, 'tis not for me. CHANGING TIME The cloud looked in at the window. And said to the day, " Be dark ! " And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane, To stifle the song of the lark. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 185 The wind sprang up in the tree tops And shrieked with a voice of death, But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees, Was touched with a violet's breath. DEAD A knock is at her door, but she is weak ; Strange dews have washed the paint streaks from her cheek ; She does not rise, but, ah, this friend is known, And knows that he will find her all alone. So opens he the door, and with soft tread Goes straightway to the richly curtained bed. His soft hand on her dewy head he lays. A strange white light she gives him for his gaze. Then, looking on the glory of her charms, He crushes her resistless in his arms. Stand back ! look not upon this bold em- brace, Nor view the calmness of the wanton's face; With joy unspeakable and 'bated breath, She keeps her last, long liaison with death ! *A CONFIDENCE Uncle John, he makes me tired ; Thinks 'at he's jest so all-fired Smart, 'at he kin pick up, so, Ever'thing he wants to know. Tried to ketch me up last night, But you bet I wouldn't bite. I jest kept the smoothes' face, But I led him sich a chase, Couldn't corner me, you bet I skipped all the traps he set. Makin' out he wan'ed to know Who was this an' that girl's beau ; So's he'd find out, don't you see, Who was goin' 'long with me. But I answers jest ez sly, An' I never winks my eye, Tell he hollers with a whirl, * Look here, ain't you got a girl ? " Y' ought 'o seen me spread my eyes, Like he'd took me by surprise, An' I said, " Oh, Uncle John, Never thought o'havin' one." An' somehow that seemed to tickle Him an' he shelled out a nickel. Then you ought to seen me leave Jest a-laffin' in my sleeve. Fool him well, I guess I did ; He ain't on to this here kid. Got a girl ! well, I guess yes, Got a dozen more or less, But I got one reely one, Not no foolin' ner no fun ; Fur I'm sweet on her, you see, An' I ruther guess 'at she Must be kinder sweet on me, So we're keepin' company. Honest Injun ! this is true, Ever' word I'm tellin' you ! But you won't be sich a scab Ez to run aroun' an' blab. Mebbe 'tain't the way with you, But you know some fellers do. Spoils a girl to let her know 'At you talk about her so. Don't you know her ? her name's Liz, Nicest girl in town she is. Purty ? ah, git out, you gilly Liz 'ud purt' nigh knock you silly. Y' ought 'o see her when she's dressed All up in her Sunday best, All the fellers nudgin' me, An' a-whisperin', gemunee ! Betcher life 'at I feel proud When she passes by the crowd. 'T's kinder nice to be a-goin' With a girl 'at makes some showin' One you know 'at hain't no snide, Makes you feel so satisfied. An' I'll tell you she's a trump, Never even seen her jump Like some silly girls 'ud do, When I'd hide and holler " Boo ! " She'd jest laugh an' say " Git out ! What you hollerin' about ? " When some girls 'ud have a fit That 'un don't git skeered a bit, Never makes a bit o' row When she sees a worm er cow. Them kind's few an' far between ; Bravest girl I ever seen. Tell you 'nuther thing she'll do, Mebbe you won't think it's true, 1 86 THE LIFE AND WORKS But if she's jest got a dime She'll go halvers ever' time. Ah, you goose, you needn't laff ; That's the kinder girl to have. If you knowed her like I do, Guess you'd kinder like her too. Tell you somep'n' if you'll swear You won't tell it anywhere. Oh, you got to cross yer heart Earnest, truly, 'fore I start. Well, one day I kissed her cheek ; Gee, but I felt cheap an' weak, 'Cause at first she kinder flared, 'N', gracious goodness ! I was scared. But I needn't been, fer la ! Why, she never told her ma. That's what I call grit, don't you ? Sich a girl's worth stickin' to. PHYLLIS Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day, Few are my years, but my griefs are not few, Ever to youth should each day be a May- day, Warm wind and rose-breath and dia- monded dew Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day. Oh, for the sunlight that shines on a May- day ! Only the cloud hangeth over my life. Love that should bring me youth's hap- piest heyday Brings me but seasons of sorrow and strife ; Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day. Sunshine or shadow, or gold day or gray day, Life must be lived as our destinies rule ; Leisure or labor or work day of play day Feasts for the famous and fun for the fool; Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day. RIGHT'S SECURITY What if the wind do howl without, And turn the creaking weather-vane ; What if the arrows of the rain Do beat against the window-pane ? Art thou not armored strong and fast Against the sallies of the blast ? Art thou not sheltered safe and well Against the flood's insistent swell ? What boots it, that thou stand'st alone, And laughest in the battle's face When all the weak have fled the place And let their feet and fears keep pace ? Thou wavest still thine ensign, high, And shoutest thy loud battle-cry ; Higher than e'er the tempest roared, It cleaves the silence like a sword. Right arms and armors, too, that man Who will not compromise with wrong ; Though single, he must front the throng. And wage the battle hard and long. Minorities, since time began, Have shown the better side of man ; And often in the lists of Time One man has made a cause sublime ! IF If life were but a dream, my Love, And death the waking time ; If day had not a beam, my Love, And night had not a rhyme, A barren, barren world were this Without one saving gleam ; I'd only ask that with a kiss You'd wake me from the dream. If dreaming were the sum of days, And loving were the bane ; If battling for a wreath of bays Could soothe a heart in pain, I'd scorn the meed of battle's might, All other aims above I'd choose the human's higher right, To suffer and to love ! THE SONG My soul, lost in the music's mist, Roamed, rapt, 'neath skies of amethyst. The cheerless streets grew summer meads, The Son of Phcebus spurred his steeds, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 187 And, wand'ring down the mazy tune, December lost its way in June, While from a verdant vale I heard The piping of a love-lorn bird. A something in the tender strain Revived an old, long conquered pain, And as in depths of many seas, My heart was drowned in memories. The tears came welling to my eyes, Nor could I ask it otherwise ; For, oh ! a sweetness seems to last Amid the dregs of sorrows past. It stirred a chord that here of late I'd grown to think could not vibrate. It brought me back the trust of youth, The world again was joy and truth. And Avice, blooming like a bride, Once more stood trusting at my side. But still, with bosom desolate, The 'lorn bird sang to find his mate. Then there are trees, and lights and stars, The silv'ry tinkle of guitars ; And throbs again as throbbed that waltz, Before I knew that hearts were false. Then like a cold wave on a shore, Comes silence and she sings no more. I wake, I breathe, I think again, And walk the sordid ways of men. SIGNS OF THE TIMES Air a-gittin' cool an' coolah, Frost a-comin' in de night, Hicka'nuts an' wa'nuts fallin', Possum keepin' out o' sight. Tu'key struttin' in de ba'nya'd, Nary step so proud ez his ; Keep on struttin', Mistah Tu'key, Yo' do' know whut time it is. Cidah press commence a-squeakin' Eatin' apples sto'ed away, Chillun swa'min' 'roun' lak ho'nets, Huntin' aigs ermung de hay. Mistah Tu'key keep on gobblin* At de geese a-flyin' souf, Oomph ! dat bird do' know whut's comin' ; Ef he did he'd shet his mouf. Pumpkin gittin' good an' yallah Mek me open up my eyes ; Seems lak it's a-lookin' at me Jes' a-la'in' dah sayin* " Pies." Tu'key gobbler gwine 'roun' bio win', Gwine 'roun' gibbin* sass an' slack ; Keep on talkin', Mistah Tu'key, You ain't seed no almanac. Fa'mer walkin' th'oo de ba'nya'd Seein' how things is comin' on, Sees ef all de fowls is fatt'nin' Good times comin' sho's you bo'n. Hyeahs dat tu'key gobbler braggin', Den his face break in a smile Nebbah min', you sassy rascal, He's gwine nab you atter while. Choppin* suet in de kitchen, Stonin' raisins in de hall, Beef a-cookin' fu* de mince meat, Spices groun' I smell 'em all. Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin', You ain' luned de sense ob feah, You ol' fool, yo' naik's in dangah, Do' you know Thanksgibbin's hyeah ? WHY FADES A DREAM? Why fades a dream ? An iridescent ray Flecked in between the tryst Of night and day. Why fades a dream ? Of consciousness the shade Wrought out by lack of light and made Upon life's stream. Why fades a dream ? That thought may thrive, So fades the fleshless dream ; Lest men should learn to trust The things that seem. So fades a dream, That living thought may grow And like a waxing star-beam glow Upon life's stream So fades a dream. 1 88 THE LIFE AND WORKS THE SPARROW A little bird, with plumage brown, Beside my window flutters down, A moment chirps its little strain, Then taps upon my window-pane, And chirps again, and hops along, To call my notice to its song ; But I work on, nor heed its lay, Till, in neglect, it flies away./ So birds of peace and hope and love Come fluttering earthward from above, To settle on life's window-sills, And ease our load of earthly ills ; But we, in traffic's rush and din Too deep engaged to let them in, With deadened heart and sense plod on, Nor know our loss till they are gone. SPEAKIN' 0' CHRISTMAS Breezes blowin' middlin' brisk, Snow-flakes thro* the air a-whisk, Fallin' kind o' soft an' light, Not enough to make things white, But jest sorter siftin* down So's to cover up the brown Of the dark world's rugged ways 'N' make things look like holidays. Not smoothed over, but jest specked, Sorter strainin' fur effect, An* not quite a-gittin' through What it started in to do. Mercy sakes ! it does seem queer Christmas day is 'most nigh here. Somehow it don't seem to me Christmas like it used to be, Christmas with its ice an' snow, Christmas of the long ago. You could feel its stir an' hum Weeks an' weeks before it come ; Somethin' in the atmosphere Told you when the day was near, Didn't need no almanacs ; That was one o' Nature's fac's. Every cottage decked out gay Cedar wreaths an' holly spray An' the stores, how they were drest, Tinsel tell you couldn't rest ; Every winder fixed up pat, Candy canes, an' things like that ; Noah's arks, an' guns, an' dolls, An' all kinds o' fol-de-rols. Then with frosty bells a-chime, Slidin' down the hills o' time, Right amidst the fun an' din Christmas come a-bustlin' in, Raised his cheery voice to call Out a welcome to us all, Hale and hearty, strong an' bluff, That was Christmas, sure enough. Snow knee-deep an' coastin' fine, Frozen mill-ponds all ashine, Seemin' jest to lay in wait, Beggin* you to come an' skate. An' you'd git your gal an' go Stumpin' cheerily thro' the snow, Feelin' pleased an' skeert an' warm 'Cause she had a-holt yore arm. Why, when Christmas come in, we Spent the whole glad day in glee, Havin' fun an' feastin' high An' some courtin' on the sly. Bustin' in some neighbor's door An* then suddenly, before He could give his voice a lift, Yellin' at him, Christmas gift." Now sich things are never heard, " Merry Christmas " is the word. But it's only change o' name, An' means givin' jest the same. There's too many new-styled ways Now about the holidays. I'd jest like once more to see Christmas like it used to be ! LONESOME Mother's gone a-visitm' to spend a month er two, An', oh, the house is lonesome ez a nest whose birds has flew To other trees to build ag'in ; the rooms seem jest so bare That the echoes run like sperrits from the kitchen to the stair. The shelters flap more lazy-like 'n what they used to do, Sence mother's gone a-visitin* to spend a month er two. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 189 We've killed the fattest chicken an* we've cooked her to a turn ; We've made the richest gravy, but I jest don't give a durn Fur nothin' 'at I drink er eat, er nothin' 'at I see. The food ain't got the pleasant taste it used to have to me. They's somep'n' stickin' in my throat ez tight ez hardened glue, Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two. The hollyhocks air jest ez pink, they're double ones at that, An* I wuz prouder of 'em than a baby of a cat. But now I don't go near 'em, though they nod an' blush at me, Fur they's somep'n' seems to gall me in their keerless sort o' glee An' all their fren'ly noddin' an' their blushin* seems to say : " You're purty lonesome, John, old boy, sence mother's gone away." The neighbors ain't so fren'ly ez it seems they'd ort to be ; They seem to be a-lookin' kinder side- ways like at me, A-kinder feared they'd tech me off ez ef I wuz a match, An' all because 'at mother's gone an' I'm a-keepin' batch ! I'm shore I don't do nothin' worse 'n what I used to do 'Fore mother went a-visitin' to spent a month er two. The sparrers ac's more fearsome like an' won't hop quite so near, The cricket's chirp is sadder, an' the sky ain't ha'f so clear; When ev'nin' comes, I set an' smoke tell my eyes begin to swim, An' things aroun' commence to look all blurred an' faint an' dim. Well, I guess I'll have to own up 'at I'm feelin' purty blue Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two. GROWIN' GRAY Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray, An' it beats ole Ned to see the way 'At the crow's feet's a-getherin' aroun' yore eyes ; Tho' it oughtn't to cause me no su'prise, Fur there's many a sun 'at you've seen rise An' many a one you've seen go down Sence yore step was light an' yore hair was brown, An* storms an' snows have had their way Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray. Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray, An* the youthful pranks 'at you used to play Are dreams of a far past long ago That lie in a heart where the fires burn low That has lost the flame though it kept the glow, An* spite of drivin' snow an' storm, Beats bravely on forever warm. December holds the place of May Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray. Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray Who cares what the carpin' youngsters say ? For, after all, when the tale is told, Love proves if a man is young or old ! Old age can't make the heart grow cold When it does the will of an honest mind ; When it beats with love fur all mankind ; Then the night but leads to a fairer day Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray ! TO THE MEMORY OF MARY YOUNG God has his plans, and what if we With our sight be too blind to see Their full fruition ; cannot he, Who made it, solve the mystery ? One whom we loved has fall'n asleep, Not died ; although her calm be deep, Some new, unknown, and strange surprise In Heaven holds enrapt her eyes. 1 90 THE LIFE AND WORKS And can you blame her that her gaze Is turned away from earthly ways, When to her eyes God's light and love Have giv'n the view of things above ? A gentle spirit sweetly good, The pearl of precious womanhood ; Who heard the voice of duty clear, And found her mission soon and near. She loved all nature, flowers fair, The warmth of sun, the kiss of air, The birds that filled the sky with song, The stream that laughed its way along. Her home to her was shrine and throne, But one love held her not alone ; She sought out poverty and grief, Who touched her robe and found relief. So sped she in her Master's work, Too busy and too brave to shirk, When through the silence, dusk and dim, God called her and she fled to him. We wonder at the early call, And tears of sorrow can but fall For her o'er whom we spread the pall ; But faith, sweet faith, is over all. The house is dust, the voice is dumb, But through undying years to come, The spark that glowed within her soul Shall light our footsteps to the goal. She went her way ; but oh, she trod The path that led her straight to God. Such lives as this put death to scorn ; They lose our day to find God's morn. WHEN MALINDY SINGS This poem has been adjudged as the best of his dialect pieces. It has been set to music and sung in homes all over the land. It was dedicated to his mother whose name Matilda, was slightly modified to suit the rhythm and melody of the verses. Mr. Dunbar recited this poem before a critical audience in London, England, and it was given very complimentary mention in the London Daily News. While in New York in 1896, Mr. Dun- bar was tendered a reception by the entire Ftaff of the Century Magazine, and was asked to read a few of his poems. This poem was among those recited that day. His hearers were loud in their applause, and showered compliments and congratula- tions upon its author. Several of Mr. Dunbar's poems had been published in the Century before that date, but, full of the spirit of mischief, the young black man turned to Mr. Gilder, the editor of the Century, and said : "That's one you returned." Mr. Gilder was a bit embarrassed, but gallantly said : " We'll take it yet." " Sorry," replied Dunbar laughingly, " but you're too late. It has now been accepted by another magazine." G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy Put dat music book away ; What's de use to keep on tryin' ? Ef you practise twell you're gray, You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' Lak de ones dat rants and rings F'om the kitchen to de big woods When Malindy sings. You ain't got de nachel o'gans Fu' to make de soun' come right, You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's Fu' to make it sweet an' light. Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, An' I'm tellin' you fu' true, When hit comes to raal right singin', Tain't no easy thing to do. Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, Lookin' at de lines an' dots, When dey ain't no one kin sence it, An' de chune comes in, in spots ; But fu' real melojous music, Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me When Malindy sings. Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy ? Blessed soul, tek up de cross ! Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? Well, you don't know whut you los'. Y' ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things, PUT DAT Music BOOK AWAY WHILE MALINDY SINGS OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 193 Heish dey moufs an' hides dey faces When Malindy sings. Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', Lay his fiddle on de she'f ; Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle, 'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. Folks a-playin' on de banjo Draps dey fingahs on de strings Bless yo' soul fu'gits to move 'em, When Malindy sings. She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, " Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices, Timid-lak a-drawin' neah; Den she tu'ns to Rock of Ages," Simply to de cross she clings, An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' When Malindy sings. Who dat says dat humble praises Wif de Master nevah counts ? Heish yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, Ez hit rises up an' mounts Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, Way above dis buryin' sod, Ez hit makes its way in glory To de very gates of God ! Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music Of an edicated band ; An' hit's dearah dan de battle's Song o' triumph in de Ian'. It seems holier dan evenin' When de solemn chu'ch bell rings, Ez I sit an' ca'mly listen While Malindy sings. Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me ! Mandy, mek dat chile keep still ; Don't you hyeah de echoes callin' F'om de valley to de hill ? Let me listen, I can hyeah it, Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings, Sof an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," Ez Malindy sings. THE PARTY Of this production William Dean Howells said in his notable article in Harper's Weekly : " I wish I could give the whole of the piece which he calls The Pahty,' but I must content myself with a passage or two. They will impart some sense of the jolly rush of movement, its vivid pictur- esqueness, its broad characterization, and will perhaps suffice to show what vistas into the simple, sensuous, joyous nature of his race Mr. Dunbar's work opens." He then quoted a number of the lines. " One sees," continued Mr. Howells, " how the poet exults in his material as the artist always does. It is not for him to blink its commonness, or to be ashamed of its rudeness : and in his treatment of .it he has been able to bring us nearer to the heart of primitive human nature in his race than any one else has yet done." (These quotations from Mr. Howells' article are used by permission and courtesy of Messrs. Harper & Brothers.) Dey had a gread big pahty down to Tom's de othah night ; Was I dah ? You bet ! I nevah in my life see sich a sight ; All de folks f'om fou' plantations was in- vited, an' dey come, Dey come troopin' thick ez chillun when dey hyeahs a fife an' drum. Evahbody dressed deir fines' Heish yo' mouf an' git away, Ain't seen no sich fancy dressin' sence las' quah'tly meetin' day ; Gals all dressed in silks an' satins, not a wrinkle ner a crease, Eyes a-battin', teeth a-shinin', haih breshed back ez slick ez grease ; Sku'ts all tucked an' puffed an' ruffled, evah blessed seam an' stitch ; Ef you'd seen 'em wif deir mistus, couldn't swahed to which was which. Men all dressed up in Prince Alberts, swallertails 'u'd tek yo' bref ! I cain't tell you nothin' 'bout it, yo' ought to seen it fu' yo'se'f. Who was dah ? Now who you askin' ? How you 'spect I gwine to know ? You mus' think I stood an' counted evah- body at de do*. 194 THE LIFE AND WORKS Ole man Babah's house boy Isaac, brung dat gal, Malindy Jane, Huh a-hangin' to his elbow, him a struttin' wif a cane ; My, but Hahvey Jones was jealous ! seemed to stick him lak a tho'n ; But he laughed with Viney Cahteh, tryin' ha'd to not let on, But a pusson would 'a' noticed fom de d'rection of his look, Dat he was watchin' ev'ry step dat Ike an' Lindy took. Ike he foun' a cheer an' asked huh : " Won't you set down ? " wif a smile, An* she answe'd up a-bowin', " Oh, I reckon 'tain't wuth while." Dat was jes' fu' style, I reckon, 'cause she sot down jes' de same, An' she stayed dah 'twell he fetched huh fu' to jine some so't o' game ; Den I hyeahd huh sayin* propah, ez she riz to go away, " Oh, you raly mus' excuse me, fu' I hardly keers to play." But I seen huh in a minute wif de othahs on de flo', An* dah wasn't any one o' dem a-playin' any mo' ; Comin' down de flo' a-bowin' an' a-swayin' an' a-swingin', Puttin' on huh high-toned mannahs all de time dat she was singin' : " Oh, swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun', Swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun', Oh, swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun', Fa' you well, my dahlin'." Had to laff at ole man Johnson, he's a caution now, you bet Hittin' clost onto a hunderd, but he's spry an' nimble yet ; He 'lowed how a-so't o' gigglin', " I ain't ole, I'll let you see, D'ain't no use in gittin' feeble, now you youngstahs jes' watch me," An' he grabbed ole Aunt Marier weighs th'ee hunderd mo' er less, An' he spun huh 'roun' de cabin swingin' Johnny lak de res'. Evahbody laffed an* hollahed : " Go it Swing huh, Uncle Jim ! " An' he swung huh too, I reckon, lak a youngstah, who but him. Dat was bettah'n young Scott Thomas, tryin' to be so awful smaht. You know when dey gits to singin' an' dey comes to dat ere paht : " In some lady's new brick house, In some 'lady's gyahden. Ef you don't let me out, I will jump out, So fa' you well, my dahlin'." Den dey's got a circle 'roun' you, an' you's got to break de line ; Well, dat dahky was so anxious, lak to bust hisse'f a-tryin' ; Kep' on blund'rin' 'roun' an' foolin' 'twell he giv' one gread big jump, Broke de line, an' lit head-fo'most in de fiahplace right plump; Hit 'ad fiah in it, mind you; well, I thought my soul I'd bust, Tried my best to keep fom laffin', but hit seemed like die I must ! Y' ought to seen dat man a-scramblin' fom de ashes an' de grime. Did it bu'n him ! Sich a question, why he didn't give it time' ; Th'ow'd dem ashes and dem cindahs evah which-a-way I guess, An' you nevah did, I reckon, clap yo 1 eyes on sich a mess ; Fu' he sholy made a picter an' a funny one to boot, Wif his clothes all full o' ashes an' his face all full o' soot. Well, hit laked to stopped de pahty, an' I reckon lak ez not Dat it would ef Tom's wife, Mandy, hadn't happened on de spot, To invite us out to suppah well, we scrambled to de table, An' I'd lak to tell you 'bout it what we had but I ain't able, Mention jes' a few things, dough I know I hadn't orter, Fu' I know 'twill staht a hank'rin' an' yo' mouf '11 'mence to worter. We had wheat bread white ez cotton an' a egg pone jes' like gol', OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 195 Hog jole, bilin' hot an' steamin' roasted shoat an' ham sliced cold Look out ! What's de mattah wif you ? Don't be Tallin' on de flo' ; Ef it's go'n' to 'feet you dat way> I won't tell you nothin' mo'. Dah now well, we had hot chittlin's now you's tryin' ag'in to fall, Cain't you stan' to hyeah about it ? S'pose you'd been an' seed it all ; Seed dem gread big sweet pertaters, layin' by de possum's side, Seed dat coon in all his gravy, reckon den you'd up and died ! Mandy 'lowed " you all mus' 'scuse me, d* wa'n't much upon my she'ves, But I's done my bes' to suit you, so set down an' he'p yo'se'ves." Tom, he 'lowed : " I don't b'lieve in 'pol- ogizin' an' perfessin', Let 'em tek it lak dey ketch it. Eldah Thompson, ask de blessin'." Wish you'd seed dat colo'ed preachah cleah his th'oat an' bow his head ; One eye shet, an' one eye open, dis is evah wud he said : " Lawd, look down in tendah mussy on sich generous hea'ts ez dese; Make us truly thankful, amen. Pass dat possum, ef you please ! " Well, we eat and drunk ouah po'tion, 'twell dah wasn't nothin' lef, An' we felt jes' like new sausage, we was mos' nigh stuffed to def ! Tom, he knowed how we'd be feelin', so he had de fiddlah 'roun', An' he made us cleah de cabin fu' to dance dat suppah down. Jim, de fiddlah, chuned his fiddle, put some rosum on his bow, Set a pine box on de table, mounted it an* let huh go ! He's a fiddlah, now I tell you, an' he made dat fiddle ring, Twell de ol'est an' de lamest had to give deir feet a fling. Jigs, cotillions, reels an' break-downs, cordrills an' a waltz er two ; Bless yo' soul, dat music winged 'em an' dem people lak to flew. Cripple Joe, cL ole rheumatic, danced dat flo' f om side to middle, Th'owed away his crutch an' hopped it, what's rheumatics 'ginst a fiddle ? Eldah Thompson got so tickled dat he lak to los' his grace, Had to tek bofe feet an* hoi' dem so's to keep 'em in deir place. An' de Christuns an' de sinnahs got so mixed up on dat flo', Dat I don't see how dey'd pahted ef de trump had chanced to blow. Well, we danced dat way an' capahed in de mos' redic'lous way, 'Twell de roostahs in de bahnyard cleahed deir th'oats an' crowed fu' day. Y' ought to been dah, fu' I tell you evah- thing was rich an' prime, An' dey ain't no use in talkin', we jes' had one scrumptious time ! LOVE'S APOTHEOSIS Love me. I care not what the circling years To me may do. If, but in spite of time and tears, You prove but true. Love me albeit grief shall dim mine eyes, And tears bedew, I shall not e'en complain, for then my skies Shall still be blue. Love me, and though the winter snow shall pile, And leave me chill, Thy passion's warmth shall make for me, meanwhile, A sun-kissed hill. And when the days have lengthened into years, And I grow old, Oh, spite of pains and griefs and cares and fears, Grow thou not cold. Then hand and hand we shall pass up the hill, I say not down ; 196 THE LIFE AND WORKS That twain go up, of love, who've loved their fill, To gain love's crown. Love me, and let my life take up thine own, As sun the dew. Come, sit, my queen, for in my heart a throne Awaits for you ! THE PARADOX I am the mother of sorrows, I am the ender of grief; I am the bud and the blossom, I am the late- falling leaf. I am thy priest and thy poet, I am thy serf and thy king ; I cure the tears of the heartsick, When I come near they shall sing. White are my hands as the snowdrop ; Swart are my fingers as clay ; Dark is my frown as the midnight, Fair is my brow as the day. Battle and war are my minions, Doing my will as divine ; I am the calmer of passions, Peace is a nursling of mine. Speak to me gently or curse me, Seek me or fly from my sight ; I am thy fool in the morning, Thou art my slave in the night. Down to the grave will I take thee, Out from the noise of the strife ; Then shalt thou see me and know me Death, then, no longer, but life. Then shalt thou sing at my coming, Kiss me with passionate breath, Clasp me and smile to have thought me Aught save the foeman of Death. Come to me, brother, when weary, Come when thy lonely heart swells ; I'll guide thy footsteps and lead thee Down where the Dream Woman dwells. OVER THE HILLS Over the hills and the valleys of dreaming Slowly I take my way. Life is the night with its dream-visions teeming, Death is the waking at day. Down thro' the dales and the bowers of loving, Singing, I roam afar. Daytime or night-time, I constantly rov- ing, Dearest one, thou art my star. WITH THE LARK Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy, Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy; Darkness for sighing and daylight for song, Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong. All the night through, though I moan in the dark, I wake in the morning to sing with the lark. Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves, Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves. But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky, I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry ; And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark, I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark. On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be, Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree, There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known, For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own ; And though life has been h*rd and death's pathway been dark, I shall wake in th? morning to sing with the lark. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 197 IN SUMMER Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the sun ! And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue, And a belt where the rivers run. And now for the kiss of the wind, And the touch of the air's soft hands, With the rest from strife and the heat of life, With the freedom of lakes and lands. I envy the farmer's boy Who sings as he follows the plow ; While the shining green of the young blades lean To the breezes that cool his brow. He sings to the dewy morn, No thought of another's ear; But the song "he sings is a chant for kings And the whole wide world to hear. He sings of the joys of life, Of the pleasures of work and rest, From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art; 'Tis a song of the merriest. O ye who toil in the town, And ye who moil in the mart, Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong Shall renew your joy of heart. Oh, poor were the worth of the world If never a song were heard, If the sting of grief had no relief, And never a heart were stirred. So, long as the streams run down, And as long as the robins trill, Let us taunt old Care with a merry air, And sing in the face of ill. THE MYSTIC SEA The smell of the sea in my nostrils, The sound of the sea in mine ears; The touch of the spray on my burning face, Like the mist of reluctant tears. The blue of the sky above me, The green of the waves beneath ; The sun flashing down on a gray-white sail Like a scimetar from its sheath. And ever the breaking billows, And ever the rocks' disdain ; And ever a thrill in mine inmost heart That my reason cannot explain. So I say to my heart, " Be silent, The mystery of time is here; Death's way will be plain when we fathom the main, And the secret of life be clear." A SAILOR'S SONG Oh, for the breath of the briny deep, And the tug of a bellying sail, With the sea-gull's cry across the sky And a passing boatman's hail. For, be she fierce or be she gay, The sea is a famous friend alway. Ho ! for the plains where the dolphins play, And the bend of the masts and spars, And a fight at night with the wild sea-sprite When the foam has drowned the stars. And, pray, what joy can the landsman feel Like the rise and fall of a sliding keel ? Fair is the mead ; the lawn is fair And the birds sing sweet on the lea ; But the echo soft of a song aloft Is the strain that pleases me ; And swish of rope and ring of chain Are music to men who sail the main. Then, if you love me, let me sail While a vessel dares the deep; For the ship's my wife, and the breath of life Are the raging gales that sweep ; And when I'm done with calm and blast, A slide o'er the side, and rest at last. THE BOHEMIAN That Paul Dunbar like all real artists scorned convention and believed in a I 9 8 THE LIFE AND WORKS simple, natural existence, untrammeled by men's laws or foolish rules of etiquette, is shown in this brief bit of rhyme, which was composed after a conversation upon the subject with a sympathetic friend. Bring me the livery of no other man. I am my own to robe me at my pleasure. Accepted rules to me disclose no treasure : What is the chief who shall my garments plan? No garb conventional but I'll attack it. (Come, why not don my spangled jacket ?) ABSENCE Good-night, my love, for I have dreamed of thee In waking dreams, until my soul is lost Is lost in passion's wide and shoreless sea, Where, like a ship, unruddered, it is tost Hither and thither at the wild waves' will. There is no potent Master's voice to still This newer, more tempestuous Galilee ! The stormy petrels of my fancy fly In warning course across the darkening green, And, like a frightened bird, my heart doth cry And seek to find some rock of rest be- tween The threatening sky and the relentless wave. It is not length of life that grief doth crave, But only calm and peace in which to die. Here let me rest upon this single hope, For oh, my wings are weary of the wind, And with its stress no more may strive or cope. One cry has dulled mine ears, mine eyes are blind, Would that o'er all the intervening space, I might fly forth and see thee face to face. I fly ; I search, but, love, in gloom I grope. Fly home, far bird, unto thy waiting nest ; Spread thy strong wings above the wind- swept sea. Beat the grim breeze with thy unruffled breast Until thou sittest wing to wing with me. Then, let the past bring up its tales of wrong ; We shall chant low our sweet connubial song, Till storm and doubt and past no more shall be ! HER THOUGHT AND HIS The gray of the sea, and the gray of the sky, A glimpse of the moon like a half-closed eye. The gleam on the waves and the light on the land, A thrill in my heart, and my sweet- heart's hand. She turned from the sea with a woman's grace, And the light fell soft on her upturned face, And I thought of the flood-tide of infinite bliss That would flow to my heart from a single kiss. But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask. But into her face there came a flame ; I wonder could she have been thinking the same? THE RIGHT TO DIE One evening Mr. Dunbar and a friend of whom he was very fond, and in whose presence the poet felt no restraint, were talking of suicide. The friend took the orthodox and popular view of the dreadful practice. Dunbar stood with his hands at his back before an open fire. Suddenly with up- turned eyes, and in earnest tones he began to improvise his reply in verse. So unusual was the sentiment and so daring the thought that his listener compelled him to take a seat at a desk and write it out ere the lines escaped him. Many of Dunbar's best OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR poems came thus, and passed away with his breath, as he did not pause to set them down. I have no fancy for that ancient cant That makes us masters of our destinies, And not our lives, to hold or give them up As will directs; I cannot, will not think That men, the subtle worms, who plot and plan And scheme and calculate with such shrewd wit, Are such great blund'ring fools as not to know When they have lived enough. Men court not death When there are sweets still left in life to taste. Nor will a brave man choose to live when he, Full deeply drunk of life, has reached the dregs, And knows that now but bitterness re- mains. He is the coward who, outfaced in this, Fears the false goblins of another life. I honor him who being much harassed Drinks of sweet courage until drunk of it, Then seizing Death, reluctant, by the hand, Leaps with him, fearless, to eternal peace ! BEHIND THE ARRAS As in some dim baronial hall restrained, A prisoner sits, engirt by secret doors And waving tapestries that argue forth Strange passages into the outer air ; So in this dimmer room which we call life, Thus sits the soul and marks with eye in- tent That mystic curtain o'er the portal death ; Still deeming that behind the arras lies The lambent way that leads to lasting light. Poor fooled and foolish soul ! Know now that death Is but a blind, false door that nowhere leads, And gives no hope of exit final, free. 12 199 WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES In the forenoon's restful quiet) When the boys are off at school, When the window lights are shaded And the chimney-corner cool, Then the old man seeks his armchair, Lights his pipe and settles back ; Falls a-dreaming as he draws it Till the smoke-wreaths gather black. And the tear-drops come a trickling Down his cheeks, a silver flow Smoke or memories you wonder, But you never ask him, no; For there's something almost sacred To the other family folks In those moods of silent dreaming When the old man smokes. Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming Of the love of other days And of how he used to lead her Through the merry dance's maze ; How he called her " little princess," And, to please her, used to twine Tender wreaths to crown her tresses, From the " matrimony vine." Then before his mental vision Comes, perhaps, a sadder day, When they left his little princess Sleeping with her fellow clay. How his young heart throbbed, and pained him ! Why, the memory of it chokes ! Is it of these things he's thinking When the old man smokes ? But some brighter thoughts possess him, For the tears are dried the while. And the old, worn face is wrinkled In a reminiscent smile, From the middle of the forehead To the feebly trembling lip, At some ancient prank remembered Or some long unheard-of quip. Then the lips relax their tension And the pipe begins to slide, Till in little clouds of ashes, It falls softly at his side ; 200 THE LIFE AND WORKS And his head bends low and lower Till his chin lies on his breast, And he sits in peaceful slumber Like a little child at rest. Dear old man, there's something sad'ning, In these dreamy moods of yours, Since the present proves so fleeting, All the past for you endures. Weeping at forgotten sorrows, Smiling at forgotten jokes ; Life epitomized in minutes, "When the old man smokes. THE GARRET The poverty which befel Mr. Dunbar while in London, and which would have wholly discouraged many another sensitive soul, proved only a frame upon which he hung beautiful garlands of song. The little poem, given herewith, shows that his English was a bit Londonized while in that city, but the philosophic cheerfulness was the same that came with him into the world, and forms the trim- ming of so many of his graceful poems. No doubt if he had been stranded on a desert island, he would have found abun- dant food for fun and would have written humorous verse at his own expense, to while the time away. Within a London garret high, Above the roofs and near the sky, My ill-rewarding pen I ply To win me bread. This little chamber, six by four, Is castle, study, den and more, Altho' no carpet decks the floor, Nor down, the bed. My room is rather bleak and bare ; I only have one broken chair, But then, there's plenty of fresh air, Some light, beside. What tho' I cannot ask my friends To share with me my odds and ends, A liberty my aerie lends, To most denied. The bore who falters at the stair No more shall be my curse and care, And duns shall fail to find my lair With beastly bills. When debts have grown and funds are short, I find it rather pleasant sport To live " above the common sort " With all their ills. I write my rhymes and sing away, And dawn may come or dusk or day : Tho' fare be poor, my heart is gay, And full of glee. Though chimney-pots be all my views ; 'Tis nearer for the winging Muse, So I am sure she'll not refuse To visit me. LITTLE BROWN BABY Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee. What you been doin', suh makin' san' pies ? Look at dat bib you's ez du'ty ez me. Look at dat mouf dat's merlasses, I bet; Come hyeah, Maria, an* wipe off his han's. Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit, Bein' so sticky an* sweet goodness lan's ! Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile ? Who is it all de day nevah once tries Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile ? Whah did you git dem teef ? My, you's a scamp ! Whah did dat dimple come fom in yo' chin? Pappy do* know yo I b'lieves you's a tramp ; Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in ! WHO'S PAPPY'S DARLIN' DEN You MEN'S DE MULE'S OL' HA'NESS OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 203 Let's th'ow him outen de do* in de san', We do' want stragglers a-layin* 'roun' hyeah ; Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man ; I know he's hidin* erroun' hyeah right neah. Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do', Hyeah 's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat. Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo', Swaller him down f om his haid to his feet! Dah, now, I fought dat you'd hug me up close. Go back, ol' buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy. He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se ; He's pappy's pa'dner an' playmate an' joy. Come to you' pallet now go to yo' res' ; Wisht you could allus know ease an* cleah skies ; Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas' Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes ! TIME TO TINKER 'ROUN' Summah's nice, wif sun a-shinin', Spring is good wif greens and grass, An' dey's some t'ings nice 'bout wintah, Dough hit brings de freezin' bias' ; But de time dat is the fines', Whethah fiel's is green or brown, Is w'en de rain's a-po'in' An' dey's time to tinker 'roun'. Den you men's de mule's ol' ha'ness, An' you men's de broken chair. Hummin' all de time you's wo'kin' Some ol' common kind o' air. Evah now an' then you looks out, Tryin' mighty ha'd to frown, But you cain't, you's glad hit's rainin', An' dey's time to tinker 'roun'. Oh, you 'ten's lak you so anxious Evah time it so't o' stops. W'en hit goes on, den you reckon Dat de wet'll he'p de crops. But hit ain't de crops you's aftah ; You knows w'en de rain comes down Dat hit's too wet out fu' wo'kin', An' dey's time to tinker 'roun'. Oh, dey's fun inside de co'n-crib, An' dey's laffin' at de ba'n; An' dey's allus some one jokin', Er some one to tell a ya'n. Dah's a quiet in yo' cabin, Only fu' de rain's sof ' soun' ; So you's mighty blessed happy W'en dey's time to tinker 'roun' ! A BRIDAL MEASURE Come, essay a sprightly measure, Tuned to some light song of pleasure. Maidens, let your brows be crowned As we foot this merry round. From the ground a voice is singing, From the sod a soul is springing. Who shall say 'tis but a clod Quick'ning upward towards its God ? Who shall say it ? Who may know it, That the clod is not a poet Waiting but a gleam to waken In a spirit music-shaken ? Phyllis, Phyllis, why be waiting ? In the woods the birds are mating. From the tree beside the wall, Hear the am'rous robin call. Listen to yon thrush's trilling ; Phyllis, Phyllis, are you willing, When love speaks from cave and tree, Only we should silent be ? When the year, itself renewing, All the world with flowers is strewing, Then through Youth's Arcadian land, Love and song go hand in hand. Come, unfold your vocal treasure. Sing with me a nuptial measure, Let this spring-time gambol be Bridal dance for you and me. 204 THE LIFE AND WORKS TO E. H. K. ON THE RECEIPT OF A FAMILIAR POEM To me, like hauntings of a vagrant breath From some far forest which I once have known, The perfume of this flower of verse is blown. Tho' seemingly soul-blossoms faint to death, Naught that with joy she bears e'er with- ereth. So, tho' the pregnant years have come and flown, Lives come and gone and altered like mine own, This poem comes to me a shibboleth: Brings sound of past communings to my ear, Turns round the tide of time and bears me back Along an old and long untraversed way; Makes me forget this is a later year, Makes me tread o'er a reminiscent track, Half sad, half glad, to one forgotten day ! VENGEANCE IS SWEET When I was young I longed for Love, And held his glory far above All other earthly things. I cried : " Come, Love, dear Love, with me abide ; " And with my subtlest art I wooed, And eagerly the wight pursued. But Love was gay and Love was shy, He laughed at me and passed me by. Well, I grew old and I grew gray, When Wealth came wending down my way. I took his golden hand with glee, And comrades from that day were we. Then Love came back with doleful face, And prayed that I would give him place. But, though his eyes with tears were dim, I turned my back and laughed at him. A HYMN AFTER READING " LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For oh, my steps are weak, And ever as I go, Some soothing sentence speak ; That I may turn my face Through doubt's obscurity Towards thine abiding-place, E'en tho' I cannot see. For lo, the way is dark ; Through mist and cloud I grope, Save for that fitful spark, The little flame of hope. Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For fear that I may fall ; I know not where to go Unless I hear thy call. My fainting soul doth yearn For thy green hills afar ; So let thy mercy burn My greater, guiding star ! JUST WHISTLE A BIT Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark, And the sky be overcast : If mute be the voice of the piping lark, Why, pipe your own small blast. And it's wonderful how o'er the gray sky- track The truant warbler comes stealing back. But why need he come ? for your soul's at rest, And the song in the heart, ah, that is best. Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear And the stars refuse to shine : And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear Within you glows benign. Till the dearth of light in the glooming skies Is lost to the sight of your soul-lit eyes. What matters the absence of moon or star ? The light within is the best by far. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 205 Just whistle a bit, if there's work to do, With the mind or in the soil. And your note will turn out a talisman true To exorcise grim Toil. It will lighten your burden and make you feel That there's nothing like work as a sauce for a meal. And with song in your heart and the meal in its place, There'll be joy in your bosom and light in your face. Just whistle a bit, if your heart be sore 'Tis a wonderful balm for pain. Just pipe some old melody o'er and o'ei Till it soothes like summer rain. And perhaps 'twould be best in a later day, When Death comes stalking down the way, To knock at your bosom and see if you're fit, Then, as you wait calmly, just whistle a bit. THE BARRIER The Midnight wooed the Morning-Star, And prayed her : " Love, come nearer ; Your swinging coldly there afar To me but makes you dearer ! " The Morning-Star was pale with dole As said she, low replying : "Oh, lover mine, soul of my soul, For you I too am sighing. " But One ordained when we were born, In spite of Love's insistence, That Night might only view the Morn Adoring at a distance." But as she spoke the jealous Sun Across the heavens panted. " Oh, whining fools," he cried, " have one ; Your wishes shall be granted ! " He hurled his flaming lances far ; The twain stood unaffrighted And midnight and the Morning-Star Lay down in death united ! DREAMS Dream on, for dreams are sweet : Do not awaken ! Dream on, arid at thy feet Pomegranates shall be shaken. Who likeneth the youth Of life to morning ? 'Tis like the night in truth, Rose-colored dreams adorning. The wind is soft above, The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.) Take thou the fullest slumber! In Lethe's soothing stream, Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep ; 'tis sweet to dream. Oh, weep when thou awakest ! THE DREAMER Temples he built and palaces of air, And, with the artist's parent-pride aglow, His fancy saw his vague ideals grow Into creations marvelously fair ; He set his foot upon Fame's nether stair. But ah, his dream, it had entranced him so He could not move. He could no farther go ; But paused in joy that he was even there ! He did not wake until one day there gleamed Thro' his dark consciousness a light that racked His being till he rose, alert to act. But lo ! what he had dreamed, the while he dreamed, Another, wedding action unto thought, Into the living, pulsing world had -brought. WAITING The sun has slipped his tether And galloped down the west. (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) 206 THE LIFE AND WORKS The little bird is sleeping In the softness of its nest. Night follows day, day follows dawn, And so the time has come and gone : And it's weary, weary waiting, love. The cruel wind is rising With a whistle and a wail. (And it's weary, weary waiting, love.) My eyes are seaward straining For the coming of a sail ; But void the sea, and void the beach Far and beyond where gaze can reach ! And it's weary, weary waiting, love. I heard the bell-buoy ringing How long ago it seems ! (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) And ever still, its knelling Crashes in upon my dreams. The banns were read, my frock was sewn ; Since then two seasons' winds have blown And it's weary, weary waiting, love. The stretches of the ocean Are bare and bleak to-day. (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) My eyes are growing dimmer Is it tears, or age, or spray ? But I will stay till you come home. Strange ships come in across the foam ! But it's weary, weary waiting, love. THE END OF THE CHAPTER So prone is humanity to "jump at con- clusions " that when the newspaper chron- iclers set about finding " things , to say " about Paul Laurence Dunbar at the time of his death, they unanimously concluded that this poem referred to the end of Mr. Dunbar's married life, and so stated with- out reservation. A careful study of his work reveals the fact that these stanzas were, written long before his marriage, and were no doubt suggested by the* un- happy termination of some other man's connubial happiness. That they proved startlingly prophetic in his own case cannot be denied, for, as he said for another he might well have said for himself " so close the book. But brought it grief or brought it bliss, No other page shall read like this 1 " No one will deny that while he had, like all poets, hundreds of "passing fancies " for fair woman, he was a man of one great passion, and that was for his estranged wife. Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day; We even lay the book away ; But oh, how sweet the moments sped Before the final page was read ! We tried to read between the lines The Author's deep-concealed designs ; But scant reward such search secures ; You saw my heart and I saw yours. The Master, he who penned the page And bade us read it, he is sage : And what he orders, you and I Can but obey, nor question why. % We read together and forgot The world about us. Time was not. Unheeded and unfelt, it fled. We read and hardly knew we read. Until beneath a sadder sun, We came to know the book was done. Then, as our minds were but new lit, It dawned upon us what was writ; And we were startled. In our eyes, Looked forth the light of great surprise. Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls, A voice spoke forth : " Behold your souls ! " I do, I do. I cannot look Into your eyes : so close the book. But brought it grief or brought it bliss, No other page shall read like this ! OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 207 SYMPATHY I know what the caged bird feels, alas ! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes ; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass ; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals I know what the caged bird feels ! I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars ; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing ; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting I know why he beats his wing ! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings I know why the caged bird sings ! LOVE AND GRIEF Out of my heart, one treach'rous winter's day, I locked young Love and threw the key away. Grief, wandering widely, found the key, And hastened with it, straightway, back to me, With Love beside him. He unlocked the door And bade Love enter with him there and stay. And so the twain abide for evermore. LOVE'S CHASTENING Once Love grew bold and arrogant of air, Proud of the youth that made him fresh and fair ; So unto Grief he spake, " What right hast thou To part or parcel of this heart ? " Grief's brow Was darkened with the storm of inward strife ; Thrice smote he Love as only he might dare, And Love, pride purged, was chastened all his life. MORTALITY Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust, What of his loving, what of his lust ? What of his passion, what of his pain? What of his poverty, what of his pride ? Earth, the great mother, has called him again : Deeply he sleeps, the world's verdict de- fied. Shall he be tried again ? Shall he go free ? Who shall the court convene ? Where shall it be ? No answer on the land, none from the sea. Only we know that as he did, we must : You with your theories, you with your trust, Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust ! LOVE A life was mine full of the close concern Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast; Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past. A present came equipped with lore to learn. Art, science, letters, in their turn, Each one allured me with its treasures vast; And I staked all for wisdom, till at last Thou cam'st and taught my soul anew to yearn. I had not dreamed that I could turn away From all that men with brush and pen had wrought ; 208 THE LIFE AND WORKS But ever since that memorable day When to my heart the truth of love was brought, I have been wholly yielded to its sway, And had no room for any other thought. SHE GAVE ME A ROSE She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it. I love her, she knows, And my action confessed it. She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it. Ah, how my heart glows, Could I ever have guessed it ? It is fair to suppose That I might have repressed it : She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it. 'Twas a rhyme in life's prose That uplifted and blest it. Man's nature, who knows Until love comes to test it ? She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it. DREAM SONG. I Long years ago, within a distant clime, Ere Love had touched me with his wand sublime, I dreamed of one to make my life's calm May The panting passion of a summer's day. And ever since, in almost sad suspense, I have been waiting with a soul intense To greet and take unto myself the beams, Of her, my star, the lady of my dreams. O Love, still longed and looked for, come to me, Be thy far home by mountain, vale, or sea. My yearning heart may never find its rest Until thou liest rapt upon my breast. The wind may bring its perfume from the south, Is it so sweet as breath from my love's mouth ? Oh, naught that surely is, and naught that seems May turn me from the lady of my dreams. DREAM SONG. II Pray, what can dreams avail To make love or to mar ? The child within the cradle rail Lies dreaming of the star. But is the star by this beguiled To leave its place and seek the child ? The poor plucked rose within its glass Still dreameth of the bee ; But, tho' the lagging moments pass, Her Love she may not see. If dream of child and flower fail, Why should a maiden's dreams prevail ? CHRISTMAS IN THE HEART The snow lies deep upon the ground, And winter's brightness all around Decks bravely out the forest sere, With jewels of the brave old year. The coasting crowd upon the hill With some new spirit seems to thrill; And all the temple bells achime Ring out the glee of Christmas time. In happy homes the brown oak-bough Vies with the red-gemmed holly now ; And here and there, like pearls, there show The berries of the mistletoe. A sprig upon the chandelier Says to the maidens, " Come not here ! " Even the pauper of the earth Some kindly gift has cheered to mirth ! Within his chamber, dim and cold, There sits a grasping miser old. He has no thought save one of gain, To grind and gather and grasp and drain. A peal of bells, a merry shout Assail his ear : he gazes out Upon a world to him all gray, And snarls, " Why, this is Christmas Day ! " No, man of ice, for shame, for shame ! For " Christmas Day " is no mere name. No, not for you this ringing cheer, This festal season of the year. And not for you the chime of bells From holy temple rolls and swells. In day and deed he has no part Who holds not Christmas in his heart ! OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 209 THE KING IS DEAD Aye, lay him in his grave, the old dead year! His life is lived fulfilled his destiny. Have you for him no sad, regretful tear To drop beside the cold, unfollowed bier ? Can you not pay the tribute of a sigh ? Was he not kind to you, this dead old year ? Did he not give enough of earthly store ? Enough of love, and laughter, and good cheer ? Have not the skies you scanned sometimes been clear ? How, then, of him who dies, could you ask It is not well to hate him for the pain He brought you, and the sorrows manifold. To pardon him these hurts still I am fain ; For in the panting period of his reign, He brought me new wounds, but he healed the old. One little sigh for thee, my poor, dead friend One little sigh while my companions sing. Thou art so soon forgotten in the end ; We cry e'en as thy footsteps downward tend: " The king is dead ! long live the king! " THEOLOGY There is a heaven, forever, day by day, The upward longing of my soul doth tell me so. There is a hell, I'm quite as sure ; for pray, If there were not, where would my neighbors go ? RESIGNATION Long had I grieved at what I deemed abuse ; But now I am as grain within the mill. If so be thou must crush me for thy use, Grind on, O potent God, and do thy will! LOVE'S HUMILITY As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth, Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far, So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth Look longing up to thee as to a star. PRECEDENT The poor man went to the rich man's doors, " I come as Lazarus came," he said. The rich man turned with humble head, " I will send my dogs to lick your sores ! " SHE TOLD HER BEADS She told her beads with downcast eyes, Within the ancient chapel dim ; And ever as her fingers slim Slipt o'er th' insensate ivories, My rapt soul followed, spaniel-wise. Ah, many were the beads she wore ; But as she told them o'er and o'er, They did not number all my sighs. My heart was filled with unvoiced cries And prayers and pleadings unex- pressed ; But while I burned with Love's unrest. She told her beads with downcast eyes. LITTLE LUCY LANDMAN Oh, the day has set me dreaming In a strange, half solemn way Of the feelings I experienced On another long past day, Of the way my heart made music When the buds began to blow, And o' little Lucy Landman Whom I loved long years ago. It's in spring, the poet tells us, That we turn to thoughts of love, And our hearts go out a-wooing With the lapwing and the dove. But whene'er the soul goes seeking Its twin-soul, upon the wing, I've a notion, backed by mem'ry, That it's love that makes the spring. 210 THE LIFE AND WORKS I have heard a robin singing When the boughs were brown and bare, And the chilling hand of winter Scattered jewels through the air. And in spite of dates and seasons, It was always spring, I know, When I loved Lucy Landman In the days of long ago. Ah, my little Lucy Landman, I remember you as well As if 'twere only yesterday I strove your thoughts to tell, When I tilted back your bonnet, Looked into your eyes so true, Just to see if you were loving Me as I was loving you. Ah, my little Lucy Landman It is true it was denied You should see a fuller summer And an autumn by my side. But the glance of love's sweet sunlight Which your eyes that morning gave Has kept spring within my bosom, Though you lie within the grave. THE KNIGHT . Our good knight, Ted, girds his broad- sword on (And he wields it well, I ween) ; He's on his steed, and away has gone To the fight for king and queen. What tho' no edge the broadsword hath ? What tho' the blade be made of lath? 'Tis a valiant hand That wields the brand, So, foeman, clear the path ! He prances off at a goodly pace ; 'Tis a noble steed he rides, That bears as well in the speedy race As he bears in battle-tides. What tho' 'tis but a rocking-chair That prances with this stately air ? 'Tis a warrior bold The reins doth hold, Who bids all foes beware ! LULLABY Bedtime's come fu' little boys. Po' little lamb. Too tiahed out to make a noise, Po' little lamb. You gwine t' have to-morrer sho' ? Yes, you tole me dat befo', Don't you fool me, chile, no mo', Po' little lamb. You been bad de livelong day, Po' little lamb. Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way, Po' little lamb. My, but you's a-runnin' wiF, Look jes' lak some po' folks chile ; Mam' gwine whup you atter while, Po' little lamb. Come hyeah ! you mos' tiahed to def, Po' little lamb. Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref, Po' little lamb. See dem han's now sich a sight ! Would you evah b'lieve dey's white ? Stan' still twell I wash 'em right, Po' little lamb. Jes' cain't hoi' yo' haid up straight, Po' little lamb. Hadn't oughter played so late, Po' little lamb. Mammy do' know whut she'd do, Ef de chillun's all lak you ; You's a caution now fu' true, Po' little lamb. Lay yo' haid down in my lap, Po' little lamb. \ ought to have a right good slap, Po' little Iamb. You been runnin' roun' a heap. Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep, Dah now, dah now, go to sleep, Po' little lamb. Po' LITTLE LAMB DAT'S MY GAL OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 213 THOU ART MY LUTE Thou art my lute, by thee I sing, My being is attuned to thee. Thou settest all my words a-wing, And meltest me to melody. Thou art my life, by thee I live, From thee proceed the joys I know ; Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give The meed of love the cup of woe. Thou art my love, by thee I lead My soul the paths of light along, From vale to vale, from mead to mead, And home it in the hills of song. My song, my soul, my life, my all, Why need I pray or make my plea, Since my petition cannot fall ; For I'm already one with thee ! THE PHANTOM KISS One night in my room, still and beamless, With will and with thought in eclipse, I rested in sleep that was dreamless ; When softly there fell on my lips A touch, as of lips that were pressing Mine own with the message of bliss A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing, A breath like a maiden's first kiss. I woke and the scoffer may doubt me .1 peered in surprise through the gloom; But nothing and none were about me, And I was alone in my room. Perhaps 'twas the wind that caressed me And touched me with dew-laden breath ; Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed me The low-winging Angel of Death. Some sceptic may choose to disdain it, Or one feign to read it aright ; Or wisdom may seek to explain it This mystical kiss in the night. But rather let fancy thus clear it : That, thinking of me here alone, The miles were made naught, and, in spirit, Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own. THE PHOTOGRAPH See dis piety ah in my han' ? Dat's my gal ; Ain't she purty ? goodness Ian' ! Huh name Sal. Dat's de very way she be -* Kin' o* tickles me to see Huh a-smilin' back at me. She sont me dis photygraph Jes' las' week ; An' aldough hit made me laugh My black cheek Felt somethin' a-runnin' queer ; Bless yo' soul, it was a tear Jes' f 'om wishm' she was here. Often when I's all alone Layin' here, I git t'inkin' 'bout my own Sallie dear ; How she say dat I's huh beau, An' hit tickles me to know Dat de gal do love me so. Some bright day I's goin* back, Fo' de la ! An' ez sho' 's my face is black, Ax huh pa Fu' de blessed little miss Who's a-smilin' out o'- dis Pictyah, lak she wan'ed a kiss I COMMUNION In the silence of my heart, I will spend an hour with thee, When my love shall rend apart All the veil of mystery : All that dim and misty veil That shut in between our souls When Death cried, " Ho, maiden, hail ! " And your barque sped on the shoals. 214 THE LIFE AND WORKS On the shoals ? Nay, wrongly said. On the breeze of Death that sweeps Far from life, thy soul has sped Out into unsounded deeps. I shall take an hour and come Sailing, darling, to thy side. Wind nor sea may keep me from Soft communings with my bride. I shall rest my head on thee As I did long days of yore, When a calm, untroubled sea Rocked thy vessel at the shore. I shall take thy hand in mine, And live o'er the olden days When thy smile to me was wine, Golden wine thy word of praise, For the carols I had wrought In my soul's simplicity ; For the petty beads of thought Which thine eyes alone could see. Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keen For my welfare and my weal ! Tho' the grave-door shut between, Still their love-lights o'er me steal. I can see thee thro' my tears, As thro* rain we see the sun. What tho' cold and cooling years Shall their bitter courses run, I shall see thee still and be Thy true lover evermore, And thy face shall be to me Dear and helpful as before. Death may vaunt and Death may boast, But we laugh his pow'r to scorn ; He is but a slave at most, Night that heralds coming morn. I shall spend an hour with thee Day by day, my little bride. True love laughs at mystery, Crying, " Doors of Death, fly wide." THE GOURD In the heavy earth the miner Toiled and labored day by day, Wrenching from the miser mountain Brilliant treasure where it lay. And the artist worn and weary Wrought with labor manifold That the king might drink his nectar From a goblet made of gold. On the prince's groaning table 'Mid the silver gleaming bright Mirroring the happy faces Giving back the flaming light, Shine the cups of priceless crystal Chased with many a lovely line, Glowing now with warmer color, Crimsoned by the ruby wine. In a valley sweet with sunlight, Fertile with the dew and rain, Without miner's daily labor, Without artist's nightly pain, There there grows the cup I drink from, Summer's sweetness in it stored, And my lips pronounce a blessing As they touch an old brown gourd. Why, the miracle at Cana In the land of Galilee, Tho' it puzzles all the scholars, Is no longer strange to me. For the poorest and the humblest Could a priceless wine afford, If they'd only dip up water With a sunlight-seasoned gourd. So a health to my old comrade, And a song of praise to sing When he rests inviting kisses In his place beside the spring. Give the king his golden goblets, Give the prince his crystal hoard ; But for me the sparkling water From a brown and brimming gourd ! MARE RUBRUM In Life's Red Sea with faith I plant my feet, And wait the sound of that sustaining word OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 215 Which long ago the men of Israel heard, When Pharaoh's host behind them, fierce and fleet, Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat. Why are the barrier waters still un- stirred ? That struggling faith may die of hope deferred ? Is God not sitting in his ancient seat ? The billows swirl above my trembling limbs, And almost chill my anxious heart to doubt And disbelief, long conquered and defied. But tho' the music of my hopeful hymns Is drowned by curses of the raging rout, No voice yet bids th' opposing waves divide ! IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN In view of the fact that Mr. Dunbar had left a sweetheart in America, and that they had become betrothed just before he sailed for England, it is not hard to under- stand why the subtle scents and ancient beauties of an old-world garden served only to bring him a poignant heart-ache and an overpowering longing for home and love. In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene : The rich, luxuriant -grasses' cooling green, The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray, The waving branches with the wind at play, The slight and tremulous blooms that show between, Sweet all : and yet my yearning heart doth lean Towards Love's Egyptian flesh-pots far away. Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows And flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze. But e'en among such soothing sights as these, I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes. Of all the longings that our hearts wot of, There is no hunger like the want of love ! THE CRISIS A man of low degree was sore oppressed, Fate held him under iron-handed sway, And ever, those who saw him thus dis- tressed Would bid him bend his stubborn will and pray. But he, strong in himself and obdurate, Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate. Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp, Or took it not at all ; and Poverty, That bruised his body with relentless grasp, Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free. But though with helpless hands he beat the air, His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer. Then he prevailed ; and forthwith snob- bish Fate, Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet ; Those who had scorned forgave and called him great His friends found out that friendship still was sweet. But he, once obdurate, now bowed his head In prayer, and trembling with its import, said : " Mere human strength may stand ill- fortune's frown ; So I prevailed, for human strength was mine; But from the killing pow'r of great re- nown, 216 THE LIFE AND WORKS Naught may protect me save a strength divine. Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause ; I scorn men's curses, but I dread ap- plause ! " THE CONQUERORS THE BLACK TROOPS IN CUBA Round the wide earth, from the red field your valor has won, Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun, Goes the word. Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun. Tossed though the speech towards the mist- hidden sun, The world heard. Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray, Grim with the dust of the battle, and gray From the fight. Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay, Owning you fit for the light of her day, Men of night. Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come, There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb, Out of fear. And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum, Truth shall rise over the militant drum, Loud and clear. Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows, All for their love of you, not for your woes, There shall lie Tears ihat shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose; Afterwards thanks, that the present yet knows Not to ply ! ALEXANDER CRUMMELL DEAD Back to the breast of thy mother, Child of the earth ! E'en her caress cannot smother What thou hast done. Follow the trail of the westering sun Ove'r the earth. Thy light and his were as one Sun, in thy worth. Unto a nation whose sky was as night, Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light : And the dawn came, In it thy fame Flashed up in a flame. Back to the breast of thy mother To rest. Long hast thou striven ; Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven ; Go now, pure shriven. Who shall come after thee, out of the clay Learned one and leader to show us the way? Who shall rise up when the world gives the test ? Think thou no more of this Rest! WHEN ALL IS DONE To any one who viewed the dead face of Paul Laurence Dunbar, after the long; hard race was done, there could but come the memory of this poem, and one could not but be grateful to him for having said these so plainly and in such a simple way. There was no trace of pain upon his features, naught that could suggest any- thing but peace and deep content. Those who loved him could not keep back the tears because of their loss, but no one who saw him at the last feared that he was oth- erwise than gloriously at rest ! He had indeed " greeted the dawn," though it was near the hour of the setting of an earthly winter's sun that he broke the last of his prison bars, and freedom found at last. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 217 When all is done, and my last word is said, And ye who loved me murmur, " He is dead," Let no one weep, for fear that I should know, And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so. When all is done and in the oozing clay, Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away, Pray not for me, for, after long despair, The quiet of the grave will be a prayer. For I have suffered loss and grievous pain, The hurts of hatred and the world's dis- dain, And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure, Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure. When all is done, say not my day is o'er, And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore : Say rather that my morn has just begun, I greet the dawn and not a setting sun, When all is done. THE POET AND THE BABY This dainty bit of verse reflects the poet's great love for children. What the inspira- tion of that particular poem may have been, it may have referred to almost any of his child friendships. One of these was espe- cially beautiful. A little baby boy of three, with snow-white skin and golden curls, loved Dunbar devotedly, and the people who lived near the poet in Dayton, often speak of how on bright days Mr. Dunbar would sit on the front steps of his home with little David Herr by his side. David was only a baby, but he loved " Mr. Paul " with an all-absorbing passion and always sat as close as he could with one small arm about the poet's waist. The sight was one never to be forgotten the black man and the white poet, sitting for hours side by side dumb in their mutual admiration. When Mr. Dunbar lay dead, little David, only half realizing the great change that had come to his friend, came as usual with a flower (he always brought a beautiful flower to the poet), which strangely enough, was a spotless white lily. A gentleman who knew of the friendship existing be- tween the baby and the dead man, carried David into the chamber of Death. " I want to div him my f 'ower," said the little fellow, and the man stooped low until the dimpled fingers placed the white lily in the poet's hand. How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell, How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell, When a-toddling on the floor Is the muse he must adore, And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well ? Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows, One must always be as quiet as a mouse ; But to write one seems to me Quite superfluous to be, When you've got a little sonnet in the house. Just a dainty little poem, true and fine, That is full of love and life in every line, Earnest, delicate, and sweet, Altogether so complete That I wonder what's the use of writing mine. DISTINCTION " I am but clay," the sinner plead, Who fed each vain desire. " Not only clay," another said, " But worse, for thou art mire." THE SUM A little dreaming by the way, A little toiling day by day ; A little pain, a little strife, A little joy, and that is life. A little short-lived summer's morn, When joy seems all so newly born, When one day's sky is blue above. And one bird sings, and that is love. 218 THE LIFE AND WORKS A little sickening of the years, The tribute of a few hot tears, Two folded hands, the failing breath, And peace at last, and that is death. Just dreaming, loving, dying so, The actors in the drama go A flitting picture on a wall, Love, Death, the themes ; but is that all ? SONNET ON AN OLD BOOK WITH UNCUT LEAVES Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire, No finger ever traced thy yellow page Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rage The hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fire Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre Dost thou suggest. Nay, impotent in age, Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage And ceasest even dumbly to aspire. How different was the thought of him that writ. What promised he to love of ease and wealth, When men should read and kindle at his wit. But here decay eats up the book by stealth, While it, like some old maiden, solemnly, Hugs its incongruous virginity ! A DEATH SONG At the time of Mr. Dunbar's death, many persons were of the opinion that this poem was of very recent date. The truth is that it was written as far back as 1898, while Mr. Dunbar was in Washing- ton, D. C., and appeared in the Con- gregationalist in September or October of that year. These stanzas were printed in almost every newspaper in the country when the poet passed away, and the re- quest embodied in the lines was followed, as nearly as possible, in the selection of a burial site. Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it pass. An' w'en I's a-layin' low, I kin hyeah it as it go Singin', " Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'." Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, An' de watah Stan's so quiet lak an' cool, Whah de little birds in spring, Ust to come an' drink an' sing, An' de chillen waded on dey way to school. Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps dey load Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road ; Fu' I t'ink de las' long res' Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes' Ef I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's allus knowed. CHRISMUS IS A-COMIN' Bones a-gittin* achy, Back a-feelin' col', Han's a-growin' shaky, Jes' lak I was ol'. Pros' erpon de meddah Lookin' mighty white ; Snowdraps lak a feddah Slippin' down at night. Jes' keep t'ings a-hummin' Spite o' fros' an' showahs, Chrismus is a-comin* An' all de week is ouahs. Little mas' a-axin', " Who is Santy Claus 1 " Meks it kin' o' taxin' Not to brek de laws. Chilian's pow'ful tryin' To a pusson's grace We'n dey go a pryin' Right on th'oo you' face in BENEAF DE WILLERS CHRIS'MUS is A-COMIN' OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 221 Down ermong yo' feelin's ; Jes' 'pears lak dat you Got to change you' dealin's So's to tell 'em true. An' my pickaninny Dreamin' in his sleep ! Come hyeah, Mammy Jinny, Come an' tek a peep. Ol' Mas' Bob an' Missis In dey house up daih Got no chile lak dis is, D' ain't none anywhaih. Sleep, my little lammy. Sleep, you little limb, He do' know whut mammy Done saved up fu' him. Dey'll be banjo pickin', Dancin' all night thoo. Dey'll be lots o' chicken, Plenty tukky, too. Drams to wet yo' whistles So's to drive out chills. Whut I keer fu' drizzles Tallin' on de hills ? Jes' keep t'ings a-hummin' Spite o' col' an' showahs, Chrismus day's a-comin', An' all de week is ouahs. ON THE SEAWALL I sit upon the old sea wall, And watch the shimmering sea, Where soft and white the moonbeams fall, Till, in a fantasy, Some pure white maiden's funeral pall The strange light seems to me. The waters break upon the shore And shiver at my feet, While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er, And dim old scenes repeat ; Tho' all have dreamed the same before, They still seem new and sweet. 13 The waves still sing the same old song That knew an elder time ; The breakers' beat is not more strong, Their music more sublime ; And poets thro' the ages long Have set these notes to rhyme. But this shall not deter my lyre, Nor check my simple strain ; If I have not the old-time fire, I know the ancient pain : The hurt of unfulfilled desire, The ember quenched by rain. I know the softly shining sea That rolls this gentle swell Has snarled and licked its tongues at me And bared its fangs as well ; That 'neath its smile so heavenly, There lurks the scowl of hell ! But what of that ? I strike my string (For songs in youth are sweet) ; I'll wait and hear the waters bring Their loud resounding beat ; Then, in her own bold numbers sing The Ocean's dear deceit ! TO A LADY PLAYING THE HARP Thy tones are silver melted into sound, And as I dream I see no walls around, But seem to hear A gondolier Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream. Italian skies that I have never seen I see above. (Ah, play again, my queen ; Thy fingers white Fly swift and light And weave for me the golden mesh of love.) Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes And soft dark hair, Tis thou that mak'st my skies So swift to change To far and strange ; But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair. 222 THE LIFE AND WORKS Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee As one who drowns In floods of melody. Still in thy art Give me this part, Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns. CONFESSIONAL Search thou my heart ; If there be guile, It shall depart Before thy smile. Search thou my soul ; Be there deceit, 'Twill vanish whole Before thee, sweet. Upon my mind Turn thy pure lens ; Naught shalt thou find Thou canst not cleanse. If I should pray, I scarcely know In just what way My prayers would go. So strong in me I feel love's leaven, I'd bow to thee As soon as Heaven 1 MISAPPREHENSION Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song, With my heart's blood imbued, Instinct with passion, tremulously strong, With grief subdued ; Breathing a. fortitude Pain-bought. And one who claimed much love for what I wrought, Read and considered it, And spoke : " Ay, brother, 'tis well writ, But where's the joke ? " PROMETHEUS Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire And swept to earth with it o'er land and sea. He lit the vestal flames of poesy, Content, for this, to brave celestial ire. Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven To lift men's souls above their low estate. But judge you now, when poets wield the pen, Think you not well the wrong has been repaired ? 'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared : The fire has been returned to Heaven again ! We have no singers like the ones whose note Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song. We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong As that which broke from Shelley's golden throat. The measure of our songs is our desires : We tinkle where old poets used to storm. We lack their substance tho' we keep their form : We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres. LOVE'S PHASES Love hath the wings of the butterfly, Oh, clasp him but gently, Pausing and dipping and fluttering by Inconsequently. Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh ; Love hath the wings of the butterfly. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 223 Love hath the wings of the eagle bold, Cling to him strongly What if the look of the world be cold, And life go wrongly? Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold; Love hath the wings of the eagle bold. Love hath the voice of the nightingale, Hearken his trilling List to his song when the moonlight is pale, Passionate, thrilling. Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail ; Love hath the voice of the nightingale. Love hath the voice of the storm at night, Wildly defiant. Hear him and yield up your soul to his might, Tenderly pliant. None shall regret him who heed him aright ; Love hath the voice of the storm at night. FOR THE MAN WHO FAILS The world is a snob, and the man who wins Is the chap for its money's worth : And the lust for success causes half of the sins That are cursing this brave old earth. For it's fine to go up, and the world's ap- plause Is sweet to the mortal ear ; But the man who fails in a noble cause Is a hero that's no less dear. 'Tis true enough that the laurel crown Twines but for the victor's brow ; For many a hero has lain him down With naught but the cypress bough. There are gallant men in the losing fight, And as gallant deeds are done As ever graced the captured height Or the battle grandly won. We sit at life's board with our nerves highstrung, And we play for the stake of Fame, And our odes are sung and our banners hung For the man who wins the game. But I have a song of another kind Than breathes in these fame-wrought gales, An ode to the noble heart and mind Of the gallant man who fails ! The man who is strong to fight his fight, And whose will no front can daunt, If the truth be truth and the right be right, Is the man that the ages want. Tho' he fail and die in grim defeat, Yet he has not fled the strife, And the house of Earth will seem more sweet For the perfume of his life. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE She told the story, and the whole world wept At wrongs and cruelties it had not known But for this fearless woman's voice alone. She spoke to consciences that long had slept : Her message, Freedom's clear reveille, swept From heedless hovel to complacent throne. Command and prophecy were in the tone And from its sheath the sword of jus- tice leapt. Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave, But both came forth transfigured from the flame. Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save, And blest be she who in our weakness came Prophet and priestess I At one stroke she gave A race to freedom and herself to fame. 22 4 THE LIFE AND WORKS VAGRANTS Long time ago, we two set out, My soul and I. I know not why, For all our way was dim with doubt. I know not where We two may fare : Though still with every changing weather, We wander, groping on together. We do not love, we are not friends, My soul and I. He lives a lie ; Untruth lines every way he wends. A scoffer he Who jeers at me : And so, my comrade and my brother, We wander on and hate each other. Ay, there be taverns and to spare, Beside the road ; But some strange goad Lets me not stop to taste their fare. Knew I the goal Towards which my soul And I made way, hope made life fragrant : But no. We wander, aimless, vagrant ! A WINTER'S DAY Across the hills and down the narrow ways, And up the valley where the free winds sweep, The earth is folded in an ermined sleep That mocks the melting mirth of myriad Mays. Departed her disheartening duns and grays, And all her crusty black is covered deep. Dark streams are locked in Winter's donjon-keep, And made to shine with keen, unwonted rays. O icy mantle, and deceitful snow ! What world-old liars in your hearts ye are ! Are there not still the darkened seam and scar Beneath the brightness that you fain would show ? Come from the cover with thy blot and blur, O reeking Earth, thou whited sepulchre ! MY LITTLE MARCH GIRL Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart, There she is passing, the girl of my heart ; See where she walks like a queen in the street, Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet. Tripping along with impetuous grace, Joy of her life beaming out of her face, Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl, Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl. Hint of the violet's delicate bloom, Hint of the rose's pervading perfume ! How can the wind help from kissing her face, Wrapping her round in his stormy em- brace ? But still serenely she laughs at his rout, She is the victor who wins in the bout. So may life's passions about her soul swirl, Leaving it placid, my little March girl. What self-possession looks out of her eyes ! What are the wild winds, and what are the skies, Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life, Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife ? Ah ! Wind, and bah ! Wind, what might have you now ? What can you do with that innocent brow ? Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl, But bring her to me, Wind? my little March girl. REMEMBERED She sang, and I listened the whole song thro'. (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.) The stars were out and the moon it grew From a wee soft glimmer way out in the blue To a bird thro' the heavens winging. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 225 She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast, (It was sweet, so sweet the singing.) As a dove just out of its fledgling nest, And, putting its wings to the first sweet test, Flutters homeward so wearily winging. She sang and I said to my heart, " That song, That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing, Shall live with us and inspire us long, And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong For the sake of those words a-winging. The woman died and the song was still. (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.) But ever I hear the same low trill, Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill, And goes forever winging. LOVE DESPOILED As lone I sat one summer's day, With mien dejected, Love came by ; His face distraught, his locks astray, So slow his gait, so sad his eye, I hailed him with a pitying cry : " Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?" Said I, amazed. " Thou seem'st bereft ; And see thy quiver hanging low, What, not a single arrow left ? Pray, who is guilty of this theft ? " Poor Love looked in my face and cried : " No thief were ever yet so bold To rob my quiver at my side. But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold, And all my goodly shafts are sold." THE LAPSE This poem must be done to-day ; Then, I'll e'en to it. I must not dream my time away, I'm sure to rue it. The day is rather bright, I know The Muse will pardon My half-defection, if I go Into the garden. It must be better working there, I'm sure it's sweeter ; And something in the balmy air May clear my metre. [/ the Garden.] Ah this is noble, what a sky ! What breezes blowing! The very clouds, I know not why, Call one to rowing. The stream will be a paradise To-day, I'll warrant. I know the tide that's on the rise Will seem a torrent; I know just how the leafy boughs Are all a-quiver; I know how many skiffs and scows Are on the river. I think I'll just go out awhile Before I write it; When Nature shows us such a smile, We shouldn't slight it. For Nature always makes desire By giving pleasure ; And so 'twill help me put more fire Into my measure. [ On the River. \ The river's fine, I'm glad I came, That poem's teasing; But health is better far than fame, Though cheques are pleasing. I don't know what I did it for, This air's a poppy. I'm sorry for my editor, He '11 get no copy ! THE WARRIOR'S PRAYER Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray, " Lord, who prevailest with resistless might, Ever from war and strife keep me away, My battles fight ! " 226 THE LIFE AND WORKS I know not if I play the Pharisee, And if my brother after all be right ; But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee Strength for the fight. I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray, And drive the warring foeman from my sight ; I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day, Strength for the fight ! When foes upon me press, let me not quail Nor think to turn me into coward flight. I only ask, to make mine arms prevail, Strength for the fight ! Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe, Still let mine armor case me strong and bright ; And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow, Strength for the fight ! And when, at eventide, the fray is done, My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light, And give me, be the field or lost or won, Rest from the fight ! FAREWELL TO ARCADY With sombre mien, the Evening gray Comes nagging at the heels of Day, And driven faster and still faster Before the dusky-mantled Master, The light fades from her fearful eyes, She hastens, stumbles, falls, and dies. Beside me Amaryllis weeps ; The swelling tears obscure the deeps Of her dark eyes, as, mistily, The rushing rain conceals the sea. Here, lay my tuneless reed away, I have no heart to tempt a lay. I scent the perfume of the rose Which by my crystal fountain grows. In this sad time, are roses blowing ? And thou, my fountain, art thou flowing, While I who watched thy waters spring Am all too sad to smile or sing ? Nay, give me back my pipe again, It yet shall breathe this single strain : Farewell to Arcady ! THE VOICE OF THE BANJO In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way, Sat an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face, and hair of gray, And beside him on the table, battered, old, and worn as he, Lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody : " Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad ; Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last, Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. " For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, When the Southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land ; And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell Of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely belle. " And I Speak to you of care-free songs when labor's hour was o'er, And a woman waiting for your step out- side the cabin door, And of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, ' Pap, pap.' " I could tell you of a 'possum hunt across the wooded grounds, I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds, You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, Build again a whole green forest with the mem'ry of a tree. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 227 So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind, What care I for trembling fingers, what care you that you are blind ? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend ; But they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade ? in the end." THE STIRRUP CUP Come, drink a stirrup cup with me, Before we close our rouse. You're all aglow with wine, I know : The master of the house, Unmindful of our revelry, Has drowned the carking devil care, And slumbers in his chair. Come, drink a cup before we start ; We've far to ride to-night. And Death may take the race we make, And check our gallant flight : But even he must play his part, And tho' the look he wears be grim, We'll drink a toast to him ! For Death, a swift old chap is he, And swift the steed he rides. He needs no chart o'er main or mart, For no direction bides, So, come a final cup with me, And let the soldiers' chorus swell, To hell with care, to hell ! A CHOICE They please me not these solemn songs That hint of sermons covered up. Tis true the world should heed its wrongs, But in a poem let me sup, Not simples brewed to cure or ease Humanity's confessed disease, But the spirit-wine of a singing line, Or a dew-drop in a honey cup ! HUMOR AND DIALECT THEN AND NOW THEN He loved her, and through many years, Had paid his fair devoted court, Until she wearied, and with sneers Turned all his ardent love to sport. That night with n his chamber lone, He long sat writing by his bed A note in which his heart made moan For love ; the morning found him dead, NOW Like him, a man of later day Was jilted by the maid he sought, And from her presence turned away, Consumed by burning, bitter thought. He sought his room to write a curse Like him before and die, I wen. Ah, no, he put his woes in verse. And sold them to a magazine. AT CHESHIRE CHEESE When first of wise old Johnson taugnt, My youthful mind its homage brought, And made the pond'rous, crusty sage The object of a noble rage. Nor did I think (How dense we are !) That any day, however far, Would find me holding, unrepelled, The place that Doctor Johnson held ! But change has come and time has moved, And now, applauded, unreproved, I hold, with pardonable pride, The place that Johnson occupied. Conceit ! Presumption ! What is this ? You surely read my words amiss ! Like Johnson I, a man of mind ! How could you ever be so blind ? No. At the ancient " Cheshire Cheese," Blown hither by some vagrant breeze, To dignify my shallow wit, In Doctor Johnson's seat I sit ! 228 THE LIFE AND WORKS MY CORN-COB PIPE Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars The real or fancied virtues of their foreign- made cigars ; But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine, And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe of mine. It's as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in bloom ; It's as dainty as the essence of the dainti- est perfume ; It's as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is hanging ripe, With the sun's warm kiss upon them is this corn-cob pipe. Thro' the smoke about it clinging, I de : light its form to trace, Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face; And my room is dim with vapor as a church when censers sway, As I clasp it to my bosom in a figurative way. It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in distress, And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in success ; So I hail it as a symbol, friendship's true and worthy type, And I press my lips devoutly to my corn- cob pipe. IN AUGUST When August days are hot an' dry, When burning copper is the sky, I'd rather fish than feast or fly In airy realms serene and high. I'd take a suit not made for looks, Some easily digested books, Some flies, some lines, some bait, some hooks, Then would I seek the bays and brooks. I would eschew mine every task, In Nature's smiles my soul should bask, And I methinks no more could ask, Except perhaps- one little flask. In case of accident, you know, Or should the wind come on to blow, Or I be chilled or capsized, so, A flask would be the only go. Then could I spend a happy time, A bit of sport, a bit of rhyme (A bit of lemon, or of lime, To make my bottle's contents prime). When August days are hot an' dry, I won't sit by an' sigh or die, I'll get my bottle (on the sly) And go ahead, and fish, and lie ! THE DISTURBER Oh, what shall I do ? I am wholly up- set ; I am sure I'll be jailed for a lunatic yet. I'll be out of a job it's the thing to ex- pect When I'm letting my duty go by with neglect. You may judge the extent and degree of my plight When I'm thinking all day and a-dream- ing all night, And a-trying my hand at a rhyme on the sly, All on account of a sparkling eye. There are those who say men should be strong, well-a-day ! But what constitutes strength in a man ? Who shall say ? I am strong as the most when it comes to the arm. I have aye held my own on the play- ground or farm. And when I've been tempted, I haven't been weak ; But now why, I tremble to hear a maid speak. I used to be bold, but now I've grown shy, And all on account of a sparkling eye. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 229 There once was a time when my heart was devout, But now my religion is open to doubt. When parson is earnestly preaching of grace. My fancy is busy with drawing a face, Thro' the back of a bonnet most piously plain ; " I draw it, redraw it, and draw; it again." While the songs and the sermon unheeded go by, All on account of a sparkling eye. Oh, dear little conjurer, give o'er your wiles, It is easy for you, you're all blushes and smiles ; But, love of my heart, I am sorely per- plexed ; I am smiling one minute and sighing the next; And if it goes on, I'll drop hackle and flail, And go to the parson and tell him my tale. I warrant he'll find me a cure for the sigh That you're aye bringing forth with the glance of your eye. EXPECTATION You'll be wonderin* whut's de reason I's a grinnin' all de time, An' I guess you t'ink my sperits Mus' be feelin' mighty prime. Well, I 'fess up, I is tickled As a puppy at his paws. But you needn't think I's crazy, I ain' lamn' 'dout a cause. You's a wonderin' too, I reckon, Why I doesn't seem to eat, An' I notice you a lookin' Lak you felt completely beat When I 'fuse to tek de bacon, An' don' settle on de ham. Don' you feel no feah erbout me, Jes' keep eatin', an' be ca'm. Fu' I's waitin' an' I's watchin' 'Bout a little t'ing I see D' othah night I's out a walkin' An' I passed a 'simmon tree. Now I's whettin' up my hongry, An' I's lamn' fit to kill, Fu' de fros' done turned de 'simmons, An' de possum's eat his fill. He done go'ged hisse'f owdacious, An' he stayin' by de tree ! Don' you know, ol' Mistah Possum Dat you gittin' fat fu' me ? 'Tain't no use to try to 'spute it, 'Case I knows you's gittin' sweet Wif dat 'simmon flavoh thoo you, So I's waitin' fu' yo' meat. An' some ebenin' me an' Towsah Gwine to come an' mek a call, We jes' drap in onexpected Fu' to shek yo' han', dat's all. Oh, I knows dat you'll be tickled, Seem lak I kin see you smile, So pu'haps I mought pu'suade you Fu' to visit us a while. LOVER'S LANE Summah night an' sighin' breeze, 'Long de lovah's lane ; Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees, 'Long de lovah's lane. White folks' wo'k all done up gran'- Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han' Struttin' lak we owned de Ian', 'Long de lovah's lane. Owl a-settin' 'side de road, 'Long de lovah's lane, Lookin' at us lak he knowed Dis uz lovah's lane. Go on, hoot yo' mou'nful tune, You ain' nevah loved in June, An' come hidin' Pom de moon Down in lovah's lane. Bush it ben' an' nod an' sway, Down in lovah's lane, Try'n' to hyeah me whut I say 'Long de lovah's lane. But I whispahs low lak dis, An' my 'Mandy smile huh bliss Mistah Bush he shek his fis', Down in lovah's lane. 230 THE LIFE AND WORKS Whut I keer ef day is long, Down in lovah's lane. I kin allus sing a song 'Long de lovah's lane. An' de wo'ds I hyeah an' say Meks up fu' de weary day, Wen I's strollin' by de way, Down in lovah's lane. An' dis fought will allus rise Down in lovah's lane : Wondah whethah in de skies Dey's a lovah's lane. Ef dey ain't I tell you true, 'Ligion do look mighty blue, 'Cause I do' know whut I'd do 'Dout a lovah's lane. PROTEST Who say my hea't ain't true to you ? Dey bettah hetsh dey mouf. I knows I loves you thoo an' thoo In watah time er drouf. I wush dese people 'd stop dey talkin', Don't mean no mo' dan chicken's squawkin' : I guess I knows which way I's walkin', I knows de norf f om souf. I does not love Elizy Brown, I guess I knows my min'. You allus try to tek me down Wid evaht'ing you fin'. Ef dese hyeah folks will keep on fillin* Yo' haid wid nonsense, an' you's willin* I bet some day dey'll be a killin' Somewhaih along de line. O' cose I buys de gal ice-cream, Whut else I gwine to do ? I knows jes' how de t'ing 'u'd seem Ef I'd be sho't wid you. On Sunday, you's at chu'ch a-shoutin', Den all de week you go 'roun' poutin* I's mighty tiahed o' all dis doubtin', I tell you cause I's true. HYMN O liT lamb out in de col', De Mastah call you to de foP, O 1'iT lamb ! He hyeah you bleatin' on de hill ; Come hyeah an' keep yo' mou'nin' still, O li'P lamb ! De Mastah sen' de Shepud fo'f ; He wandah souf, he wandah no'f, O li'P lamb ! He wandah eas', he wandah wes' ; De win' a-wrenchin' at his breas', O li'P lamb ! Oh, tell de Shepud whaih you hide ; He want you walkin' by his side, O liT lamb ! He know you weak, he know you so' ; But come, don' stay away no mo', O li'P lamb 1 An' af'ah while de lamb he hyeah De Shepud's voice a-callin' cleah - Sweet li'P lamb ! He answah fom de brambles thick, " O Shepud, I's a-comin' quick " O li'P lamb ! THE REAL QUESTION Folks is talkin' 'bout de money, 'bout de silvah an' de gold ; All de time de season's changin' an' de days is gittin' cold. An' dey 's wond'rin' 'bout de metals, whethah we'll have one er two, While de price o' coal is risin' an' dey's two months' rent dat's due. Some folks says dat gold's de only money dat is wuff de name, Den de othahs rise an' tell 'em dat dey ought to be ashame, An' dat silvah is de only thing to save us f 'om de powah Of de gold-bug ragin' 'roun' an' seekin' who he may devowah. Well, you folks kin keep on shoutin' wif yo' gold er silvah cry, But I tell you people hams is sceerce an' fowls is roostin' high. An' hit ain't de so't o' money dat is pes- terin' my min', But de question I want answehed's how ta get 'at any kin' ! OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 231 JILTED Lucy done gone back on me, Dat's de way wif life. Evaht'ing was movin' free T'ought I had my wife. Den some dahky comes along, Sings my gal a little song, Since den, evaht'ing's gone wrong, Evah day dey's strife. Didn't answeh me to-day, Wen I called huh name, Would you t'ink she'd ac' dat way Wen I ain't to blame ? Dat's de way dese women do, Wen dey fin's a fellow true, Den dey 'buse him thoo an' thoo ; Well, hit's all de same. Somep'n's wrong erbout my lung, An' I's glad hit's so. Doctah says 'at I'll die young, Well, I wants to go ! Whut's de use o' livin' hyeah, Wen de gal you loves so deah, Goes back on you clean an' cleah I sh'd like to know ? THE NEWS Whut dat you whisperin' keepin' f'om me ? Don't shut me out 'cause I's ol' an' can't see. Somep'n's gone wrong dat's a-causin' you dread, Don't be afeared to tell Whut! mastah dead? Somebody brung de news early to-day, One of de sojers he led, do you say ? Didn't he foller whah ol' mastah led ? How kin he live w'en his leadah is dead ? Let me lay down awhile, dah by his bed ; I wants to t'ink, hit ain't cleah in my head : Killed while a-leadin' his men into fight, Dat's whut you said, ain't it, did I hyeah right? Mastah, my mastah, dead dah in de fieP ? Lif ' me up some, dah, jes' so I kin kneel. I was too weak to go wid him, dey said, Well, now I'll fin' him so mastah is dead. Yes, suh, I's comin' ez fas' ez I kin, 'Twas kin' o' da'k, but hit's lightah agin : P'omised yo' pappy I'd allus tek keer Of you, yes, mastah, I's follerin' hyeah ! CHRISMUS ON THE PLANTATION It was Chrismus Eve, I mind hit fu' a mighty gloomy day Bofe de weathah an' de people not a one of us was gay ; Cose you'll t'ink dat's mighty funny 'twell I try to mek hit cleah, Fu' a da'ky's allus happy when de holi- days is neah. But we wasn't, fu' dat mo'nin' mastah'd tol' us we mus' go, He' been payin' us sence freedom, but he couldn't pay no mo' ; He wa'n't nevah used to plannin' 'fo' he got so po' an' ol', So he gwine to give up tryin', an' de home- stead mus' be sol'. I kin see him stan'in' now erpon de step ez cleah ez day, Wid de win' a-kin' o' fondlin' thoo his haih all thin an' gray ; An' I 'membah how he trimbled when he said, " It's ha'd fu' me, Not to mek yo' Chrismus brightah, but I 'low it wa'n't to be." All de women was a cryin', an' de men, too, on de sly, An' I noticed somep'n shinin' even in ol' mastah's eye, But we all stood still to listen ez ol' Ben come f'om de crowd An' spoke up, a-tryin' to steady down his voice and mek it loud : 232 THE LIFE AND WORKS " Look hyeah, Mastah, I's been servin' yo' fu' lo ! dese many yeahs, An' now, sence we's got freedom an' you's kind o' po', hit 'pears Dat you want us all to leave you 'cause you don't t'ink you can pay. Ef my membry hasn't fooled me, seem dat whut I hyead you say. " Er in othah wo'ds, you wants us to fu'git dat you's been kin', An' ez soon ez you is he'pless, we's to leave you hyeah behin'. Well, ef dat's de way dis freedom ac's on people, white er black, You kin jes' tell Mistah Lincum fu' to tek his freedom back. " We gwine to wo'k dis ol' plantation fu' whatevah we kin git, Fu' I know hit did suppo't us, an' de place kin do it yit. Now de land is yo's, de hands is ouahs, an' I reckon we'll be brave, An' we'll bah ez much ez you do w'en we has to scrape an' save." Ol' mastah stood dah trimblin', but a-smilin' thoo his teahs, An' den hit seemed jes' nachul-like, de place fan rung wid cheahs, An' soon ez dey was quiet, some one sta'ted sof' an' low: " Praise God," an* den we all jined in, " from whom all blessin's flow ! " Well, dey wasn't no use tryin', ouah min's was sot to stay, An' po' ol' mastah couldn't plead ner baig, ner drive us 'way, An' all at once, hit seemed to us, de day was bright agin, So evah one was gay dat night, an' watched de Chrismus in. FOOLIN' WID DE SEASONS Seems lak folks is mighty curus In de way dey t'inks an' ac's. Dey jes' spen's dey days a-mixin' Up de t'ings in almanacs. Now, I min' my nex' do' neighbor, He's a mighty likely man, But he nevah t'inks o' nuffin 'Ceptin' jes'- to plot an' plan. All de wintah he was plannin' How he'd gethah sassafras Jes' ez soon ez evah Springtime Put some greenness in de grass. An' he 'lowed a little soonah He could stan' a coolah breeze So's to mek a little money F'om de sugah-watah trees. In de summah, he'd be waihin' Out de linin' of his soul, Try'n' to ca'ci'late an' fashion How he'd git his wintah coal ; An' I b'lieve he got his jedgement Jes' so tuckahed out an' thinned Dat he t'ought a robin's whistle Was de whistle of de wind. Why won't folks gin up dey plannin 1 , An' jes' be content to know Dat dey's gittin' all dat's fu' dem In de days dat come an' go ? Why won't folks quit movin' forrard ? Ain't hit bettah jes' to stan' An' be satisfied wid livin' In de. season dat's at han' ? Hit's enough fu' me to listen W'en de birds is singin' 'roun', 'Dout a-guessin' whut'll happen W'en de snow is on de groun'. In de Springtime an' de summah, I lays sorrer on de she'f ; An' I knows ol' Mistah Wintah Gwine to hustle fu' hisse'f. We been put hyeah fu' a pu'pose, But de questun dat has riz An' made lots o' people diffah Is jes' whut dat pu'pose is. Now, accordin' to my reas'nin', Hyeah's de p'int whaih I's arriv, Sence de Lawd put life into us, We was put hyeah fu' to live ! I LAYS SORRER ON DE MEK DE SHADDERS ON DE WALL OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 235 AT CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME When I come in Pom de co'n-fieF aftah wo'kin* ha'd all day, It's amazin' nice to fin' my suppah all erpon de way ; An' it's nice to smell de coffee bubblin' ovah in de pot, An' it's fine to see de meat a-sizzlm' teasin'-lak an' hot. But when suppah-time is ovah, an' de t'ings is cleahed away ; Den de happy hours dat foller are de sweetes' of de day. When my co'ncob pipe is sta'ted, an' de smoke is drawin' prime, My ole 'ooman says, "I reckon, Ike, it's candle-lightin' time." Den de chillun snuggle up to me, an' all commence to call, " Oh, say, daddy, now it's time to mek de shadders on de wall." So I puts my han's togethah evah daddy knows de way, An' de chillun snuggle closer roun' ez I begin to say : "Fus' thing, hyeah come Mistah Rabbit; don' you see him wo'k his eahs ? Huh, uh ! dis mus' be a donkey, look, how innercent he 'pears ! Dah's de ole black swan a-swimmin' ain't she got a' awful neck ? Who's dis feller dat's a-comin' ? Why, dat's ole dog Tray, I 'spec' ! " Dat's de way I run on, tryin' fu' to please 'em all I can ; Den I hollahs, " Now be keerful dis hyeah las' 's de buga-man ! " An' dey runs an' hides dey faces; dey ain't skeered dey's lettin' on : But de play ain't raaly ovah twell dat buga-man is gone. So I jes' teks up my banjo, an' I plays a little chune, An' you see dem haids come peepin' out to listen mighty soon. Den my wife says, " Sich a pappy fu' to give you sich a fright ! Jes' you go to baid, an' leave him : say yo' prayers an' say good-night." ANGELINA When de fiddle gits to singin' out a oP Vahginny reel, An 1 you 'mence to feel a ticklin' in yo' toe an' in yo' heel ; Ef you t'ink you got 'uligion an' you wants to keep it, too, You jes' bettah tek a hint an' git yo'self clean out o' view. Case de time is mighty temptin' when de chune is in de swing, Fu' a darky, saint or sinner man, to cut de pigeon-wing. An' you couldn't he'p fom dancin' ef yo' feet was boun' wif twine, W^hen Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. Don't you know Miss Angelina? She's de da'lin' of de place. W'y, dey ain't no high-toned lady wif sich mannahs an' sich grace. She kin move across de cabin, wif its planks all rough an* wo' ; Jes' de same's ef she was dancin' on oP mistus' ball-room flo'. Fact is, you do' see no cabin evaht'ing you see look grand, An' dat one oP squeaky fiddle soun' to you jes' lak a ban' ; Cotton britches look lak broadclof an* a linsey dress look fine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin* down de line. Some folks say dat dancin's sinful, an* de blessed Lawd, dey say, Gwine to purnish us fu' steppin' w'en we hyeah de music play. But I tell you I don' b'lieve it, fu' de Lawd is wise and good, An he made de banjo's metal an' he made de fiddle's wood, 236 THE LIFE AND WORKS An' he made de music in dem, so I don* quite I'ink he'll keer Ef our feet keeps time a little to de melodies we hyeah. W'y, dey's somepV downright holy in de way our faces shine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. Angelina steps so gentle, Angelina bows so low, An' she UP huh sku't so dainty dat huh shoetop skacely show : An' dem teef o' huh'n a-shinin', ez she tek you by de han' Go 'way, people, d'ain't anothah sich a lady in de Ian' ! When she's movin' thoo de figgers er a-dancin' by huhse'f, Folks jes' stan' stock-still a-sta'in', an' dey mos' nigh hoi's dey bref ; An' de young mens, dey's a-sayin', " I's gwine mek dat damsel mine," When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. MY SORT O' MAN I don't believe in 'ristercrats An' never did, you see ; The plain ol' homelike sorter folks Is good enough fur me. O* course, I don't desire a man To be too tarnal rough, But then, I think all folks should know When they air nice enough. Now there is folks in this here world, From peasant up to king, Who want to be so awful nice They overdo the thing. That's jest the thing that makes me sick, An' quicker'n a wink I set it down that them same folks Ain't half so good's you think. I like to see a man dress nice, In clothes becomin' too ; I like to see a woman fix As women orter to do ; An' boys an' gals I like to see Look fresh an' young an' spry, We all must have our vanity An' pride before we die. But I jedge no man by his clothes, Nor gentleman nor tramp ; The man that wears the finest suit May be the biggest scamp, An' he whose limbs air clad in rags That make a mournful sight, In life's great battle may have proved A hero in the fight. I don't believe in 'ristercrats ; I like the honest tan That lies upon the heathful cheek An' speaks the honest man ; I like to grasp the brawny hand That labor's lips have kissed, For he who has not labored here Life's greatest pride has missed : The pride to feel that yore own strength Has cleaved fur you the way To heights to which you were not born, But struggled day by day. What though the thousands sneer an' scoff, An' scorn yore humble birth ? Kings are but puppets ; you are king By right o' royal worth. The man who simply sits an' waits Fur good to come along, Ain't worth the breath that one would take To tell him he is wrong. Fur good ain't flowin' round this world Fur every fool to sup ; You've got to put yore see-ers on, An' go an' hunt it up. Good goes with honesty, I say, To honor an' to bless ; To rich an' poor alike it brings A wealth o' happiness. The 'ristercrats ain't got it all, Fur much to their su'prise, That's one of earth's most blessed things They can't monopolize. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 23? POSSUM Ef dey's anyt'ing dat riles me An' jes' gits me out o' hitch, Twell I want to tek my coat off, So's to r'ar an' t'ar an' pitch, Hit's to see some ign'ant white man 'Mittin' dat owdacious sin Wen he want to cook a possum Tekin' off de possum's skin. Wy, dey ain't no use in talkin', Hit jes' hu'ts me to de hea't Fu' to see dem foolish people Th'owin' 'way de fines' pa't. Wy, dat skin is jes' ez tendah An' ez juicy ez kin be ; I knows all erbout de critter Hide an' haih don't talk to me ! Possum skin is jes' lak shoat skin ; Jes' you swinge an' scrope it down, Tek a good sha'p knife an' sco' it, Den you bake it good an' brown. Huh-uh ! honey, you's so happy Dat yo' thoughts is 'mos' a sin When you's settin' dah a-chawin' On dat possum's cracklin' skin. White folks t'ink dey know 'bout eatin', An' I reckon dat dey do Sometimes git a little idee Of a middlin' dish er two ; But dey ain't a t'ing dey knows of Dat I reckon cain't be beat Wen we set down at de table To a unskun possum's meat ! ON THE ROAD I's boun' to see my gal to-night Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! De moon ain't out, de stars ain't bright Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! Dis hoss o' mine is pow'ful slow, But when I does git to yo' do' Yo' kiss'll pay me back, an' mo', Dough lone de way, my dearie. De night is skeery-lak an' still Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 'Cept fu' dat mou'nful whippo-'will Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! De way so long wif dis slow pace, 'T'u'd seem to me lak savin' grace Ef you was on a nearer place, Fu' lone de way, my dearie. I hyeah de hootin' of de owl Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! I wish dat watch-dog wouldn't howl - Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! An' evaht'ing, bofe right an' lef ', Seem p'int'ly lak hit put itse'f In shape to skeer me half to def Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! I whistles so's I won't be feared Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! But anyhow I's kin' o' skeered, Fu' lone de way, my dearie. De sky been lookin' mighty glum, But you kin mek hit lighten some, Ef you'll jes' say you's glad I come, Dough lone de way, my dearie. A BACK-LOG SONG De axes has been ringin' in de woods de blessid day, An' de chips has been a-fallin f fa' an' thick; Dey has cut de bigges' hick'ry dat de mules kin tote away, An' dey's laid hit down and soaked it in de crik. Den dey tuk hit to de big house an' dey piled de wood erroun' In de fiahplace f'om asli-flo' to de flue, While ol* Ezry sta'ts de hymn dat evah yeah has got to soun' When de back-log fus' commence a-bu'nin' thoo. Ol' Mastah is a-smilin* on de da'kies f'om de hall, Ol' Mistus is a-stannin' in de do', An* de young folks, males an' misses, is a-tryin', one an' all, Fu' to mek us feel hit's Chrismus time fu' sho'. THE LIFE AND WORKS An' ouah hea'ts are full of pleasure, fu' we know de time is ouahs Fu' to dance er do jes' whut we wants to do. An' dey ain't no ovahseer an' no othah kind o' powahs Dat kin stop us while dat log is bu'nin' thoo. Dey's a-wokin' in de qua'tahs a-preparin' fu' de feas', So de little pigs is feelin' kind o' shy. De chickens ain't so trus'ful ez dey was, to say de leas', An* de wise ol' hens is roostin' mighty high. You couldn't git a gobblah fu' to look you in de face I ain't sayin' whut de tu'ky 'spects is true ; But hit's mighty dange'ous trav'lin' fu' de critters on de place F'om de time dat log commence a-bu'nin' thoo. Some one's tunin' up his fiddle dah, I hyeah a banjo's ring, An', bless me, dat's de tootin' of a ho'n! Now dey'll evah one be runnin' dat has got a foot to fling, An' dey'll dance an' frolic on f 'om now 'twell mo'n. Plunk de banjo, scrap de fiddle, blow dat ho'n yo' level bes', Keep yo' min' erpon de chune an* step it true. Oh, dey ain't no time fu' stoppin' an' dey ain't no time fu 1 res', Fu' hit's Chrismus an' de back-log's bu'nin' thoo ! JEALOUS Hyeah come Caesar Higgins, Don't he think he's fine ? Look at dem new riggin's Ain't he tryin' to shine ? , Got a standin' collar An' a stovepipe hat, I'll jes' bet a dollar Some one gin him dat. Don't one o' you mention, Nothin' 'bout his cloes, Don't pay no attention, Er let on you knows Dat he's got 'em on him, Why, 't'll mek him sick, Jes' go on an' sco'n him, My, ain't dis a trick ! Look hyeah, whut's he doin* Lookin' t'othah way ? Dat ere move's a new one, Some one call him, " Say ! " Can't you see no pusson Puttin' on you' airs, Sakes alive, you's wuss'n Dese hyeah millionaires. Needn't git so flighty, Case you got dat suit. Dem cloes ain't so mighty, Second hand to boot, I's a-tryin' to spite you ! Full of jealousy! Look hyeah, man, I'll fight you, Don't you fool wid me ! PARTED De breeze is blowin' 'cross de bay. My lady, my lady ; De ship hit teks me far away, My lady, my lady. Ole Mas' done sol' me down de stream ; Dey tell me 'tain't so bad's hit seem, My lady, my lady. O' co'se I knows dat you'll be true, My lady, my lady ; But den I do' know whut to do, My lady, my lady. I knowed some day we'd have to pa't, But den hit put' nigh breaks my hea't, My lady, my lady. De day is long, de night is black, My lady, my lady ; I know you'll wait twell I come back, My lady, my lady. I'll stan' de ship, I'll stan' de chain, But I'll come back, my darlin' Jane, My lady, my lady. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 239 Jes' wait, jes' b'lieve in whut I say, My lady, my lady ; D'ain't nothin' dat kin keep me 'way, My lady, my lady. A man's a man, an' love is love ; God knows ouah hea'ts, my little dove ; He'll he'p us f 'om his th'one above, My lady, my lady. TEMPTATION I done got 'uligion, honey, an' I's happy ez a king ; Evahthing I see erbout me's jes' lak sun- shine in de spring ; An* it seems lak I do' want to do anothah blessid thing But jes' run an' tell de neighbors, an' to shout an' pray an' sing. I done shuk my fis' at Satan, an' I's gin de worF my back ; I do' want no hendrin' causes now a-both- 'rin' in my track ; Fu' I's on my way to glory, an' I feels too sho' to miss. W'y, dey ain't no use in sinnin' when 'uligion's sweet ez dis. Talk erbout a man backslidin' w'en he's on de gospel way ; No, suh, I done beat de debbil, an' Temp- tation's los' de day. Gwine to keep my eyes right straight up, gwine to shet my eahs, an' see Whut ole projick Mistah Satan's gwine to try to wuk on me. Listen, whut dat soun' I hyeah dah ? 'tain't no one commence to sing; It's a fiddle; git erway dah! don' you hyeah dat blessid thing ? W'y, dat's sweet ez drippin' honey, 'cause, you knows, I draws de bow, An' when music's sho' 'nough music, I's de one dat's sho' to know. W'y, I's done de double shuffle, twell a body couldn't res', Jes' a-hyeahin' Sam de fiddlah play dat chune his level bes'; 14 I could cut a mighty caper, I could gin a mighty fling Jes' right now, I's mo* dan suttain I could cut de pigeon wing. Look hyeah, whut's dis I's been sayin' ? whut on urf 's tuk holt o* me ? Dat ole music come nigh runnin' my 'uligion up a tree ! Cleah out wif dat dah ole fiddle, don' you try dat trick agin ; Didn't think I could be tempted, but you lak to made me sin ! POSSUM TROT I've journeyed 'roun* consid'able, a-seein' men an' things, An' I've learned a little of the sense that meetin' people brings ; But in spite of all my travelin', an' of all I think I know, I've got one notion in my head, that I can't git to go ; An' it is that the folks I meet in any other spot Ain't half so good as them I knowed back home in Possum Trot. I know you've never heerd the name, it ain't a famous place, An* I reckon ef you'd search the map you couldn't find a trace Of any sich locality as this I've named to you; But never mind, I know the place, an' I love it dearly, too. It don't make no pretensions to bein* great or fine, The circuses don't come that way, they ain't no railroad line. It ain't no great big city, where the schemers plan an' plot, But jest a little settlement, this place called Possum Trot. But don't you think the folks that lived in that outlandish place Were ignorant of all the things that go for sense or grace. 240 THE LIFE AND WORKS Why, there was Hannah Dyer, you may search this teemin' earth An* never find a sweeter girl, er one o' greater worth ; An' Uncle Abner Williams, a-leanin' on his staff, It seems like I kin hear him talk, an' hear his hearty laugh. His heart was big an' cheery as a sunny acre lot, Why, that's the kind o' folks we had down there at Possum Trot. Good times? Well, now, to suit my taste, an' I'm some hard to suit, There ain't been no sich pleasure sence, an' won't be none to boot, With huskin' bees in Harvest time, an' dances later on, An' singin' school, an' taffy pulls, an' fun from night till dawn. Revivals come in winter time, baptizin's in the spring, You'd ought to seen those people shout, an' heerd 'em pray an' sing ; You'd ought to've heard ole Parson Brown a-throwin' gospel shot Among the saints an' sinners in the days of Possum Trot. We live up in the city now, my wife was bound to come ; I hear aroun' me day by day the endless stir an' hum. I reckon that it done me good, an' yet it done me harm, That oil was found so plentiful down there on my ole farm. We've got a new-styled preacher, our church is new-styled, too, An' I've come down from what I knowed to rent a cushioned pew. But often when I'm settin' there, it's fool- ish, like as not, To think of them oP benches in the church at Possum Trot. I know that I'm ungrateful, an' sich thoughts must be a sin, But I find myself a wishin' that the times was back agin. With the huskin's an' the frolics, an' the joys I used to know, When I lived at the settlement, a dozen years ago. I don't feel this way often, I'm scarcely ever glum, For life has taught me how to take her chances as they come. But now an' then my mind goes back to that oP buryin* plot, That holds the dust of some I loved, down there at Possum Trot. DELY Jes' lak toddy wahms you thoo' Sets yo' haid a reelin', Meks you ovah good and new, Dat's de way I's feelin'. Seems to me hit's summah time, Dough hit's wintah reely, I's a feelin' jes' dat prime An' huh name is Dely. Dis hyeah love's a cu'rus thing, Changes 'roun' de season, Meks you sad or meks you sing, 'Dout no urfly reason. Sometimes I go mopin* 'roun', Den agin I's leapin' ; Sperits allus up an' down Even when I's sleepin'. Fu' de dreams comes to me den, An' dey keeps me pitchin', Lak de apple dumplin's w'en Bilin' in de kitchen. Some one sot to do me hahm, Tryin' to ovahcome me, Ketchin* Dely by de ahm So's to tek huh f 'om me. Mon, you bettah b'lieve I fights (Dough hit's on'y seemin') ; I's a hittin' fu' my rights Even w'en I's dreamin'. But I'd let you have 'em all, Give 'em to you freely, Good an' bad ones, great an' small, So's you leave me Dely. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 241 Dely got dem meltin' eyes, Big an' black an' tendah. Dely jes' a lady-size, Delikit an' slendah. Dely brown ez brown kin be An' huh haih is curly ; Oh, she look so sweet to me, Bless de precious girlie ! Dely brown ez brown kin be, She ain' no mullatter; She pure cullud, don' you see Dat's jes' whut's de mattah ? Dat's de why I love huh so, D' ain't no mix about huh, Soon's you see huh face you know D' ain't no chanst to doubt huh. Folks dey go to chu'ch an' pray So's to git a blessin'. Oomph, dey bettah come my way, Dey could lu'n a lesson. Sabbaf day I don' go fu', Jes' to see my pigeon ; I jes' sets an' looks at huh, Dat's enuff 'uligion. BREAKING THE CHARM Caught Susanner whistlin' ; well, It's most nigh too good to tell. 'Twould 'a' b'en too good to see Ef it hadn't b'en fur me, Comin' up so soft an' sly * That she didn' hear me nigh. I was pokin' 'round that day, An' ez I come down the way, First her whistle strikes my ears, Then her gingham dress appears ; So with soft step up I slips. Oh, them dewy, rosy lips ! Ripe ez cherries, red an' round, Puckered up to make the sound. She was lookin' in the spring, Whistlin' to beat anything, Kitty Dale " er " In the Sweet." I was jest so mortal beat That I can't quite ricoleck What the toon was, but I 'speck 'Twas some hymn er other, fur Hymny things is jest like her. Well she went on fur awhile With her face all in a smile, An* I never moved, but stood Stiller'n a piece o' wood Wouldn't wink ner wouldn't stir, But a-gazin' right at her, Tell she turns an' sees me my ! Thought at first she'd try to fly. But she blushed an' stood her ground. Then, a-slyly lookin' round, She says : " Did you hear me, Ben ? " " Whistlin' woman, crowin' hen," Says I, lookin' awful stern. Then the red commenced to burn In them cheeks o' hern. Why, la ! Reddest red you ever saw Pineys wa'n't a circumstance. You'd 'a' noticed in a glance She was pow'rful shamed an' skeart ; But she looked so sweet an' peart, That a idee struck my head So I up an' slowly said : " Woman whistlin' brings shore harm, Jest one thing'll break the charm." " And what's that ? " Oh, my ! " says I, " I don't like to tell you." " Why ? " Says Susanner. Well, you see It would kinder fall on me." Course I knowed that she'd insist, So I says : " You must be kissed By the man that heard you whistle ; Everybody says that this'll Break the charm and set you free From the threat'nin' penalty." She was blushin' fit to kill, But she answered, kinder still : * I don't want to have no harm, Please come, Ben, an' break the charm." Did I break that charm ? oh, well, There's some things I mustn't tell. I remember, afterwhile, Her a-sayin' with a smile : " Oh, you quit, you sassy dunce, You jest caught me whistlin' once." Ev'ry sence that when I hear Some one whistlin' kinder clear, I most break my neck to see Ef it's Susy ; but, dear me, I jest find I've b'en to chase Some blamed boy about the place. Dad's b'en noticin' my way, An' last night I heerd him say : " We must send fur Dr. Glenn, Mother; somethin's wrong with Ben!" 2 4 2 THE LIFE AND WORKS HUNTING SONG Tek a cool night, good an' clean, Skiff" o' snow upon de groun' ; Jes' 'bout fall-time o' de yeah Wen de leaves is dry an' brown ; Tek a dog an' tek a axe, Tek a lantu'n in yo' han', Step light whah de switches cracks, Fu' dey's huntin' in de Ian'. Down thoo de valleys an' ovah de hills, Into de woods whah de 'simmon- tree grows, Wakin' an' skeerin' de po' whippo'wilk, Huntin' fu' coon an' fu' 'possum we goes. Blow dat ho'n dah loud an' strong, Call de dogs an' da'kies neah ; Mek its music cleah an' long, So de folks at home kin hyeah. Blow it twell de hills an' trees Sen's de echoes tumblin' back ; Blow it twell de back'ard breeze Tells de folks we's on de track. Coons is a-ramblin' an' 'possums is. out ; Look at dat dog ; you could set on his tail! Watch him now steady, min' what you's about, Bless me, dat animal's got on de trail ! Listen to him ba'kin'now ! Dat means bus'ness, she's you bo'n ; Ef he's struck de scent I 'low Dat ere 'possum's sholy gone. Knowed dat dog fu' fo'teen yeahs, An' I nevah seed him fail Wen he sot dem flappin' eahs An' went off upon a trail. Run, Mistah 'Possum, an' run, Mistah Coon, No place is safe fu' yo' ramblin* to- night ; Mas' gin* de lantu'n an' God gin de moon, An' a long hunt gins a good appetite. Look hyeah, folks, you hyeah dat change ? Dat ba'k is sha'per dan de res'. Dat ere soun' ain't nothin* strange, Dat dog's talked his level bes'. Somep'n* 's treed, I know de souh'. Dah now, wha'd I tell you ? see ! Dat ere dog done run him down ; Come hyeah, he'p cut down dis tree* Ah, Mistah 'Possum, we got you at las' Needn't play daid, laying dah on de groun' ; Pros' an' de 'simmons has made you grow fas', Won't he be fine when he's roasted up brown ! A LETTER DEAR Miss LUCY ; I been t'inkin' dat I'd write you long fo' dis, But dis writin' 's mighty tejous, an' you know jes' how it is. But I's got a little lesure, so I teks my pen in han' Fu' to let you know my feelin's since I retched dis furrin' Ian'. I's right well, I's glad to tell you (dough dis climate ain't to blame), An' I hopes w'en dese lines reach you, dat dey'll fin' yo'se'f de same. Cose I'se feelin' kin' o' homesick dat's ez nachul ez kin be, W'en a feller's mo'n th'ee thousand miles across dat awful sea. (Don't you let nobidy fool you 'bout de ocean bein' gran' ; If you want to see de billers, you jes' view dem f 'om de Ian'.) 'Bout de people ? We been t'inkin' dat all white folks was alak ; But dese Englishmen is diffunt, an' dey's curus fu' a fac'. Fust, dey's heavier an' redder in dey make-up an' dey looks, An' dey don't put salt nor pepper in a blessed t'ing dey cooks ! Wen dey gin you good ol' tu'nips, ca'ots, pa'snips, beets, an' sich, Ef dey ain't some one to tell you, you cain't 'stinguish which is which. Wen I 'fought I'se eatin' chicken you may b'lieve dis hyeah's a lie But de waiter beat me down dat I was eatin' rabbit pie. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 243 An' dey'd t'ink dat you was crazy jes' a reg'lar ravin' loon, Ef you'd speak erbout a 'possum or a piece o' good ol' coon. hit's mighty nice, dis trav'lin', an' I's kin' o' glad I come. But, I reckon, now I's willin' fu' to tek my way back home. 1 done see de Crystal Palace, an' I's hyeahd dey string-band play, But I hasn't seen no banjos layin' nowhahs roun' dis way. Jes' gin ol' Jim Bowles a banjo, an' he'd not go very fu', 'Fo' he'd outplayed all dese fiddlers, wif dey flourish and dey stir. Evahbiddy dat I's met wif has been monst'ous kin' an' good ; But I t'ink I'd lak it better to be down in Jones's wood, Where we ust to have sich frolics, Lucy, you an' me an' Nelse, Dough my appetite 'ud call me, ef dey wasn't nuffin else. I'd jes' lak to have some sweet-pertaters roasted in de skin ; I's a-longin' fu' my chittlin's an' my mus- tard greens ergin ; I's a-wishin' fu' some buttermilk, an' co'n braid, good an' brown, An* a drap o' good ol' bourbon fu' to wash my feelin's down ! An' I's comin' back to see you jes' as ehly as I kin, So you better not go spa'kin' wif dat wuffless scoun'el Quin ! Well, I reckon, I mus* close now ; write ez soon's dis reaches you; Gi' my love to Sister Mandy an' to Uncle Isham, too. Tell de folks I sen' 'em howdy ; gin a kiss to pap an' mam ; Closin' I is, deah Miss Lucy, Still Yo' Own True-Lovin' SAM. P. S. Ef you cain't mek out dis letter, lay it by erpon de she'f, An' when I git home, I'll read it, darlin', to you my own se'f. A CABIN TALE THE YOUNG MASTER ASKS FOR A STORY Whut you say, dah ? huh, uh ! chile, You's enough to dribe me wile. Want a sto'y ; jes' hyeah dat ! Whah' '11 I git a sto'y at ? Di'n' I tell you th'ee las' night ? Go 'way, honey, you ain't right. I got somep'n' else to do, 'Cides jes' tellin' tales to you. Tell you jes' one ? Lem me see Whut dat one's a-gwine to be. When you's ole, yo membry fails ; Seems lak I do' know no tales. Well, set down dah in dat cheer, Keep still ef you wants to hyeah. Tek dat chin up off yo' han's, Set up nice now. Goodness lan's ! Hoi' yo'se'f up lak yo' pa. Bet nobidy evah saw Him scrunched down lak you was den High-tone boys meks high-tone men. Once dey was a ole black bah, Used to live 'roun' hyeah somewhah In a cave. He was so big He could ca'y off a pig Lak you picks a chicken up, Er yo' leetles' bit o' pup. An' he had two gread big eyes, Jes' erbout a saucer's size. Why, dey looked lak balls o' fiah Jumpin* 'roun' erpon a wiah W'en dat bah was mad ; an' laws ! But you ought to seen his paws ! Did I see em ? How you 'spec I's a-gwine to ricollec' Dis hyeah ya'n I's try'n' to spin Ef you keeps on puttin' in ? You keep still an* don't you cheep Less I'll sen' you off to sleep. Dis hyeah bah'd go trompin' 'roun' Eatin' evahthing he foun' ; No one couldn't have a fa'm But dat bah 'u'd do 'em ha'm ; And dey couldn't ketch de scamp. Anywhah he wan'ed to tramp, Dah de scoun'el 'd mek his track, Do his du't an' come on back. He was sich a sly ole limb. Traps was jes' lak fun to him. 244 THE LIFE AND WORKS Now, down neah whah Mistah Bah Lived, dey was a weasel dah ; But dey wasn't fren's a-tall Case de weasel was so small. An* de bah 'u'd, jes' fu' sass, Tu'n his nose up w'en he'd pass. Weasels's small o' cose, but my ! Dem air animiles is sly. So dis hyeah one says, says he, I'll jes' fix dat bah, you see." So he fixes up his plan An' hunts up de fa'merman. When de fa'mer see him come, He 'mence lookin' mighty glum, An' he ketches up a stick ; But de weasel speak up quick : " Hoi' on, Mistah Fa'mer man, I wan* 'splain a little plan. Ef you waits, I'll tell you whah An' jes' how to ketch ol' Bah. But I tell you now you mus' Gin me one fat chicken fus'." Den de man he scratch his haid, Las' he say, " I'll mek de trade." So de weasel et his hen, Smacked his mouf and says, " Well, den, Set yo' trap an' bait ternight, An' I'll ketch de bah all right." Den he ups an' goes to see Mistah Bah, an' says, says he : ' Well, fren' Bah, we ain't been fren's, But ternight ha'd feelin' 'en's. Ef you ain't too proud to steal, We kin git a splendid meal. Cose I wouldn't come to you, But it mus' be done by two ; Hit's a trap, but we kin beat All dey tricks an' git de meat." " Cose I's wif you," says de bah, " Come on, weasel, show me whah." Well, dey trots erlong ontwell Dat air meat beginned to smell In de trap. Den weasel say : " Now you put yo' paw dis way While I hoi' de spring back so, Den you grab de meat an' go." Well, de bah he had to grin Ez he put his big paw in, Den he juked up, but -kerbing ! Weasel done let go de spring. " Dah now," says de weasel, " dah, I done cotched you, Mistah Bah 1 " O dat bah did sno't and spout, Try'n' his bestes' to git out, But de weasel say, " Goo'-bye ! Weasel small, but weasel sly." Den he tu'ned his back an' run Tol' de fa'mer whut he done. So de fa'mer come down dah, Wif a axe and killed de bah. Dah now, ain't dat sto'y fine ? Run erlong now, nevah min'. Want some mo', you rascal, you ? No, suh ! no, suh ! dat'll do. WHISTLING SAM I has hyeahd o' people dancin' an' I's hyeahd o' people singin'. An' I's been 'roun' lots of othahs dat could keep de banjo ringin'; But of all de whistlin' da'kies dat have lived an' died since Ham, De whistlin'est I evah seed was oF Ike Bates's Sam. In de kitchen er de stable, in de fiel' er mowin' hay, You could hyeah dat boy a-whistlin' pu'ty nigh a mile erway, Puck'rin' up his ugly features 'twell you couldn't see his eyes, Den you'd hyeah a soun' lak dis un f om dat awful puckah rise : When dey had revival meetin* an* de Lawd's good grace was flowin' On de groun' dat needed wat'rin' whaih de seeds of good was growin', While de othahs was a-singin' an' a-shoutin* right an' lef, You could hyeah dat boy a-whistlin' kin* o' sof beneaf his bref : OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 245 S= At de call fu' colo'ed soldiers, Sam en- listed 'mong de res' Wid de blue o' Gawd's great ahmy wropped about his swellin' breas', An' he laffed an' whistled loudah in his youfful joy an' glee Dat de govament would let him he'p to mek his people free. Daih was lots o' ties to bin' him, pappy, mammy, an' his Dinah, Binah, min' you, was his sweethea't, an' dey wasn't nary finah ; But he lef 'em all, I tell you, lak a king he ma'ched away, TryV his level bes' to whistle, happy, solemn, choky, gay: To de front he went an' bravely fought de foe an' kep' his sperrit, An* his comerds said his whistle made 'em strong when dey could hyeah it. When a saber er a bullet cut some frien' o' his'n down, An' de time 'u'd come to trench him an* de boys 'u'd gethah 'roun', An' dey couldn't sta't a hymn-tune, mebbe none o' dem 'u'd keer, Sam 'u'd whistle " Sleep in Jesus," an' he knowed de Mastah 'd hyeah. In de camp, all sad discouraged, he would cheer de hea'ts of all, When above de soun' of labor dey could hyeah his whistle call : m When de cruel wah was ovah an* de boys come ma'chin' back, Dey was shouts an' cries an' blessin's all erlong dey happy track, An' de da'kies all was happy; souls an' bodies bofe was freed. Why, hit seemed lak de Redeemah mus* V been on earf indeed. Dey was gethahed all one evenin' jes' befo' de cabin do', When dey hyeahd somebody whistlin' kin' o' sof an' sweet an' low. Dey couldn't see de whistlah, but de hymn was cleah and ca'm, An' dey all stood daih a-listenin' ontwell Dinah shouted, " Sam ! " An' dey seed a little da'ky way off yandah thoo de trees Wid his face all in a puckah mekin' jes' sich soun's ez dese : HOW LUCY BACKSLID De times is mighty stirrin' 'mong de people up ouah way, Dey 'sputin' an' dey argyin' an' fussin' night an' day ; An' all dis monst'ous trouble dat hit meks me tiahed to tell Is 'bout dat Lucy Jackson dat was sich a mighty belle. She was de preachah's favored, an* he tol' de chu'ch one night Dat she traveled thoo de cloud o' sin a-bearin' of a light ; But, now, I 'low he t'inkin' dat she mus* 'a' los' huh lamp, Case Lucy done backslided an' dey trouble in de camp. 246 THE LIFE AND WORKS Huh daddy wants to beat huh, but huh mammy daihs him to, Fu' she lookin' at de question fom a ooman's pint o' view ; An' she say dat now she wouldn't have it diff ent ef she could ; Dat huh darter only acted jes' lak any othah would. Cose you know w'en women argy, dey is mighty easy led By dey hea'ts an' don't go foolin' 'bout de reasons of de haid. So huh mammy laid de law down (she ain* reckernizin' wrong), But you got to mek erlowance fu' de cause dat go along. Now de cause dat made Miss Lucy fu' to th'ow huh grace away I's afeard won't baih no 'spection w'en hit come to jedgement day ; Do' de same t'ing been a-wo'kin* evah sence de worl' began, De ooman disobeyin' fu' to 'tice along a man. Ef you 'tended de revivals which we held de wintah pas', You kin rickolec' dat convuts was a-comin' thick an' fas' ; But dey ain't no use in talkin', dey was all lef in de lu'ch W'en ol' Mis' Jackson's dartah foun* huh peace an' tuk de chu'ch. W'y, she shouted ovah evah inch of Eben- ezah's flo' ; Up into de preachah's pulpit an' fom dah down to de do' ; Den she hugged an' squeezed huh mammy, an' she hugged an' kissed huh dad, An' she struck out at huh sistah, people said, lak she was mad. I has 'tended some revivals dat was lively in my day, An' I's seed folks git 'uligion in mos' evah kin' o' way ; But I tell you, an' you b'lieve me dat I's speakin' true indeed, Dat gal tuk huh 'ligion ha'dah dan de ha'dest yit I's seed. Well, fom dat, 'twas "Sistah Jackson, won't you please do dis er dat ? " She mus' allus sta't de singin' w'en dey'd pass erroun' de hat, An* hit seemed dey wasn't nuffin' in dat chu'ch dat could go by 'Dout sistah Lucy Jackson had a finger in de pie. But de say in' mighty trufeful dat hit easiah to sail W'en de sea is ca'm an' gentle dan to weathah out a gale. Dat's whut made dis ooman's trouble ; ef de sto'm had kep' away, She'd 'a' had enough 'uligion fu' to lasted out huh day. Lucy went wid 'Lishy Davis, but w'en she jined chu'ch, you know Dah was lots o' little places dat, of cose, she couldn't go ; An* she had to gin up dancin' an' huh singin' an' huh play. Now hit's nachul dat sich goin's-on Vd drive a man away. So, w'en Lucy got so solemn, Ike he sta'ted fu' to go Wid a gal who was a sinnah an' could mek a bettah show. Lucy jes' went on to meetin' lak she didn't keer a rap, But my 'sperunce kep' me t'inkin' dah was somep'n' gwine to drap. Fu' a gal won't let 'uligion er no othah so't o' t'ing Stop huh w'en she teks a notion dat she wants a weddin' ring. You kin p'omise huh deblessin's of a happy aftah life (An* hit's nice to be a angel), but she'd ravah be a wife. So w'en Christmas come an' mastah gin a frolic on de lawn, Didn't 'sprise me not de littlest seein' Lucy lookin' on. An' I seed a wa'nin' lightnin' go a-flashin' fom huh eye Jest ez 'Lishy an' his new gal went a-galli- vantin' by. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 247 An* dat Tildy, umph ! she giggled, an' she gin huh dress a flirt Lak de people she was passin' was ez com- mon ez de dirt ; An' de minit she was dancin', w'y dat gal put on mo' aihs Dan a cat a-tekin' kittens up a paih o' windin' staihs. She could 'fo'd to show huh sma'tness, fu' she couldn't he'p but know Dat wid jes' de present dancahs she was ownah of de flo' ; But I t'ink she'd kin' o' cooled down ef she happened on de sly Fu' to noticed dat 'ere lightnin' dat I seed in Lucy's eye. An' she wouldn't been so 'stonished w'en de people gin a shout, An' Lucy th'owed huh mantle back an' come a-glidin' out. Some ahms was dah to tek huh an' she fluttahed down de flo' Lak a feddah f 'om a bedtick, w'en de win* commence to blow Soon as Tildy see de trouble, she jes' tu'n an' toss huh haid, But seem lak she los' huh sperrit, all huh darin'ness was daid. Didn't cut anothah capah nary time de blessid night ; But de othah one, hit looked lak couldn't git enough delight. W'en you keeps a colt a-stan'in' in de stable all along, W'en he do git out hit's nachul he'll be pullin' mighty strong. Ef you will tie up yo' feelin's, hyeah's de bes' advice to tek, Look out fu' an awful loosin' w'en de string dat hoi's 'em brek. Lucy's mammy groaned to see huh, an* huh pappy sto'med an* to', But she kep' right on a-hol'in' to de centah of de flo'. So dey went an' ast de pastoh ef he couldn't mek huh quit, But de tellin' of de sto'y th'owed de preachah in a fit. Tildy Taylor chewed huh hank'cher twell she'd chewed it in a hole, All de sinnahs was rejoicin* 'cause a lamb hadlef'de fol', An* de las' I seed o' Lucy,, she an' 'Lish was side an* side : I don't blame de gal fu' dancin', an' I couldn't ef I tried. Fu' de men dat wants to ma'y ain't a-growin' 'roun' on trees, An de gal dat wants to git one sholy has to try to please. Hit's a ha'd t'ing fu' a ooman fu' to pray an' jes' set down, An' to sacafice a husban' so's to try to gain a crown. Now, I don* say she was justified in fol- lowin' huh plan ; But aldough she los' huh 'ligion, yit she sholy got de man. Latah on, w'en she is suttain dat de preach- ah's made 'em fas' She kin jes' go back to chu'ch an* ax fu'- giveness fu' de pas' ! TO THE ROAD Cool is the wind, for the summer is waning, Who's for the road ? Sun-flecked and soft, where the dead leaves are raining, Who's for the road ? Knapsack and alpenstock press hand and shoulder, Prick of the brier and roll of the boulder ; This be your lot till the season grow older ; Who's for the road ? Up and away in the hush of the morning, Who's for the road ? Vagabond he, all conventions a-scorning, Who's for the road ? Music of warblers-so merrily singing, Draughts from the rill from the roadside upspringing, Nectar of grapes from the vines lowly swinging, These on the road. 248 THE LIFE AND WORKS Now every house is a hut or a hovel, Come to the road : Mankind and moles in the dark love to grovel, .But to the road. Throw off the loads that are bending you double ; Love is for life, only labor is trouble ; Truce to the town, whose best gift is a bubble : Come to the road ! TWO LITTLE BOOTS In reading this touching little poem, one is constrained to compare it with Eugene Field's " Little Boy Blue " the same sen- timent, the same appeal to the world's heart which loves a baby and mourns its death but there is a difference. Field wrote of a white baby who played with a little tin soldier and other toys while Dunbar's two little boots " belonged to some black woman's po' little lam'. Both are universal, each has its own special ap- plication, and the stanzas add one more argument to Dunbar's burden of proof that the negro is " more human than African." Two little boots all rough an' wo', Two little boots ! Laws, I's kissed 'em times befo', Dese little boots ! Seems de toes a-peepin* thoo Dis hyeah hole an' sayin " Boo ! " Evah time dey looks at you Dese little boots. Membah de time he put 'em on, Dese little boots ; Riz an' called fu' 'em by dawn, Dese little boots; Den he tromped de livelong day, Laffin' in his happy way, Evaht'ing he had to say, " My little boots ! " Kickin' de san* de whole day long, Dem little boots ; Good de cobblah made 'em strong, Dem little boots ! Rocks was fu' dat baby's use, I 'on had to stan' abuse Wen you tu'ned dese champeens loose, Dese little boots ! Ust to make de ol' cat cry, Dese little boots ; Den you walked it mighty high, Proud little boots ! Ahms akimbo, stan'in' wide, Eyes a-sayin' " Dis is pride ! " Den de manny-baby stride ! You little boots. Somehow, you don' seem so gay, Po' little boots, Sence yo' ownah went erway, Po' little boots ! Yo' bright tops don' look so red, Dese brass tips is dull an' dead ; " Goo'-by," whut de baby said ; Deah little boots ! Ain't you kin' o' sad yo'se'f, You little boots ? Dis is all his mammy's lef ', Two little boots. Sence huh baby gone an' died, Heav'n itse'f hit seem to hide Des a little bit inside Two little boots. IN MAY Oh, to have you in May, To walk with you under the trees, Dreaming throughout the day, Drinking the wine-like breeze, Oh, it were sweet to think That May should be ours again, Hoping it not, I shrink, Out of the sight of men. May brings the flowers to bloom, It brings the green leaves to the tree, And the fatally sweet perfume, Of what you once were to me. DESE LITTLE BOOTS COME ON WALKIN' WID ME, LUCY OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 251 A SPRING WOOING Come on walkin' wid me, Lucy ; 'tain't no time to mope erroun' Wen de sunshine's shoutin' glory in de sky, An' de little Johnny-Jump-Ups's jes' a-springin' f 'om de groun', Den a-lookin' roun' to ax each othah w'y. Don' you hyeah dem cows a-mooin' ? Dat's dey howdy to de spring ; Ain' dey lookin* most oncommon satis- fied? Hit's enough to mek a body want to spread dey mouf an' sing Jes' to see de critters all so spa'klin'- eyed. W'y dat squir'l dat jes' run past us, ef I didn' know his tricks, I could swaih he'd got 'uligion jes' to- day; An' dem liza'ds slippin' back an' fofe ermong de stones an' sticks Is a-wigglin' 'cause dey feel so awful gay. Oh, I see yo' eyes a-shinin' dough you try to mek me b'lieve Dat you ain' so monst'ous happy 'cause you come ; But I tell you dis hyeah weathah meks it moughty ha'd to 'ceive Ef a body's soul ain' blin' an' deef an' dumb. Robin whistlin* ovah yandah ez he buil' his little nes' ; Whut you reckon dat he sayin' to his mate ? He's a sayin' dat he love huh in de wo'ds she know de bes', An' she lookin' moughty pleased at whut he state. Now, Miss Lucy, dat ah robin sholy got his sheer o' sense, An' de lien-bird got huh mothah-wit fu' true; So I t'ink ef you'll ixcuse me, fu' I do' mean no erfence, Dey's a lesson in dem birds fu' me an' you. I's a-buil'in' o' my cabin, an' I's vines erbove de do' Fu' to kin' o' gin it sheltah f 'om de sun ; Gwine to have a little kitchen wid a reg'lar wooden flo', An' dey'll be a back verandy w'en hit's done. I's a-waitin' fu' you, Lucy, tek de 'zample o' de birds, Dat's a-lovin' an' a-matin' evahwhaih. I cain' tell you dat I loves you in de robin's music wo'ds, But my cabin's talkin' fu' me ovah thaih ! JOGGIN' ERLONG De da'kest hour, dey allus say, Is des' befo' de dawn, But it's moughty ha'd a-waitin* Were de night goes frownin' on ; An' it's moughty ha'd a-hopin' Wen de clouds is big an' black, An' all de t'ings you's waited fu' Has failed, er gone to wrack But des' keep on a joggin' wid a little bit o' song, De mo'n is allus brightah w'en de night's been long. Dey's lots o' knocks you's got to tek Befo' yo' journey's done, An' dey's times w'en you'll be wishin' Dat de weary race was run ; Wen you want to give up tryin' An' des' float erpon de wave, Wen you don't feel no mo' sorrer Ez you t'ink erbout de grave Den, des' keep on a-joggin' wid a little bit o' song, De mo'n is allus brightah w'en de night's been long. De whup-lash sting a good deal mo' De back hit's knowed befo', An' de burden's allus heavies' Whaih hits weights has made a so* ; Dey is times w'en tribulation Seems to git de uppah han' An' to whip de weary trav'lah 252 THE LIFE AND WORKS 'Twell he ain't got stren'th to stan' But des' keep on a-joggin' wid a little bit o' song, De mo'n is allus brightah w'en de night's been long. DREAMS What dreams we have and how they fly Like rosy clouds across the sky ; Of wealth, of fame, of sure success, Of love that comes to cheer and bless ; And how they wither, how they fade, The waning wealth, the jilting jade The fame that for a moment gleams, Then flies forever, dreams, ah dreams ! O burning doubt and long regret, O tears with which our eyes are wet, Heart-throbs, heart- aches, the glut of pain, The sombre cloud, the bitter rain, You were not of those dreams ah ! well, Your full fruition' who can tell ? Wealth, fame, and love, ah ! love that beams Upon our souls, all dreams ah ! dreams. THE TRYST De night creep down erlong de Ian', De shadders rise an' shake, De frog is sta'tin* up his ban', De cricket is awake ; My wo'k is mos' nigh done, Celes', To-night I won't be late, I's hu'yin' thoo my level bes', Wait fu' me by de gate. De mockin'-bird '11 sen' his glee A-thrillin' thoo and thoo, I know dat ol' magnolia-tree Is smellin' des' fu' you ; De jessamine erside de road Is bloomin' rich an' white, My hea't's a-th'obbin' 'cause it knowed You'd wait fu' me to-night. Hit's lonesome, ain't it, stan'in' thaih Wid no one nigh to talk ? But ain't dey whispahs in de aih Erlong de gyahden walk ? Don't somep'n' kin' o' call my name, An' say " he love you bes' " ? Hit's true, I wants to say de same, So wait fu' me, Celes'. Sing somep'n' fu' to pass de time, Outsing de mockin'-bird, You got de music an' de rhyme, You beat him wid de word. I's comin' now, my wo'k is done, De hour has come fu' res', I wants to fly, but only run Wait fu' me, deah Celes'. A PLEA Treat me nice, Miss Mandy Jane, Treat me nice. Dough my love has tu'ned my brain, Treat me nice. I ain't done a t'ing to shame, Lovahs all ac's jes' de same : Don't you know we ain't to blame ? Treat me nice ! Cose I know I's talkin' wild; Treat me nice ; I cain't talk no bettah, child, Treat me nice; Whut a pusson gwine to do, W'en he come a-cou'tin' you All a-trimblin' thoo and thoo? Please be nice. Reckon I mus' go de paf Othahs do : Lovahs lingah, ladies laff; Mebbe you Do' mean all the things you say, An' pu'haps some latah day W'en I baig you ha'd, you may Treat me nice ! THE DOVE Out of the sunshine and out of the heat, Out of the dust of the grimy street, A song fluttered down in the form of dove, And it bore me a message, the one word - Love! OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 253 Ah, I was toiling, and oh, I was sad : I had forgotten the way to be glad. Now, smiles for my sadness and for my toil, rest Since the dove fluttered down to its home in my breast ! A WARM DAY IN WINTER " Sunshine on de medders, Greenness on de way ; Dat's de blessed reason I sing all de day." Look hyeah ! Whut you axin' ? Whut meks me so merry ? 'Spect to see me sighin' W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary ? 'Long de stake an' rider Seen a robin set ; W'y, hit 'mence a-thawin', Groun' is monst'ous wet. Den you stan' dah wond'rin', Lookin' skeert an' stary ; I's a right to caper W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary. Missis gone a-drivin', Mastah gone to shoot; Ev'ry da'ky lazin' In de sun to boot. Qua'tah's moughty pleasant, Hangin' 'roun' my Mary ; Cou'tin' boun* to prospah W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary. Cidah look so pu'ty Po'in' i'om de jug Don' you see it's happy ? Hyeah it laffin' glug ? Now's de time fu' people Fu' to try an' bury All dey grief ^an' sorrer, W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary. SNOWIN 1 Dey is snow upon de meddahs, dey is snow upon de hill, An' de little branch's watahs is all glis- tenin' an' still; De win' goes roun' de cabin lak a sperrit wan'erin' 'roun', An' de chillen shakes an' shivahs as dey listen to de soun'. Dey is hick'ry in de fiahplace, whah de blaze is risin' high, But de heat it meks ain't wa'min' up de gray clouds in de sky. Now an' den I des peep outside, den I hurries to de do', Lawd a mussy on my body, how I wish it wouldn't snow ! I kin stan' de hottes* summah, I kin stan' de wettes' fall, I kin stan^ de chilly springtime in de ploughland, but dat's all ; Fu' de ve'y hottes' fiah nevah tells my skin a t'ing, W'en de snow commence a-flyin', an' de win' begin to sing. Dey is plenty wood erroun' us, an' I chop an' tote it in, But de t'oughts dat I's a t'inkin' while I's wo'kin' is a sin. I kin keep f om downright swahin' all de time I's on de go, But my hea't is full o' cuss-wo'ds w'en I's trampin' thoo de snow. What you say, you Lishy Davis, dat you see a possum's tracks? Look hyeah, boy, you stop yo' foolin', bring oP Spot, an' bring de ax. Is I col' ? Go way, now, Mandy, what you t'ink I's made of? sho, W'y dis win' is des ez gentle, an' dis ain't no kin' o' snow. Dis hyeah weathah's des ez healthy ez de wa'mest summah days. All you chillen step up lively, pile on wood an' keep a blaze. What's de use o' gittin' skeery case dey's snow upon de groun' ? Huh-uh, I's a reg'lar snowbird ef dey's any possum 'roun'. 254 THE LIFE AND WORKS Go on, Spot, don* be so foolish ; don* you see de signs o' feet. What you howlin' fu' ? Keep still, suh, cose de col' is putty sweet ; But we goin' out on bus'ness, an' hit's bus'ness o' de kin' Dat mus' put a dog an* dahky in a happy frame o' min'. Yes, you's col' ; I know it, Spotty, but you des stay close to me, An' I'll mek you hot ez cotton w'en we strikes de happy tree. No, I don' lak wintah weathah, an' I'd wush 't uz allus June, Et it wasn't fu' de trackin' o' de possum an' de coon. KEEP A SONG UP ON DE WAY Mr. Dunbar was not one of those who do not "practice what they preach." Through all his troubles and trials, through all his ill health and consequent suffering he was always noted for his cheerfulness, his love of fun, and his op- timism. Indeed his very presence de- noted that he was trying, at least, to " Keep a Song Up on de Way." Oh, de clouds is mighty heavy An' de rain is mighty thick; Keep a song up on de way. An' de waters is a rumblin' On de boulders in de crick, Keep a song up on de way. Fu' a bird ercross de road Is a-singin' lak he knowed Dat we people didn't daih Fu' to try de rainy aih Wid a song up on de way. What's de use o' gittin' mopy, Case de weather ain' de bes' ! Keep a song up on de way. W'en de rain is fallin' ha'des', Dey's de longes' time to res' ; Keep a song up on de way. Dough de plough's a-stan'in' still Dey'll be watah fu' de mill, Rain mus' come ez well ez sun 'Fo' de weathah's wo'k is done, Keep a song up on de way. W'y hit's nice to hyeah de showahs Fallin' down ermong de trees : Keep a song up on de way. Ef de birds don' bothah 'bout it, But go singin' lak dey please, Keep a song up on de way. You don' s'pose I's gwine to see Dem ah fowls do mo' dan me ? No, suh, I'll des chase dis frown, An' aldough de rain fall down, Keep a song up on de way. THE TURNING OF THE BABIES IN THE BED Woman's sho' a cur'ous critter, an' dey ain't no doubtin' dat. She's a mess o' funny capahs fom huh slippahs to huh hat. Ef you tries to un'erstan' huh, an' you fails, des' up an' say : " D' ain't a bit o' use to try to un'erstan' a woman's way." I don' mean to be complainin', but I's jes' a-settin' down Some o' my own obserwations, w'en I cas' my eye eroun'. Ef you ax me fu' to prove it, I ken do it mighty fine, Fu' dey ain't no bettah 'zample den dis ve'y wife o' mine. In de ve'y hea't o' midnight, w'en I's sleepin' good an' soun', I kin hyeah a so't o' rustlin' an' somebody movin' 'roun'. An' I say, " Lize, whut you doin' ? " But she frown an' shek huh haid, " Heish yo' mouf, I's only tu'nin' of de chillun in de bed. " Don* you know a chile gits restless, layin* all de night one way ? An' you' got to kind o' 'range him sev'al times befo' de day ? So de little necks won't worry, an' de little backs won't break ; Don' you t'ink case chillun's chillun dey hain't got no pain an' ache." OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 255 So she shakes 'em, an' she twists 'enr, an' she tu'ns 'em 'roun' erbout, 'Twell I don' see how de chillun evah keeps fom hollahin' out. Den she lif's 'em up head down'ards, so's dey won't git livah-grown, But dey snoozes des' ez peaceful ez a liza'd on a stone. Wen hit's mos' nigh time fu' wakin' on de dawn o' jedgment day, Seems lak I kin hyeah ol' Gab'iel lay his trumpet down an' say, " Who dat walkin' 'roun' so easy, down on earf ermong de dead ? " 'Twill be Lizy up a-tu'nin' of de chillun in de bed. THE DANCE Heel and toe, heel and toe, That is the song we sing ; Turn to your partner and curtsey low, Balance and forward and swing. Corners are draughty and meadows are white, This is the game for a winter's night. Hands around, hands around, Trip it, and not too slow ; Clear is the fiddle and sweet its sound, Keep the girls' cheeks aglow. Still let your movements be dainty and light, This is the game for a winter's night. Back to back, back to back, Turn to your place again ; Never let lightness nor nimbleness lack, Either in maidens or men. Time hasteth ever, beware of its flight, Oh, what a game for a winter's night ! Slower now, slower now, Softer the music sighs ; Look, there are beads on your partner's brow Though there be light in her eyes. Lead her away and her grace requite, So goes the game on a winter's night. SOLILOQUY OF A TURKEY Dey's a so't o' threatenin' feelin' in de blowin' of de breeze, An* I's feelin' kin* o' squeamish in de night ; I's a- walkin' 'roun' a-lookin' at de diffunt style o' trees, An' a-measurin' dey thickness an' dey height. Fu' dey's somep'n' mighty 'spicious in de looks de da'kies give, Ez dey pass me an' my fambly on de groun', So it 'curs to me dat lakly, ef I caihs to try an' live, It concehns me fu' to 'mence to look erroun'. Dey's a cu'ious kin' o' shivah runnin' up an' down my back, An' I feel my feddahs rufnin' all de day, An' my laigs commence to trimble evah blessid step I mek; Wen I sees a ax, I tu'ns my head away. Folks is go'gin' me wid goodies, an' dey's treatin' me wid caih, An' I's fat in spite of all dat I kin do. I's mistrus'ful of de kin'ness dat's erroun' me evahwhaih, Fu' it's jes' too good, an' frequent, to be true. Snow's a-fallin' on de medders, all erroun' me now is white, But I's still kep' on a-roostin' on de fence ; Isham comes an' feels my breas'bone, an' he hefted me las' night, An' he's gone erroun' a-grinnin' evah sence. 'Tain't de snow dat meks me shivah ; 'tain't de col' dat meks me shake ; 'Tain't de wintah-time itse'f dat's 'fectin* me ; But I t'ink de time is comin', an' I'd bet- tah mek a break, Fu' to set wid Mistah Possum in his tree. Wen you hyeah de da'kies singin', an' de quahtahs all is gay, 2 5 6 THE LIFE AND WORKS 'Tain't de time fu' birds lak me to be erroun' ; Wen de hick'ry chips is flyin', an' de log's been ca'ied erway, Den hit's dang'ous to be roostin* nigh de groun'. Grin on, Isham ! Sing on, da'kies ! But I flop my wings an* go Fu' de sheltah of de ve'y highest tree, Fu' dey's too much close ertention an' dey's too much Tallin' snow An' it's too nigh Chris'mus mo'nin' now fu' me. THE VALSE When to sweet music my lady is dancing My heart to mild frenzy her beauty inspires. Into my face are her brown eyes a-glanc- ing, And swift my whole frame thrills with tremulous fires. Dance, lady, dance, for the moments are fleeting, Pause not to place yon refractory curl ; Life is for love and the night is for sweet- ing; Dreamily, joyously, circle and whirl. Oh, how those viols are throbbing and pleading ; A prayer is scarce needed in sound of their strain. Surely and lightly as round you are speed- ing, You turn to confusion my heart and my brain. Dance, lady, dance to the viol's soft call- ing, Skip it and trip it as light as the air ; Dance, for the moments like rose leaves are falling, Strikes, now, the clock from its place on the stair. Now sinks the melody lower and lower, The weary musicians scarce seeming to play. Ah, love, your steps now are slower and slower, The smile on your face is more sad and less gay. Dance, lady, dance to the brink of our parting, My heart and your step must not fail to be light. Dance ! Just a turn tho' the tear-drop be starting. Ah now it is done so my lady, good- night 1 A PLANTATION PORTRAIT Hain't you see my Mandy Lou, Is it true ? Whaih you been fom day to day, Whaih, I say ? Dat you say you nevah seen Dis hyeah queen Walkin' roun' fom fieP to street Smilin' sweet? Slendah ez a saplin' tree ; Seems to me Wen de win' blow fom de bay She jes' sway Lak de reg'lar saplin' do Ef hit's grew Straight an' graceful, 'dout a limb, Sweet an' slim. Browner den de frush's wing, An' she sing Lak he mek his wa'ble ring In de spring ; But she sholy beat de frush, Hyeah me, hush : Wen she sing, huh teef kin show White ez snow. Eyes ez big an' roun' an' bright Ez de light Whut de moon gives in de prime Harvest time. An' huh haih a woolly skein, Black an' plain. Hoi's you wid a natchul twis' Close to bliss. Tendah han's dat mek yo' own Feel lak stone ; MY MANDY Lou BRING DAT BASKET, NIGHAH OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 259 Easy steppin', blessid feet, Small an' sweet. Hain't you seen my Mandy Lou, Is it true ? Look at huh befo' she's gone, Den pass on ! THE VISITOR Little lady at de do', W'y you stan' dey knockin* ? Nevah seen you ac' befo' In er way so shockin'. Don' you know de sin it is Fu' to git my temper riz Wen I's got de rheumatiz An' my jints is lockin' ? No, ol' Miss ain't sont you down, Don' you tell no story ; I been seed you hangin' 'roun* Dis hyeah te'itory. You des come fu' me to tell You a tale, an' I ain' well Look hyeah, what is dat I smell ? Steamin' victuals? Glory! Come in, Missy, how you do? Come up by de fiah, I was jokin', chile, wid you ; Bring dat basket nighah. Huh uh, ain' dat lak ol' Miss, Sen'in' me a feas' lak dis ? Rheumatiz cain't stop my bliss, Case I's feelin' spryah. Chicken meat an' gravy, too, Hot an' still a-heatin' ; Good ol' sweet pertater stew ; Missy b'lieves in treatin'. Des set down, you blessed chile, Daddy got to t'ink a while, Den a story mek you smile Wen he git thoo eatin'. FISHING Wen I git up in de mo'nin' an* de clouds is big an' black, Dey's a kin' o' wa'nin' shivah goes a-scootin' down my back ; 15 Den I says to my ol' ooman ez I watches down de lane, " Don't you so't o' reckon, Lizy, dat we gwine to have some rain ? " "Go on, man," my Lizy answah, "you cain't fool me, not a bit, . I don't see no rain a-comin', ef you's wishin' fu' it, quit ; Case de mo' you t'ink erbout it, an' de mo* you pray an' wish, W'y de rain stay 'way de longah, spechul ef you wants to fish." But I see huh pat de skillet, an' I see huh cas' huh eye Wid a kin' o' anxious motion to'ds de da'kness in de sky ; An' I knows whut she's a-t'inkin', dough she tries so ha'd to hide. She's a-sayin', " Wouldn't catfish now tas'e monst'ous bully, fried ? " Den de clouds git black an* blackah, an' de thundah 'mence to roll, An' de rain, it 'mence a-fallin'. Oh, I's happy, bless my soul ! Ez I look at dat ol' skillet, an' I 'magine I kin see Jes' a slew o' new-ketched catfish sizzlin' daih fu' huh an' me. 'Tain't no use to go a-ploughin', fu' de groun' '11 be too wet, So I puts out fu' de big house at a moughty pace, you bet, An' ol' mastah say, " Well, Lishy, ef you t'ink hit's gwine to rain. Go on fishin', hit's de weathah, an' I 'low we cain't complain." Talk erbout a dahky walkin' wid his haid up in de aih ! Have to feel mine evah minute to t>e sho' I got it daih; En' de win' is cuttin' capahs an' a-lashin' thoo de trees, But de rain keeps on a-singin' blessed songs, lak " Tek yo' ease." 260 THE LIFE AND WORKS Wid my pole erpon my shouldah an' my wo'm can in my han', I kin feel de fish a-waitin' w'en I strikes de rivah's san' ; Nevah min', you ho'ny scoun'els, needn' swim erroun' an' grin, I'll be grinnin' in a minute w'en I 'mence to haul you in. Wen de fish begin to nibble, an' de co'k begin to jump, I's erfeahed dat dey'll quit bitin', case dey hyeah my hea't go " thump," 'Twell de co'k go way down undah, an' I raise a awful shout, Ez a big ol' yallah belly comes a galli- vantin' out. Needn't wriggle, Mistah Catfish, case I got you jes' de same, You been eatin', I'll be eatin', an' we needah ain't to blame. But you needn't feel so lonesome fu' I's th'owin' out to see Ef dey ain't some of yo' comrades fu' to keep you company. Spo't, dis fishin' ! now you talkin', w'y dey ain't no kin' to beat; I don' keer ef I is soakin', laigs, an' back, an' naik, an' feet, It's de spo't I's lookin' aftah. Hit's de pleasure an' de fun, Dough I knows dat Lizy's waitin' wid de skillet w'en I's done. RESPONSE When Phyllis sighs and from her eyes The light dies out ; my soul replies With misery of deep-drawn breath, E'en as it were at war with death. When Phyllis smiles, her glance beguiles My heart through love-lit woodland aisles, And through the silence high and clear, A wooing warbler's song I hear. But if she frown, despair comes down, I put me on my sack-cloth gown ; So frown not, Phyllis, lest I die, But look on me with smile or sigh. A LITTLE CHRISTMAS BASKET No one can read this poem without ob- serving that the author has little patience with the " faith " that does not prove its existence by " works." He knew as well, if not better, than any poet that ever lived the practical realization of Christmas with- out money or fuel, or food, and he knew also, for he was a regular attendant at Sunday-school and church in boyhood days, that too many professing Christians are 'prone to tell the poor that the " Lord will provide " and then close their purses with an unpickable lock. He does not fail in this remarkably fine little jingle to give " 'ligion " its due mead of respect, but it is very human, and very natural for him to add " But I t'ink that 'ligion's sweeter w'en it kind o' mixes in Wid a little Chrismus basket at de do'." De win' is hollahin' " Daih you " to de shuttahs an' de fiah, De snow's a-sayin' " Got you " to de groun', Fu' de wintah weathah's come widout a-askin' ouah desiah, An' he's laughin' in his sleeve at whut he foun' ; Fu' dey ain't nobody eady wid dey fuel er dey food, An' de money bag look timid lak, fu' sho', So we want ouah Chrismus sermon, but we'd lak it ef you could Leave a little Chrismus basket at de do'. Wha's de use o' tellin' chillen 'bout a Santy er a Nick, An' de sto'ies dat a body allus tol' ? When de harf is gray wid ashes an' you hasn't got a stick Fu' to warm dem when dey little toes is col'? Wha's de use o' preachin' 'ligion to a man dat's sta'ved to def, An' a-tellin' him de Mastah will pu'vide ? OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 261 Ef you want to tech his fee.lin's, save yo' sermons an' yo' bref, Tek a little Chrismus basket by yo' side. 'Tain't de time to open Bibles an' to lock yo' cellah do', 'Tain't de time to talk o* bein' good to men; Ef you want to preach a sermon ez you nevah preached befo', Preach dat sermon wid a shoat er wid er hen; Bein' good is heap sight bettah den a-dal- lyin' wid sin, An' dey ain't nobody roun' dat knows it mo', But I t'ink dat 'ligion's sweeter w'en it kind o' mixes in Wid a little Chrismus basket at de do'. MY SWEET BROWN GAL W'en de clouds is hangin' heavy in de sky, An' de win's's a-taihin' moughty vig'rous by, I don' go a-sighin' all erlong de way; I des' wo'k a-waitin' fu' de close o' day. Case I knows w'en evenin' draps huh shadders down, I won' care a smidgeon fu' de weathah's frown ; Let de rain go splashin', let de thundah raih, Dey's a happy sheltah, an' I's goin* daih. Down in my ol* cabin wa'm ez mammy's toas', 'Taters in de fiah layin' daih to roas' ; No one daih to cross me, got no talkin' pal, But I's got de comp'ny o' my sweet brown gal. So I spen's my evenin' listenin' to huh sing, Lak a blessid angel ; how huh voice do ring ! Sweetah den a bluebird flutterin* erroun', Wen he sees de steamin' o' de new ploughed groun*. Den I hugs huh closah, closah to my breas'. Needn't sing, my da'lin', tek you' hones' res'. Does I mean Malindy, Mandy, Lize er Sal? No, I means my fiddle dat's my sweet brown gal ! SPRING FEVER Grass commence a-comin' Thoo de thawin' groun', Evah bird dat whistles Keepin' noise erroun' ; Cain't sleep in de mo'nin', Case befo' it's light Bluebird an' de robin Done begun to fight. Bluebird sass de robin, Robin sass him back, Den de bluebird scol' him 'Twell his face is black. Would n' min' de quoilin' All de mo'nin' long, 'Cept it wakes me early, Case hit's done in song. Anybody wo'kin* Wants to sleep ez late Ez de folks '11 'low him, An' I wish to state (Co'se dis ain't to scattah, But 'twix' me an' you), I could stan' de bedclothes, Kin' o' latah, too. 'Tain't my natchul feelin', Dis hyeah mopin* spell. I Stan's early risin' Mos'ly moughty well ; But de ve'y minute, I feel Ap'il's heat, Bless yo' soul, de bedclothes Nevah seemed so sweet. Mastah, he's a-scol'in', Case de han's is slow, All de hosses balkin', Jes' cain't mek 'em go. 262 THE LIFE AND WORKS Don' know whut's de mattah, Hit's a funny t'ing, Less'n hit's de fevah Dat you gits in spring. TO A VIOLET FOUND ON ALL SAINTS' DAY This poem found its inspiration in the actual finding of a late-blowing violet, found by the poet, under his library win- dow at Washington. This was near the time when Mr. Dunbar's domestic tragedy occurred, and he said once in speaking of the incident : " You know they say " ' Flowers out of season, Trouble without reason,' and I really believe there is some truth in the rhyme. I found that one little soli- tary violet on All Saints' Day after all its sisters had long been dead, and " with a deep sigh and a quick tear : " I never had much real happiness after that." Belated wanderer of the ways of spring, Lost in the chill of grim November rain, Would I could read the message that you bring And find in it the antidote for pain. Does some sad spirit out beyond the day, Far looking to the hours forever dead, Send you a tender offering to lay Upon the grave of us, the living dead ? Or does some brighter spirit, unforlorn, Send you, my little sister of the wood, To say to some one on a cloudful morn, Life lives through death, my brother, all is good " ? \Yith meditative hearts the others go The memory of their dead to dress anew, fiut, sister mine, bide here that I may know, Life grows, through death, as beautiful as you. THE COLORED BAND W'en de colo'ed ban' comes ma'chiri down de street, Don't you people stan' daih starin' ; HP yo' feet ! Ain't dey playin' ? Hip, hooray ! Stir yo' stumps an* clean de way, Fu* de music dat dey mekin' can't be beat. Oh, de major man's a-swingin' of his stick, An' de pickaninnies crowdin' roun' him thick ; In his go'geous uniform, He's de lightnin' of de sto'm, An' de little clouds erroun' look mighty slick. You kin hyeah a fine perfo'mance w'en de white ban's serenade, An' dey play dey high-toned music mighty sweet, But hit's Sousa played in rag-time, an' hit's Rastus on Parade, W'en de colo'ed ban' comes ma'chin' down de street. W'en de colo'ed ban' comes ma'chin' down de street You kin hyeah de ladies all erroun' re- peat : " Ain't dey handsome ? Ain't dey gran' ? Ain't dey splendid ? Goodness, Ian' ! W'y dey's pu'fect f om dey fo'heads to dey feet ! " An' sich steppin' to de music down de line, Tain't de music by itself dat meks it fine, Hit's de walkin', step by step, An' de keepin' time wid Hep," Dat it mek a common ditty soun' divine. Oh, de white ban' play hits music, an' hit's mighty good to hyeah, An' it sometimes leaves a ticklin' in yo' feet ; But de hea't goes into bus'ness fu' to he'p erlong de eah, W'en de colo'ed ban' goes ma'chin' down de street. THE COLORED BAND MY 'LiAs WENT TO WAH OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 265 WHEN DEY 'LISTED COLORED SOLDIERS Dey was talkin' in de cabin, dey wa talkin* in de hall ; But I listened kin' o' keerless, not a-t'inkin' 'bout it all ; An* on Sunday, too, 1 noticed, dey was whisp'rin' mighty much, Stan'in' all erroun' de roadside w'en dey let us out o' chu'ch. But I didn't t'ink erbout it 'twell de mid- dle of de week, An' my 'Lias come to see me, an' somehow he couldn't speak. Den I seed all in a minute whut he'd come to see me for ; Dey had 'listed colo'ed scjers, an' my 'Lias gwine to wah. Oh, I hugged him, an' I kissed him, an' I baiged him not to go; But he tol' me dat his conscience, hit was callin' to him so, An' he couldn't baih to lingah w'ehe had a chanst to fight For de freedom dey had ,,gin him an' de glory of de right. So he kissed me, an' he lef me, w'en I'd p'omised to be true ; An' dey put a knapsack on him, an' a coat all colo'ed blue. So I gin him pap's ol' Bible f'om de bottom of de draw', W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah. But I fought of all de weary miles dat he would have to tramp, An' I couldn't be contented w'en dey tuk him to de camp. W'y my hea't nigh broke wid grievin' 'twell I seed him on de street; Den I felt lak I could go an' th'ow my body at his feet. For his buttons was a-shinin', an' his face was shinin', too, An' he looked so strong an' mighty in his coat o' sojer blue, Dat I hollahed, Step up, manny," dough my th'oat was so' an' raw, W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah. Ol' Mis' cried w'en mastah lef huh, young Miss mou'nedhuh brothah Ned, An' I didn't know dey feelin's is de ve'y wo'ds dey said W'en I tol' 'em Iwasso'y. Dey had done gin up dey all; But dey only seemed mo' proudah dat dey men had hyeahd de call. Bofe my mastahs went in gray suits, an' I loved de Yankee blue, But I fought dat I could sorrer for de losin' of 'em too ; But I couldn't, for I didn't know de ha'f o' whut I saw, 'Twell dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah. Mastah Jack come home all sickly ; he was broke for life, dey said; An' dey let* my po' young mastah some'r's on de roadside, dead. W'en de women cried an' mou'ned 'em, I could feel it thoo an' thoo, For I had a loved un fightin' in de way o' dangah, too. Den dey tol' me dey had laid him some'r's way down souf to res', Wid de flag dat he had fit for shinin' daih acrost his breas'. Well, I cried, but den I reckon dat's whut Gawd had called him for, W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah. INSPIRATION At the gulden gate of song Stood I, knocking all day long, But the Angel, calm and cold, Still refused and bade me, " Hold." Then a breath of soft perfume, Then a light within the gloom ; Thou, Love, earnest to my side, And the gates flew open wide. Long I dwelt in this domain, Knew no sorrow, grief, or pain ; Now you bid me forth and free, Will you shut these gates on me ? 266 THE LIFE AND WORKS SONG Wintah, summah, snow er shine, Hit's all de same to me, Ef only I kin call you mine, An' keep you by my knee. Ha'dship, frolic, grief er caih, Content by night an' day, Ef only I kin see you whaih You wait beside de way. Livin', dyin', smiles er teahs, My soul will still be free, Ef only thoo de comin' yeahs You walk de worl' wid me. Bird-song, breeze-wail, chune er moan What puny t'ings dey'll be, Ef w'en I's seemin' all erlone, I knows yo' hea't's wid me. MY LADY OF CASTLE GRAND Gray is the palace where she dwells, Grimly the poplars stand There by the window where she sits, My Lady of Castle Grand. There does she bide the livelong day, Grim as the poplars are, Ever her gaze goes reaching out, Steady, but vague and far. Bright burn the fires in the castle hall, Brightly the fire-dogs stand; But cold is the body and cold the heart Of my Lady of Castle Grand. Blue are the veins in her lily-white hands, Blue are the veins in her brow ; Thin is the line of her blue drawn lips, Who would be haughty now ? Pale is the face at the window-pane, Pale as the pearl on her breast, " Roderick, love, wilt come again ? Fares he to east or west ? " The shepherd pipes to the shepherdess, * The bird to his mate in the tree, And ever she sighs as she hears their song, " Nobody sings for me." The scullery maids have swains enow Who lead them the way of love, But lonely and loveless their mistress sits At her window up above. Loveless and lonely she waits and waits, The saddest in all the land ; Ah, cruel and lasting is love-blind pride, My Lady of Castle Grand. DRIZZLE Hit's been drizzlin' an' been sprinklin 1 , Kin' o' techy all day long. I ain't wet enough fu' toddy, I's too damp to raise a song, An' de case have set me t'inkin', Dat dey's folk des lak de rain, Dat goes drizzlin' w'en dey's talkin', An' won't speak out flat an' plain. Ain't you nevah set an' listened At a body 'splain his min' ? W'en de t'oughts dey keep on drappin' Wasn't big enough to fin' ? Dem's whut I call drizzlin' people, Othahs call 'em mealy mouf, But de fust name hits me bettah, Case dey nevah tech a drouf. Dey kin talk from hyeah to yandah, An' f 'om ya*idah hyeah ergain, An' dey don' mek no mo' 'pression, Den dis powd'ry kin' o' rain. En yo' min' is dry ez cindahs, Er a piece o' kindlin' wood, 'Tain't no use a-talkin' to 'em, Fu' dey drizzle ain't no good. Gimme folks dat speak out nachul, Whut'll say des whut dey mean, Whut don't set dey wo'ds so skimpy Dat you got to guess between. I want talk des' lak de showahs Whut kin wash de dust erway, Not dat sprinklin' convusation, Dat des drizzle all de day. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 267 DE CRITTERS' DANCE Ain't nobody nevah tol' you not a wo'd a-tall, 'Bout de time dat all de critters gin dey fancy ball ? Some folks tell it in a sto'y, some folks sing de rhyme, 'Peahs to me you ought to hyeahed it, case hit's ol' ez time. Well, de critters all was p'osp'ous, now would be de chance Fu' to tease ol' Pa'son Hedgehog, givin' of a dance ; Case, you know, de critter's preachah was de stric'est kin', An' he nevah made no 'lowance fu' de frisky min'. So dey sont dey inbitations, Raccoon writ 'em all, "Dis hyeah note is to inbite you to de Fancy Ball ; Come erlong an' bring yo' ladies, bring yo' chillun too, Put on all yo' bibs an' tuckahs, show whut you kin do." Wen de night come, dey all gathahed in a place dey knowed, Fu' enough erway f'om people, nigh enough de road, All de critters had ersponded, Hop-Toad up to Baih, An' I's hyeah to tell you, Pa'son Hedge- hog too, was daih. Well, dey talked an' made dey 'bejunce, des lak critters do, An' dey walked an' p'omenaded 'roun' an' thoo an' thoo ; Jealous ol' Mis' Fox, she whispah, " See Mis' Wildcat daih, Ain't hit scan'lous, huh a-comin' wid huh shouldahs baih ? " Ol' man Tu'tle wasn't honin' fu' no dancin' tricks, So he stayed by ol' Mis' Tu'tle, talkin' politics; Den de ban* hit 'mence a-playin' critters all to place, Fou' ercross, an' fou' stan' sideways, smilin' face to face. 'Fessah Frog, he play de co'net, Cricket play de fife, Slews o' Grasshoppahs a-fiddlin' lak to save dey life ; Mistah Crow, he call de figgers, settin' in a tree, Huh, uh ! how dose critters sasshayed was a sight to see. Mistah Possom swing Mis' Rabbit up an' down de flo', Ol' man Baih, he ain't so nimble, an' it mek him blow ; Raccoon dancin' wid Mis' Squ'il squeeze huh little han', She say, " Oh, now ain't you awful, quit it, goodness Ian' ! " Pa'son Hedgehog groanin' awful at his converts' shines, 'Dough he peepin' thoo his fingahs at dem movin* lines, 'Twell he cain't set still no longah w'en de fiddles sing, Up he jump, an' bless you, honey, cut de pigeon-wing. Well, de critters lak to fainted jes* wid dey su'prise, Sistah Fox, she vowed she wasn't gwine to b'lieve huh eyes ; But dey couldn't be no 'sputin' 'bout it any mo' : Pa'son Hedgehog was a-cape'in' all erroun' de flo'. Den dey all jes' capahed scan'lous case dey didn't doubt, Dat dey still could go to meetin'; who could tu'n 'em out ? So wid dancin' an* uligion, dey was in de fol', Fu' a-dancin' wid de Pa'son couldn't hu't de soul. 268 THE LIFE AND WORKS LINCOLN Hurt was the nation with a mighty wound, And all her ways were filled with clam'- rous sound. Wailed loud the South with unremitting grief, And wept the North that could not find relief. Then madness joined its harshest tone to strife : A minor note swelled in the song of life. Till, stirring with the love that filled his breast, But still, unflinching at the right's behest, Grave Lincoln came, strong handed, from afar, The mighty Homer of the lyre of war. 'Twas he who bade the raging tempest cease, Wrenched from his harp the harmony of peace, Muted the strings that made the discord, Wrong, And gave his spirit up in thund'rous song. Oh, mighty Master of the mighty lyre, Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire: Earth learned of thee what Heav'n already knew, And wrote thee down among her treasured few. ENCOURAGEMENT Who dat knockin' at de do' ? Why, Ike Johnson, yes, fu' sho ! Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad You come down. I t'ought you's mad At me 'bout de othah night, An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. Say, now, was you mad fu' true W'en I kin' o' laughed at you ? Speak up, Ike an' 'spress yo'se'f. Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, An' a-mekin' out you's mad ; Ef you's gwine to be so glum, Wondah why you evah come. I don't lak nobidy 'roun' Dat jes* shet dey mouf an' frown, Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce 1 Cain't you talk ? I toP you once, Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night ? Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. I's done all dat I kin do, Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you ; Reckon I'd 'a' bettah wo' My ol' ragged calico. Aftah all de pains I's took, Cain't you tell me how I look ? Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. Bless my soul ! I 'mos' fu'got Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, She gwine ma'y Lucius White ? Miss Lize say I allus wuh Heap sight laklier 'n huh; An' she'll git me somep'n new, Ef I wants to ma'y too. Speak up, Ike, an* 'spress yo'se'f. I could ma'y in a week, Ef de man I wants 'ud speak. Tildy's presents '11 be fine, But dey wouldn't ekal mine. Him whut gits me fu' a wife 'LI be proud, you bet yo' life. I's had offers; some ain't quit; But I hasn't ma'ied yit ! Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. Ike, I loves you, yes, I does ; You's my choice, and allus was. Laffin' at you ain't no harm. Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm ? Hug me closer dah, dat's right ! Wasn't you a awful sight, Havin' me to baig you so? Now ax whut you want to know, Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f! THE BOOGAH MAN W'en de evenin' shadders Come a-glidm' down, Fallin' black an' heavy Ovah hill an' town, Ef you listen keerful, Keerful ez you kin, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 269 So's you boun' to notice Des a drappin' pin ; Den you'll hyeah a funny Soun' ercross de Ian' ; Lay low ; dat's de callin* Of de Boogah Man ! Woo-oo, woo-oo ! Hyeah him cz he go erlong de way ; Woo-oo, woo-oo ! Don 1 you wish de night 'udtu'n today ? Woo-oo, woo-oo ! Hide yo 1 little peepers 'hind yd* han* ; Woo-oo, woo-oo ! Callin 1 of de Boogah Man. Wen de win's a-shiverin' Thoo de gloomy lane, An' dey comes de patterin* Of de evenin' rain, Wen de owl's a-hootin', Out daih in de wood, Don' you wish, my honey, Dat you had been good ? 'Tain't no use to try to Snuggle up to Dan ; Bless you, dat's de callin' Of de Boogah Man ! Ef you loves yo* mammy, An' you min's yo' pap, Ef you nevah wriggles Outen Sukey's lap; Ef you says yo' " Lay me " Evah single night 'Fo' dey tucks de kivers An' puts out de light, Den de rain kin pattah, Win' blow lak a fan, But you need n' bothah 'Bout de Boogah Man ! THE WRAITH Ah me, it is cold and chill, And the fire sobs low in the grate, While the wind rides by on the hill, And the logs crack sharp with hate. And she, she is cold and sad As ever the sinful are, But deep in my heart I am glad For my wound and the coming scar. Oh, e"er the wind rides by And ever the rain-drops grieve ; But a voice like a woman's sigh Says, " Do you believe, believe ? " Ah, you were warm and sweet, Sweet as the May days be ; Down did I fall at your feet, Why did you hearken to me ? Oh, the logs they crack and whine, And the water drops from the eaves ; But it is not rain but brine Where my dead darling grieves. And a wraith sits by my side, A spectre grim and dark; Are you gazing here open-eyed Out to the lifeless dark ? But ever the wind rides on, And we sit close within ; Out of the face of the dawn, I and my darling, sin. SILENCE This stanza was written on the same day as his " The Poet," and doubtless voices a feeling upon the part of the author that perhaps after all as Riley once wrote " The silent song is best, and the unsung worthiest ! " In its more intimate application every reader will be led to think of some friend who does not misconstrue a silent mood, and who understands that there are times when the silence, lying between two human souls " is full of the deepest speech." Tis better to sit here beside the sea, Here on the spray-kissed beach, In silence, that between such friends as we Is full of deepest speech. 270 THE LIFE AND WORKS WHIP-POOR-WILL AND KATY-DID Slow de night's a-fallin', An' I hyeah de callin' Out erpon de lonesome hill ; Soun' is moughty dreary, Solemn-lak an' skeery, Sayin' fu' to whip po' Will." Now hit's moughty tryin', Fu' to hyeah dis cryin', 'Deed hit's mo' den I kin stan* ; Sho' wid all our slippin', Dey's enough of whippin' 'Dout a bird a'visin' any man. In de moons o' summah Dey's anothah hummah Sings anothah song instid ; An' his th'oat's a-swellin' Wid de joy o' tellin', But he says dat " Katy did." Now I feels onsuhtain ; Won't you raise de cu'tain Ovah all de ti'ngs dat's hid ? W'y dat feathahed p'isen Goes erbout a'visin' Whippin' Will w'en Katy did ? TO A CAPTIOUS CRITIC Dear critic, who my lightness so deplores, Would I might study to be prince of bores, Right wisely would I rule that dull es- tate But, sir, I may not, till you abdicate. 'LONG TO'DS NIGHT Daih's a moughty soothin' feelin* Hits a dahky man, 'Long to'ds night. W'en de row is mos' nigh ended, Den he stops to fan, 'Long to'ds night. De blue smoke fom his cabin is a-callin' to him, Come ; " He smell de bacon cookin', an' he hyeah de fiah hum ; An' he 'mence to sing, 'dough wo'kin' putty nigh done made him dumb, 'Long to'ds night. Wid his hoe erpon his shouldah Den he goes erlong, 'Long to'ds night. An' he keepin' time a-steppin' Wid a little song, 'Long to'ds night. De restin'-time's a-comin', an' de time to drink an' eat; A baby's toddlin' to'ds him on hits little dusty feet, An' a-goin' to'ds his cabin, an' his suppah's moughty sweet, 'Long to'ds night. Daih his Ca'line min' de kettle, Rufus min' de chile, 'Long to'ds night ; An' de sweat roll down his forred, Mixin' wid his smile, 'Long to'ds night. He toss his piccaninny, an' he hum a little chune ; De wo'kin' all is ovah, an' de suppah comin* soon ; De wo'kin' time's Decembah, but de restin' time is June, 'Long to'ds night. Dey's a kin' o' doleful feelin', Hits a tendah place, 'Long to'ds night ; Dey's a moughty glory in him Shinin' thoo his face, 'Long to'ds night. De cabin's lak de big house, an' de fiah's lak de sun ; His wife look moughty lakly, an' de chile de puttiest one ; W'y, hit's blessid, jes' a-livin' w'en a body's wo'k is done. 'Long to'ds night. HE Toss His PICCANINNY SHE DE ONLY Hoss FU' ME OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 273 DAT OL' MARE O' MINE In 1899, when the poet was compelled to leave Washington, where his duties as librarian had been too hard for him, he and his wife and mother went to Denver. Here they lived in a cottage near the city, and Mr. Dunbar took long rides for his health. For this purpose he purchased a gray mare, and soon learned to love the animal devotedly. Desiring to pay a tribute to his faithful dumb friend he wrote the poem. He wrote to a friend about this time, that he sold this poem for a sum equal to half the price he had paid for the mare ! Want to trade me, do you, mistah ? Oh, well, now, I reckon not, W'y you couldn't buy my Sukey fu' a thousan' on de spot. Dat oP mare o' mine ? Yes, huh coat ah long an' shaggy, an* she ain't no shakes to see ; Dat's a ring-bone, yes, you right, suh, an* she got a on'ry knee, But dey ain't no use in talkin', she de only hoss fu' me, Dat ol' mare o' mine. Co'se, I knows dat Suke's contra'y, an' she moughty ap' to vex ; But you got to mek erlowance fu' de na- ture of huh sex ; Dat ol' mare o' mine. Ef you pull her on de lef' han'; she plum 'termined to go right, A cannon couldn't skeer huh, but she boun' to tek a fright At a piece o' common paper, or anyt'ing whut's white, Dat ol' mare o' mine. W'en my eyes commence to fail me, dough, I trus'es to huh sight, An' she'll tote me safe an' hones' on de ve'y da'kes' night, Dat ol' mare o' mine. Ef I whup huh, she jes' switch huh tail, an* settle to a walk, Ef I whup huh mo', she shek huh haid, an' lak ez not, she balk. But huh sense ain't no ways lackin', she do evaht'ing but talk, Dat or mare o' mine. But she gentle ez a lady w'en she know huh beau kin see, An* she sholy got mo' gumption any day den you or me, Dat ol' mare o' mine. She's a leetle slow a-goin', an' she moughty ha'd to sta't, But we's gittin' ol' togathah, an' she's closah to my hea't, An' I doesn't reckon, mistah, dat she'd sca'cely keer to pa't ; Dat ol' mare o' mine. W'y I knows de time dat cidah's kin' o' muddled up my haid, Ef it hadn't been fu' Sukey hyeah, I reckon I'd been daid ; Dat ol' mare o' mine. But she got me in de middle o' de road an' tuk me home, An' she wouldn't let me wandah, ner she wouldn't let me roam, Dat's de kin' o' hoss to tie to w'en you's seed de cidah's foam, Dat ol' mare o' mine. You kin talk erbout yo' heaven, you kin talk erbout yo' hell, Dey is people, dey is bosses, den dey's cat- tle, den dey's well Dat ol' mare o' mine ; She de beatenes' t'ing dat evah struck de medders o' de town, An' aldough huh haid ain't fittin' fu' to waih no golden crown, D' ain't a blessed way fu' Petah fu' to tu'n my Sukey down, Dat ol' mare o' mine. A GRIEVANCE W'en de snow's a-fallin* An' de win' is col'. Mammy 'mence a-callin', Den she 'mence to scoP, " Lucius Lishy Brackett, Don't you go out do's, 274 THE LIFE AND WORKS Button up yo' jacket, Les'n you'll git froze." I sit at de windah Lookin' at de groun', Nuffin nigh to hindah, Mammy ain' erroun' ; Wish't she wouldn' mek me Set down in dis chaih ; Pshaw, it wouldn't tek me Long to git some aih. So I jump down nimble Ez a boy kin be, Dough I's all a-trimble Feahed some one'll see ; Bet in a half a minute I fly out de do' An' I's knee-deep in it, Dat dah blessed snow. Den I hyeah a pattah Come acrost de flo'. Den dey comes a clattah At de cabin do' ; An' my mammy holler Spoilin' all my joy, " Come in f 'om dat waller, Don't I see you, boy ? " Wen de snow's a-sievin' Down ez sof ' ez meal, Whut's de use o' Jivin* 'Cept you got de feel Of de stuff dat's fallin' 'Roun' an' white an' damp, 'Dout some one a-callin', " Come in hyeah, you scamp ! " DINAH KNEADING DOUGH I have seen full many a sight Born of day or drawn by night : Sunlight on a silver stream, Golden lilies all a-dream, Lofty mountains, bold and proud, Veiled beneath the lacelike cloud ; But no lovely sight I know Equals Dinah kneading dough. Brown arms buried elbow-deep Their domestic rhythm keep, As with steady sweep they go Through the gently yielding dough. Maids may vaunt their finer charms Naught to me like Dinah's arms ; Girls may draw, or paint, or sew I love Dinah kneading dough. Eyes of jet and teeth of pearl, Hair, some say, too tight a-curl ; But the dainty maid I deem Very near perfection's dream. Swift she works, and only flings Me a glance the least of things. And I wonder, does she know That my heart is in the dough ? IN THE MORNING 'Lias! 'Lias! Bless de Lavvd ! Don' you know de day's erbroad? Ef you don' git up, you scamp, Dey'll be trouble in dis camp. T'ink I gwine to let you sleep Wile I meks yo' boa'd an' keep ? Dat's a putty howdy-do Don' you hyeah me, 'Lias you ? Bet ef I come crost dis flo' You won' fin' no time to sno*. Daylight all a-shinin' in Wile you sleep w'y hit's a sin ! Ain't de can'le-light enough To bu'n out widout a snuff, But you go de mo'nin' thoo Bu'nin' up de daylight too ? 'Lias, don' you hyeah me call ? No use tu'nin' to'ds de wall ; I kin hyeah dat mattuss squeak ; Don' you hyeah me w'en I speak ? Dis hyeah clock done struck off six Ca'line, bring me dem ah sticks! Oh, you down, suh ; huh ! you down Look hyeah, don' you daih to frown. Ma'ch yo'se'f an' wash yo' face, Don' you splattah all de place : I got somep'n else to do, 'Sides jes' cleanin' aftah you. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 275 Tek dat comb an' fix yo' haid Looks jes' lak a feddah baid. Look hyeah, boy, I let you see You sha'n't roll yo' eyes at me. Come hyeah ; bring me dat ah strap ! Boy, I'll whup you 'twell you drap; You done felt yo'se'f too strong, An' you sholy got me wrong. Set down at dat table thaih ; Jes' you whimpah ef you daih ! Evah mo'nin' on dis place, Seem lak I mus' lose my grace. Fol' yo' han's an' bow yo' haid Wait ontwell de blessin' 's said ; " Lawd, have mussy on ouah souls " (Don' you daih to tech dem rolls ) " Bless de food we gwine to eat " (You set still I see yo' feet ; You jes' try dat trick agin !) " Gin us peace an' joy. Amen ! " THE POET These eight lines tell the story of Paul Dunbar's greatest disappointment in con- nection with his literary achievements. He grew tired of writing jingles, in a broken tongue, but the heedless world wanted none of the almost fathomless language poems, which reflected the real soul of the poet. As the sheen of tinsel pleases the eye of the ragged crowd who seldom see pure gold, so the jingles, the swing, and the laughter so apparent in Dunbar's dialect satisfied the majority of readers the pure gold was left for the thinking few. He sang of life, serenely sweet, With, now and then, a deeper note. From some high peak, nigh yet remote, He voiced the world's absorbing beat. He sang of love when earth was young, And Love, itself, was in his lays. But ah, the world, it turned to praise A jingle in a broken tongue. A FLORIDA NIGHT Win' a-blowin' gentle so de san' lay low, San' a little heavy f 'om de rain, All de pa'ms a-wavin' an' a-weavin' slow, Sighin' lak a sinnah-soul in pain. Alligator grinnin' by de ol' lagoon, Mockin'-bird a-singin' to de big full moon, 'Skeeter go a-skimmin' to his fightin' chune (Lizy Ann's a-waitin' in de lane !). Moccasin a-sleepin' in de Cyprus swamp ; Needn't wake de gent'man, not fu' me. Mule, you needn't wake him w'en you switch an' stomp, Fightin' off a 'skeeter er a flea. Florida is lovely, she's de fines' Ian' Evah seed de sunlight f 'om de Mastah's han', 'Ceptin' fu' de varmints an' huh fleas an' san' An' de nights w'en Lizy Ann ain' free. Moon's a-kinder shaddered on de melon patch ; No one ain't a-watchin' ez I go. Climbin' of de fence so's not to click de latch Meks my gittin' in a little slow. Watermelon smilin' as it say, " I's free ; " Alligator boomin', but I let him be, Florida, oh, Florida's de Ian' fu' me (Lizy Ann a-singin' sweet an' low). DIFFERENCES My neighbor lives on the hill, And I in the valley dwell, My neighbor must look down on me, Must I look up ? ah, well, My neighbor lives on the hill, And I in the valley dwell. My neighbor reads, and prays, And I I laugh, God wot, And sings like a bird when the grass is green In my small garden plot ; But ah, he reads and prays, And I I laugh, God wot. 2 7 6 THE LIFE AND WORKS His face is a book of woe, And mine is a song of glee ; A slave he is to the great " They say," But I I am bold and free ; No wonder he smacks of woe, And I have the tang of glee. My neighbor thinks me a fool, ' The same to yourself," say I ; " Why take your books and take your prayers, Give me the open sky ; " My neighbor thinks me a fool, " The same to yourself," say I. LONG AGO De ol' time's gone, de new time's hyeah Wid all hits fuss an' feddahs ; I done fu'got de joy an' cheah We knowed all kin's o' weddahs, I done fu'got each ol'-time hymn We ust to sing in meetin' ; I's leahned de prah's, so neat an' trim, De preachah keeps us 'peatin'. Hang a vine by de chimney side, An' one by de cabin do' ; An' sing a song fu' de day dat died, De day of long ergo. My youf, hit's gone, yes, long ergo, An' yit .1 ain't a-moanin' ; Hit's fu' somet'ings I ust to know I set to-night a-honin'. De pallet on de ol' plank flo', De rain bar'l und' de eaves, De live oak 'fo* de cabin do', Whaih de night dove comes an' grieves. Hang a vine by de chimney side, An' one by de cabin do' ; An' sing a song fu' de day dat died, De day of long ergo. I'd lak a few ol' frien's to-night To come an' set wid me ; An' let me feel dat ol' delight I ust to in dey glee. But hyeah we is, my pipe an' me, Wid no one else erbout ; We bofe is choked ez choked kin be, An' bofe'll soon go out. Hang a vine by de chimney side, An' one by de cabin do' ; An' sing a song fu' de day dat died, De day of long ergo. A PLANTATION MELODY De trees is bendin' in de sto'm, De rain done hid de mountain's fo'm, I's 'lone an' in distress. But listen, dah's a voice I hyeah, A-sayin' to me, loud an' cleah, " Lay low in de wildaness." De lightnin' flash, de bough sway low, My po' sick hea't is trimblin' so, It hu'ts my very breas'. But him dat give de lightnin' powah Jes' bids me in de tryin' howah " Lay low in de wildaness." O brothah, w'en de tempes* beat, An' w'en yo' weary head an' feet Can't fin' no place to res', Jes' membah dat de Mastah's nigh, An' putty soon you'll hyeah de cry, " Lay low in de wildaness." O sistah, w'en de rain come down, An' all yo' hopes is 'bout to drown, Don't trus' de Mastah less. He smilin' w'en you t'ink he frown, He ain' gwine let yo' soul sink down Lay low in de wildaness. A SPIRITUAL De 'cession's stahted on de gospel way, De Capting is a-drawin' nigh : Bettah stop a-foolin' an' a-try to pray ; LiP up yo' haid w'en de King go by! Oh, sinnah mou'nin* in de dusty road, Hyeah's de minute fu' to dry yo' eye : Dey's a moughty One a-comin' fu' to baih yo' load ; LiP up yo' haid w'en de King go - by ! OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 277 Oh, widder weepin' by yo' husban's grave, Hit's bettah fu' to sing den sigh : Hyeah come de Mastah wid de powah to save ; Lif ' up yo' haid w'en de King go by ! Oh, orphans a-weepin' lak de widder do, An' I wish you'd tell me why : De Mastah is a mammy an' a pappy too ; Lif ' up yo' haid w'en de King go by ! Oh, Moses sot de sarpint in de wildahness W'en de chillun had commenced to die: Some 'efused to look, but hit cuohed de res'; Lif up yo' haid w'en de King go by! Bow down, bow 'way down, Bow down, But lif ' up yo haid w'en de King go by! THE MEMORY OF MARTHA Out in de night a sad bird moans, An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely; Times I kin sing, but mos' I groans, Fu' oh, but hit's moughty lonely ! Is you sleepin' well dis evenin', Marfy, deah? W'en I calls you f 'om de cabin, kin you hyeah ? 'Tain't de same ol' place to me, Nuffin' 's lak hit used to be, W'en I knowed dat you was allus some'ers near. Down by de road de shadders grows, An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely ; Seem lak de ve'y moonlight knows, An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely ! Does you know, I's cryin' fu' you, oh, my wife ? Does you know dey ain't no joy no mo' in life ? An' my only t'ought is dis, Dat I's honin' fu' de bliss Fu' to quit dis groun' o* worriment an* strife. Dah on de baid my banjo lays, An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely ; Can't even sta't a chune o' praise, An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely ! Oh, hit's moughty slow a waitin' hyeah below. Is you watchin' fu' me, Marfy, at de do' ? Ef you is, in spite o' sin, Dey'll be sho' to let me in, W'en dey sees yo' face a-shinin', den dey'll know. W'EN I GITS HOME It's moughty tiahsome lay in' 'roun* Dis sorrer-laden earfly groun', An' oftentimes I thinks, thinks I, 'Twould be a sweet t'ing des to die, An' go 'long home. Home whaih de frien's I loved'll say, " We've waited fu' you many a day, Come hyeah an' res' yo'se'f, an' know You's done wid sorrer an' wid woe, Now you's at home." W'en I gits home some blessid day, I 'lows to th'ow my caihs erway, An' up an' down de shinin' street, Go singin' sof an' low an' sweet, W'en I gits home. I wish de day was neah at han', I's tiahed of dis grievin' Ian', I's tiahed of de lonely yeahs, I want to des dry up my teahs, An' go 'long home. Oh, Mastah, won't you sen* de call ? My frien's is daih, my hope, my all. I's waitin' whaih de road is rough, I want to hyeah you say, " Enough, Ol' man, come home ! " "HOWDY, HONEY, HOWDY!" Do' a-stan'in* on a jar, fiah a-shinin' thoo Ol' folks drowsin' 'roun' de place, wide awake is Lou, W'en I tap, she answeh, an' I see huh 'mence to grin, 2 7 8 THE LIFE AND WORKS Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in ? " Den I step erpon de log layin' at de do', Bless de Lawd, huh mammy an' huh pap's done 'menced to sno', Now's de time, ef evah, ef I's gwine to try an' win, " Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in ? " No use playin' on de aidge, trimblin' on de brink, Wen a body love a gal, tell huh whut he t'ink ; Wen huh hea't is open fu' de love you gwine to gin, Pull yo'se'f togethah, suh, an' step right in. Sweetes' imbitation dat a body evah hyeahed, Sweetah den de music of a love-sick mockin'-bird, Comin' Pom de gal you loves bettah den yo' kin, " Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in ? " At de gate o' heaven w'en de storm o' life is pas', 'Spec' I'll be a-stan'in', 'twell de Mastah say at las', " Hyeah he stan' all weary, but he winned his fight wid sin. Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in ? " THE UNSUNG HEROES A song for the unsung heroes who rose in the country's need, When the life of the land was threatened by the slaver's cruel greed, For the men who came from the corn-field, who came from the plough and the flail, Who rallied round when they heard the sound of the mighty man of the rail. They laid them down in the valleys, they laid them down in the wood, And the world looked on at the work they did, and whispered, " It is good." They fought their way on the hillside, they fought their way in the glen, And God looked down on their sinews brown, and said, I have made them men." They went to the blue lines gladly, and the blue lines took them in, And the men who saw their muskets' fire thought not of their dusky skin. The gray lines rose and melted beneath their scathing showers. And they said, " 'Tis true, they have force to do, these old slave boys of ours." Ah, Wagner saw their glory, and Pillow knew their blood, That poured on a nation's altar, a sacrifi- cial flood. Port Hudson heard their war-cry that smote its smoke-filled air, And the old free fires of their savage sires again were kindled there. They laid them down where the rivers the greening valleys gem, And the song of the thund'rous cannon was their sole requiem, And the great smoke wreath that mingled its hue with the dusky cloud, Was the flag that furled o'er a saddened world, and the sheet that made their shroud. Oh, Mighty God of the Battles who held them in thy hand, Who gave them strength through the whole day's length, to fight for their native land, They are lying dead on the hillsides, they are lying dead on the plain, And we have not fire to smite the lyre and sing them one brief strain. Give, thou, some seer the power to sing them in their might, The men who feared the master's whip, but did not fear the fight ; OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 279 That he may tell of their virtues as min- strels did of old, Till the pride of face and the hate of race grow obsolete and cold. A song for the unsung heroes who stood the awful test, When the humblest host that the land could boast went forth to meet the best; A song for the unsung heroes who fell on the bloody sod, Who fought their way from night to day and struggled up to God. THE POOL. By the pool that I see in my dreams, dear love, I have sat with you time and again ; And listened beneath the dank leaves, dear love, To the sibilant sound of the rain. And the pool, it is silvery bright, dear love, And as pure as the heart of a maid, As sparkling and dimpling, it darkles and shines In the depths of the heart of the glade. But, oh, I've a wish in my soul, dear love, (The wish of a dreamer, it seems), That I might wash free of my sins, dear love, In the pool that I see in my dreams. POSSESSION Whose little lady is you, chile, Whose little gal is you ? What's de use o' kiver'n up yo' face ? Chile, dat ain't de way to do. Lemme see yo' little eyes, Tek yo' little han's down nice, Lawd, you wuff a million bills, Huh uh, chile, dat ain't yo' price. Honey, de money ain't been made Dat dey could pay fu' you ; 'Tain't no use a-biddin' ; you too high Fu' de riches' Jap er Jew. 16 Lemme see you smilin' now, How dem teef o' yo'n do shine, An' de t'ing dat meks me laff Is dat all o' you is mine. How's I gwine to tell you how I feel, How's I gwine to weigh yo' wuff? Oh, you sholy is de sweetes' t'ing Walkin' on dis blessed earf. Possum is de sweetes' meat, Cidah is de nices' drink, But my little lady-bird Is de bes' of all, I t'ink. Talk erbout 'uligion he'pin' folks All thoo de way o' life, Gin de res' 'uligion, des' gin me You, my little lady-wife. Den de days kin come all ha'd, Den do nights kin come all black, Des' you tek me by de han', An' I'll stumble on de track. Stumble on de way to Gawd, my chile, Stumble on, an' mebbe fall ; But I'll keep a-trottin', while you lead on, Pickm' an' a-trottin', dat's all. Hoi* me mighty tight, dough, chile, Fu' hit's rough an' rocky Ian', Heaben's at de en', I know, So I's leanin' on yo' han'. THE OLD FRONT GATE W'en daih's chillun in de house, Dey keep on a-gittin' tall ; But de folks don' seem to see Dat dey's growin' up at all, 'Twell dey fin' out some fine day Dat de gals has 'menced to grow, W'en dey notice as dey pass Dat de front gate's saggin' low. W'en de hinges creak an' cry, An' de bahs go slantin' down, You km reckon dat hit's time Fu' to cas' yo' eye erroun', 'Cause daih ain't no 'sputin' dis, Hit's de trues' sign to show 280 THE LIFE AND WORKS Dat daih's cou'tin' goin' on Wen de ol' front gate sags low. Oh, you grumble an' complain, An' you prop dat gate up right ; But you notice right nex' day Dat hit's in de same ol' plight. So you fin' dat hit's a rule, An* daih ain' no use to blow, Wen de gals is growin' up, Dat de front gate will sag low. Den you t'ink o' yo' young days, Wen^ou cou'ted Sally Jane, An' you so't o' feel ashamed Fu' to grumble an' complain, 'Cause yo' ricerlection says, An' you know hits wo'ds is so, Dat huh pappy had a time Wid his front gate saggin* low. So you jes' looks on an' smiles At 'em leanin' on de gate, Tryin' to t'ink whut he kin say Fu' to keep him daih go late, But you lets dat gate erlone, Fu' yo' 'sperunce goes to show, 'Twell de gals is ma'ied off, It gwine keep on saggin' low. DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER In the east the morning comes, Hear the rollin' of the drums On the hill. But the heart that beat as they beat In the battle's raging day heat Lieth still. Unto him the night has come, Though they roll the morning drum. What is in the bugle's blast ? It is : " Victory at last ! Now for rest." But, my comrades, come behold him Where our colors now enfold him, And his breast Bares no more to meet the blade, But lies covered in the shade. What a stir there is to-day ! They are laying him away Where he fell. There the flag goes draped before him ; Now they pile the grave sod o'er him With a knell. And he answers to his name In the higher ranks of fame. There's a woman left to mourn For the child that she has borne In travail. But her heart beats high and higher, With a patriot mother's fire, At the tale. She has borne and lost a son, But her work and his are done. Fling the flag out, let it wave ; They're returning from the grave " Double quick ! "" And the cymbals now are crashing, Bright his comrades' eyes are flashing From the thick Battle-ranks which knew him brave, No tears for a hero's grave. In the east the morning comes, Hear the rattle of the drums Far away. Now no time for griefs pursuing, Other work is for the doing, Here to-day. He is sleeping, let him rest With the flag across his breast. A FROLIC Swing yo' lady roun' an' roun', Do de bes' you know ; Mek yo' bow an' p'omenade Up an' down de flo' ; Mek dat banjo hump huhse'f, Listen at huh talk : Mastah gone to town to-night ; 'Tain't no time to walk. LiP yo' feet an' flutter^hoo, Run, Miss Lucy, run ; Reckon you'Jl be cotched an' kissed 'Fo' de night is done. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 281 You don't need to be so proud I's a-watchin* you, An' I's layin' lots o' plans Fu' to git you, too. Moonlight on de cotton-fieP Shinin' sof an' white, Whippo'will a-tellin' tales Out thaih in de night ; An' yo' cabin's 'crost de lot : Run, Miss Lucy, run ; Reckon you'll be cotched an' kissed To* de night is done. LOVE'S CASTLE Key and bar, key and bar; Iron bolt and chain ! And what will you do when the King comes To enter his domain ? Turn key and lift bar, Loose, oh, bolt and chain ! Open the door and let him in, And then lock up again. But, oh, heart, and woe, heart, Why do you ache so sore ? Never a moment's peace have you Since Love hath passed the door. Turn key and lift bar, And loose bolt and chain ; But Love took in his esquire, Grief, And there they both remain. MORNING SONG OF LOVE Darling, my darling, my heart is on the wing, It flies to thee this morning like a bird, Like happy birds in spring-time my spirits soar and sing, The same sweet song thine ears have often heard. The sun is in my window, the shadow on the lea, The wind is moving in the branches green, And all my life, my darling, is turning unto thee, And kneeling at thy feet, my own, my queen. The golden bells are ringing across the distant hill, Their merry peals come to me soft and clear, But in my heart's deep chapel all incense- filled and still A sweeter bell is sounding for thee, dear. The bell of love invites thee to come and seek the shrine Whose altar is erected unto thee, The offerings, the sacrifice, the prayers, the chants are thine, And I, my love, thy humble priest will be. ON A CLEAN BOOK TO F. N. Like sea-washed sand upon the shore, So fine and clean the tale, So clear and bright I almost see, The flashing of a sail. The tang of salt is in its veins, The freshness of the spray God give you love and lore and strength, To give us such alway. TO THE EASTERN SHORE I's feelin' kin* o' lonesome in my little room to-night, An' my min's done los* de minutes an' de miles, Wile it teks me back a-flyin' to de country of delight, Whaih de Chesapeake goes grumblin' er wid smiles. Oh, de ol' plantation's callin' to me, Come, come back, Hyeah's de place fu* you to labor an' to res', Fu' my sandy roads is gleamin' w'ile de city ways is black ; 282 THE LIFE AND, WORKS Come back, honey, case yo' country home is bes'. I know de moon is shinin' down erpon de Eastern sho', An* de bay's a-sayin' " Howdy " to de Ian'; An' de folks is all a-settin' out erroun' de cabin do', Wid dey feet a-restin' in de silvah san' ; An* de ol' plantation's callin' to me, Come, oh, come, F'om de life dat's des' a-waihin' you erway, F'om de trouble an' de bustle, an' de agernizin' hum Dat de city keeps ergoin' all de day. I's tiahed of de city, tek me back to Sandy Side, Whaih de po'est ones kin live an' play an' eat ; Whaih we draws a simple livin' Pom de fo'est an' de tide, An* de days ah faih, an' evah night is sweet. Fu' de ol' plantation's callin' to ine, Come, oh, come. An* the Chesapeake's a-sayin' Dat's de t'ing," Wile my little cabin beckons, dough his mouf is closed an' dumb, I's a-comin', an' my hea't begins to sing. BALLADE By Mystics' banks I held my dream. (I held my fishing rod as well), The vision was of dace and bream, A fruitless vision, sooth to tell. But round about the sylvan dell Were other sweet Arcadian shrines, Gone now, is all the rural spell, Arcadia has trolley lines. Oh, once loved, sluggish, darkling stream, For me no more, thy waters swell, Thy music now the engines' scream, Thy fragrance now the factory's smell ; Too near for me the clanging bell ; A false light in the water shines While Solitude lists to her knell, Arcadia has trolley lines. Thy wooded lanes with shade and gleam Where bloomed the fragrant asphodel, Now bleak commercially teem With signs " To Let," " To Buy," To Sell." And Commerce holds them fierce and fell; With vulgar sport she now combines Sweet Nature's piping voice to quell. Arcadia has trolley lines. L'ENVOI Oh, awful Power whose works repel The marvel of the earth's designs, I'll hie me otherwhere to dwell, Arcadia has trolley lines. NODDIN' BY DE FIRE Some folks t'inks hit's right an' p'opah, Soon ez bedtime come erroun', Fu' to scramble to de kiver, Lak dey'd hyeahed de trumpet soun*. But dese people dey all misses Whut I mos'ly does desiah ; Dat's de settin' roun' an' dozin', An' a-noddin' by de fiah. When you's tiahed out a-hoein', Er a-followin' de plough, Whut's de use of des a-fallin' On yo' pallet lak a cow ? W'y, de fun is all in waitin' In de face of all de tiah, An' a-dozin' an' a-drowsin' By a good ol' hick'ry fiah. Oh, you grunts an' groans an' mumbles Case yo' bones is full o' col', Dough you feels de joy a-tricklin' Roun' de co'nahs of yo' soul. An' you Mow anothah minute 'S sho to git you wa'm an' dryah, W'en you set up pas' yo' bedtime, Case you hates to leave de fiah. BY A GOOD OL' HICK'RY FIAH LI'L' GAL OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 285 Whut's de use o' downright sleepin' ? You can't feel it while it las', An' you git up feelin' sorry Wen de time fu' it is pas'. Seem to me dat time too precious, An' de houahs too short entiah, Fu' to sleep, w'en you could spen' 'em Des a-noddin' by de fiah. LI'L' GAL Oh, de weathah it is balmy an' de breeze is sighin' low, LiTgal, An' de mockin' bird is singin' in de locus' by de do', LiTgal; Dere's a hummin' an' a bummin' in de Ian' f'om eas' to wes', I's a-sighin' fu' you, honey, an' I nevah know no res'. Fu' dey's lots o' trouble brewin' an* a-stewin' in my breas', Li'l' gal. Whut's de mattah wid de weathah, whut's de mattah wid de breeze, Li'l' gal ? Whut's de mattah wid de locus' clat's a-singin' in de trees, Li'l' gal ? W'y dey knows dey ladies love 'em, an' dey knows dey love 'em true, An' dey love 'em back, I reckon, des' lak I's a-lovin' you ; Dat's de reason dey's a-weavin' an' a-sighin', thoo an' thoo, Li'l' gal. Don't you let no da'ky fool you 'cause de clo'es he waihs is fine, Li'l' gal. Dey's a hones' hea't a-beatin' unnerneaf dese rags o' mine, Li'l' gal. C'ose dey ain' no use in mockin' whut de birds an* weathah do, But I's so'y I cain't 'spress it w'en I knows I loves you true, Dat's de reason I's a-sighin' an' a-singin' now fu' you, Li'l' gal. RELUCTANCE Will I have some mo' dat pie ? No, ma'am, thank-ee, dat is I Bettah quit daihin' me. Dat ah pie look sutny good : How'd you feel now ef I would ? I don' reckon dat I should ; Bettah quit daihin' me. Look hyeah, I gwine tell de truf, Mine is sholy one sweet toof : Bettah quit daihin' me. Yass'm, yass'm, dat's all right, I's done tried to be perlite : But dat pie's a lakly sight, Wha's de use o' daihin' me ? My, yo' lips is full an' red, Don't I wish you'd tu'n yo' haid ? Bettah quit daihin' me. Dat ain't faih, now, honey chile, I's gwine lose my sense erwhile Ef you des set daih an' smile, Bettah quit daihin' me. Nuffin' don' look ha'f so fine Ez dem teef, deah, w'en dey shine : Bettah quit daihin' me. Now look hyeah, I tells you dis ; I'll give up all othah bliss Des to have one little kiss, Bettah quit daihin' me. Laws, I teks yo' little han', Ain't it tendah ? bless de Ian* Bettah quit daihin' me. I's so lonesome by myse'f, 'D ain't no fun in livin' lef ' ; Dis hyeah life's ez dull ez def : Bettah quit daihin' me. Whyn't you tek yo' han' erway ? Yass, I'll hoi' it : but I say Bettah quit daihin' me. Hol'in* han's is sholy fine. Seems lak dat's de weddin' sign. Wish you'd say dat you'd be mine ; Dah you been daihin' me. 286 THE LIFE AND WORKS SPEAKIN' AT DE COUT-HOUSE Dey been speakin' at de cou't-house, An' laws-a-massy me, 'Twas de beatness kin' o* doin's Dat evah I did see. Of cose I had to be dah In de middle o' de crowd, An' I hallohed wid de othahs, Wen de speakah riz and bowed. I was kind o' disapp'inted At de smallness of de man, Case I'd allus pictered great folks On a mo' expansive plan ; But I fought I could respect him An' tek in de wo'ds he said, Fu' dey sho was somep'n knowin* In de bald spot on his haid. But hit did seem so't o' funny Aftah waitin' fu' a week Dat de people kep' on shoutin' So de man des couldn't speak ; De ho'ns dey blared a little, Den dey let loose on de drums, Some one tol' me dey was playin' " See de conkerin' hero comes." " Well," says I, " you all is white folks, But you's sutny actin' queer, What's de use of heroes comin' Ef dey cain't talk w'en dey's here ? " Aftah while dey let him open, An' dat man he waded in, An' he fit de wahs all ovah Winnin' victeries lak sin. W'en he come down to de present, Den he made de feathahs fly. He des waded in on money, An' he played de ta'iff high. An' he said de colah question, Hit was ovah, solved, an' done, Dat de dahky was his brothah, Evah blessed mothah's son. Well he settled all de trouble Dat's been pesterin' de Ian', Den he set down mid de cheerin* An' de playin' of de ban'. I was feelin' moughty happy 'Twell I hyeahed somebody speak, " Well, dat's his side of de bus'ness, But you wait for Jones nex' week." BLACK SAMSON OF BRANDYWINE " In the fight at Brandywine, Black Samson, a giant negro armed with a scythe, sweeps his way thro' the red ranks. . . ." C. M. SKINNER'S " Myths and Legends of Our Own Land'' Gray are the pages of record, Dim are the volumes of eld ; Else had old Delaware told us More that her history held. Told us with pride in the story, Honest and noble and fine, More of the tale of my hero, Black Samson of Brandywine. Sing of your chiefs and your nobles, Saxon and Celt and Gaul, Breath of mine ever shall join you, Highly I honor them all. Give to them all of their glory, But for this noble of mine, Lend him a tithe of your tribute, Black Samson of Brandywine. There in the heat of the battle, There in the stir of the fight, Loomed he, an ebony giant, Black as the pinions of night. Swinging his scythe like a mower .Over a field of grain, Needless the care of the gleaners, Where he had passed amain. Straight through the human harvest, Cutting a bloody swath, Woe to you, soldier of Briton ! Death is abroad in his path. Flee from the scythe of the reaper, Flee while the moment is thine, None may with safety withstand him, Black Samson of Brandywine. Was he a freeman or bondman ? Was he a man or a thing ? What does it matter ? His brav'ry Renders him royal a king. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 287 If he was only a chattel, Honor the ransom may pay Of the royal, the loyal black giant Who fought for his country that day. Noble and bright is the story, Worthy the touch of the lyre, Sculptor or poet should find it Full of the stuff to inspire. Beat it in brass and in copper, Tell it in storied line, So that the world may remember Black Samson of Brandywine. THE LOOKING-GLASS Dinah stan' befo' de glass, Lookin' moughty neat, An' huh purty shadder sass At huh haid an' feet. While she sasshay 'roun' an' bow, Smilin' den an' poutiii' now, An' de lookin'-glass, I 'low Say : " Now, ain't she sweet ? " All she do, de glass it see, Hit des see, no mo', Seems to me, hit ought to be Drappin' on de flo'. She go w'en huh time git slack, Kissin' han's an' smilin' back. Lawsy, how my lips go smack, Watchin' at de do'. Wisht I was huh lookin'-glass, W'en she kissed huh han' ; Does you t'ink I'd let it pass, Settin' on de stan' ? No ; I'd des' fall down an' break, Kin' o' glad 't uz fu' huh sake ; But de diffunce, dat whut make Lookin'-glass an' man. A MISTY DAY Heart of my heart, the day is chill, The mist hangs low o'er the wooded hill, The soft white mist and the heavy cloud The sun and the face of heaven shroud. The birds are thick in the dripping trees, That drop their pearls to the beggar breeze ; No songs are rife where songs are wont, Each singer crouches in his haunt. Heart of my heart, the day is chill, Whene'er thy loving voice is still, The cloud and mist hide the sky from me. Whene'er thy face I cannot see. My thoughts fly back from the chill with- out, My mind in the storm drops doubt on doubt, No songs arise. Without thee, love, My soul sinks down like a frightened dove. DOUGLASS Ah, Douglass, we have fall'n on evil days, Such days as thou, not even thou didst know, When thee, the eyes of that harsh long ago Saw, salient, at the cross of devious ways, And all the country heard thee with amaze. Not ended then, the passionate ebb and flow, The awful tide that battled to and fro ; We ride amid a tempest of dispraise. Now, when the waves of swift dissension swarm, And Honor, the strong pilot, lieth stark, Oh, for thy voice high-sounding o'er the storm, For thy strong arm to guide the shiver- ing bark, The blast-defying power of thy form, To give us comfort through the lonely dark. BOOKER T. WASHINGTON The word is writ that he who runs may read. What is the passing breath of earthly fame ? But to snatch glory from the hands of blame That is to be, to live, to strive indeed. A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed, And from its dark and lowly door there came A peer of princes in the world's acclaim, 288 THE LIFE AND WORKS A master spirit for the nation's need. Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind, The mark of rugged force on brow and lip, Straight on he goes, nor turns to look be- hind Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip ; With one idea foremost in his mind, Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship. THE MONK'S WALK This poem was written in autumn, at Washington, D. C., after the shadows of the death of his domestic peace had begun to fall. He sometimes spoke of becoming a priest of the Church, and this half- formed desire may be observed in several stanzas of the Monk's Walk. Reference to his henceforth lonely life is made thus " Is it living thus to live ? Has life nothing more to give ? Ah, no more of smile or sigh Life, the world, and love, good-bye." The poem is one of a series of three whose direct inspiration was found in his discovery of a violet blooming in No- vember. In this sombre garden close What has come and passed, who knows ? What red passion, what white pain Haunted this dim walk in vain ? Underneath the ivied wall, Where the silent shadows fall, Lies the pathway chill and damp Where the world-quit dreamers tramp. Just across, where sunlight burns, Smiling at the mourning ferns, Stand the roses, side by side, Nodding in their useless pride. Ferns and roses, who shall say What you witness day by day ? Covert smile or dropping eye, As the monks go pacing by. Has the novice come to-day Here beneath the wall to pray ? Has the young monk, lately chidden, Sung his lyric, sweet, forbidden ? Tell me, roses, did you note That pale father's throbbing throat ? Did you hear him murmur, " Love ! " As he kissed a faded glove ? Mourning ferns, pray tell me why Shook you with that passing sigh ? Is it that you chanced to spy Something in the Abbot's eye ? Here no dream, nor thought of sin, Where no worlding enters in ; Here no longing, no desire, Heat nor flame of earthly fire. Branches waving green above, Whisper naught of life nor love ; Softened winds that seem a breath, Perfumed, bring no fear of death. Is it living thus to live ? Has life nothing more to give ? Ah, no more of smile or sigh Life, the world, and love, good-bye. Gray, and passionless, and dim, Echoing of the solemn hymn, Lies the walk, 'twixt fern and rose, Here within the garden close. LOVE-SONG If Death should claim me for her own to- day, And softly I should falter from your side, Oh, tell me, loved one, would my memory stay, And would my image in your heart abide ? Or should I be as some forgotten dream, That lives its little space, then fades en- tire ? Should Time send o'er you its relentless stream, To cool your heart, and quench for aye love's fire ? OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 289 I would not for the world, love, give you pain, Or ever compass what would cause you grief ; And, oh, how well I know that tears are vain! But love is sweet, my dear, and life is brief; So if some day before you I should go Beyond the sound and sight of song and sea, 'Twould give my spirit stronger wings to know That you remembered still and wept for me. SLOW THROUGH THE DARK Slow moves the pageant of a climbing race; Their footsteps drag far, far below the height, And, unprevailing by their utmost might, Seem faltering downward from each hard won place. No strange, swift-sprung exception we ; we trace A devious way thro' dim, uncertain light, Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sight Of that our Captain's soul sees face to face. Who, faithless, faltering that the road is steep, Now raiseth up his drear insistent cry ? Who stoppeth here to spend a while in sleep Or curseth that the storm obscures the sky? Heed not the darkness round you, dull and deep; The clouds grow thickest when the sum- mit's nigh. THE MURDERED LOVER Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother, Say a mass for my soul's repose, I need it, Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother, Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it. Dark were her eyes as the sloe and they called me, Called me with voice independent of breath. God ! how my heart beat ; her beauty ap- palled me, Dazed me, and drew to the sea-brink of death. Lithe was her form like a willow. She beckoned, What could I do save to follow and fol- low, Nothing of right or result could be reckoned ; Life without her was unworthy and hol- low. Ay, but I wronged thee, my brother, my brother ; Ah, but I loved her, thy beautiful wife. Shade of our father, and soul of our mother. Have I not paid for my love with my life? Dark was the night when, revengeful, I met vou, Deep in the heart of a desolate land. Warm was the life-blood which angrily wet you, Sharp was the knife that I felt from your hand. Wept you, oh, wept you, alone by the river, When my stark carcass you secretly sank. Ha, now I see that you tremble and shiver ; Twas but my spirit that passed when you shrank ! Weep not, oh, weep not, 'tis over, 'tis over ; Stir the dark weeds with the turn of the tide; Go, thou hast sent me forth, ever a rover, Rest and the sweet realm of heaven denied. 290 THE LIFE AND WORKS Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother, Say a mass for my soul, I need it. Sin of mine was it, and sin of no other, Mine was it all, but I pray you not heed it. PHILOSOPHY I been t'inkin' 'bout de preachah ; whut he said de othah night, 'Bout hit bein' people's dooty, fu' to keep dey faces bright ; How one ought to live so pleasant dat ouah tempah never riles, Meetin' evahbody roun' us wid ouah very nicest smiles. Dat's all right, I ain't a-sputin' not a t'ing dat soun's lak fac', But you don't ketch folks a-grinnin' wid a misery in de back ; An* you don't fin* dem a-smilin' w'en dey's hongry ez kin be, Leastways, dat's how human natur' allus seems to 'pear to me. We is mos' all putty likely fu' to have our little cares, An' I think we'se doin' fus' rate w'en we jes' go long and bears, Widout breakin' up ouah faces in a sickly so't o* grin, W'en we knows dat in ouah innards we is p'intly mad ez sin. Oh, dey's times fu' bein' pleasant an* fu' goin' smilin' roun', 'Cause I don't Relieve in people allus totin' roun' a frown, But it's easy 'nough to titter w'en de stew is smokin* hot, But hit's mighty ha'd to giggle w'en dey's nuffin' in de pot. A PREFERENCE Mastah drink his ol' Made'a, Missy drink huh sherry wine, Ovahseah lak his whiskey, But dat othah drink is mine, Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah. you git a On de table, go way, man ! 'D ain't but one t'ing to go wid it, 'Sides de gravy in de pan, Dat's 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah. W'en hit's 'possum dat you eatin', 'Simmon beer is moughty sweet ; But fu' evahday consumin' 'D aint* no mo'tal way to beat Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah. W'y de bees is allus busy, An' ain* got no time to was* ? Hit's beca'se dey knows de honey Dey's a makin', gwine to tas' Lak 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses watah. Oh, hit's moughty mil' an' soothin', An' hit don' go to yo' haid; Dat's de reason I's a-backin' Up de othah wo'ds I said, " Des 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah." THE DEBT This is the debt I pay Just for one riotous day, Years of regret and grief, Sorrow without relief. Pay it I will to the end Until the grave, my friend, Gives me a true release Gives me the clasp of peace. Slight was the thing I bought, Small was the debt I thought, Poor was the loan at best God ! but the interest ! OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 291 ON THE DEDICATION OF DOROTHY HALL TUSKEEGEE, ALA., APRIL 22, 1 90 1. Not to the midnight of the gloomy past, Do we revert to-day ; we look upon The golden present and the future vast Whose vistas show us visions of the dawn. Nor shall the sorrows of departed years The sweetness of our tranquil souls an- noy, The sunshine of our hopes dispels the tears, And clears our eyes to see this later joy. Not ever in the years that God hath given Have we gone friendless down the thorny way, Always the clouds of pregnant black were riven By flashes from his own eternal day. The women of a race should be its pride ; We glory in the strength our mothers had, We glory that this strength was not denied To labor bravely, nobly, and be glad. God give to these within this temple here, Clear vision of the dignity of toil, That virtue in them may its blossoms rear Unspotted, fragrant, from the lowly soil. God bless the givers for their noble deed, Shine on them with the mercy of thy face, * Who come with open hearts to help and speed The striving women of a struggling race. A ROADWAY Let those who will stride on their barren roads And prick themselves to haste with self- made goads, Unheeding, as they struggle day by day, If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray; For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks, The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks, A song-bird somewhere trilling sadly gay, A pause to pick a flower beside the way. BY RUGGED WAYS By rugged ways and thro* the night We struggle blindly towards the light ; And groping, stumbling, ever pray For sight of long delaying day. The cruel thorns beside the road Stretch eager points our steps to goad, And from the thickets all about Detaining hands reach threatening out. " Deliver us, oh, Lord," we cry, Our hands uplifted to the sky. No answer save the thunder's peal, And onward, onward, still we reel. " Oh, give us now thy guiding light ; " Our sole reply, the lightning's blight. " Vain, vain," cries one, " in vain we call;" But faith serene is over all. Beside our way the streams are dried, And famine mates us side by side. Discouraged and reproachful eyes Seek once again the frowning skies. Yet shall there come, spite storm and shock, A Moses who shall smite" the rock, Call manna from the Giver's hand, And lead us to the promised land ! X The way is dark and cold and steep, And shapes of horror murder sleep, And hard the unrelenting years ; But 'twixt our sighs and moans and tears, We still can smile, we still can sing, Despite the arduous journeying. For faith and hope their courage lend, And rest and light are at the end. LOVE'S SEASONS When the bees are humming in the hon- eysuckle vine And the summer days are in their bloom, THE LIFE AND WORKS Then my love is deepest, oh, dearest heart of mine, When the bees are humming in the hon- eysuckle vine. When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray, And the land is dim with winter gloom, Then for thee, my darling, love will have its way, When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray. In the vernal dawning with the starting of the leaf, In the merry-chanting time of spring, Love steals all my senses, oh, the happy- hearted thief! In the vernal morning with the starting of the leaf. Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear, When the days are sighing out their grief, Thou art still my darling, dearest of the dear, Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear. TO A DEAD FRIEND It is as if a silver chord Were suddenly grown mute, And life's song with its rhythm warred Against a silver lute. It is as if a silence fell Where bides the garnered sheaf, And voices murmuring, " It is well," Are stifled by our grief. It is as if the gloom of night Had hid a summer's day, And willows, sighing at their plight, Bent low beside the way. For he was part of all the best That Nature loves and gives, And ever more on Memory's breast He lies and laughs and lives. TO THE SOUTH ON ITS NEW SLAVERY Heart of the Southland, heed me plead- ing now, Who bearest, unashamed, upon my brow The long kiss of the loving tropic sun, And yet, whose veins with thy red current run. Borne on the bitter winds from every hand, Strange tales are flying over all the land, And Condemnation, with his pinions foul, Glooms in the place where broods the midnight owl. W T hat art thou, that the world should point at thee, And vaunt and chide the weakness that they see ? There was a time they were not wont to chide ; Where is thy old, uncompromising pride ? Blood-washed, thou shouldst lift up thine honored head, White with the sorrow for thy loyal dead Who lie on every plain, on every hill, And whose high spirit walks the South- land still : Whose infancy our mother's hands have nursed. Thy manhood, gone to battle unaccursed, Our fathers left to till th' reluctant field, To rape the soil for what she would not yield; Wooing for aye, the cold unam'rous sod, Whose growth for them still meant a mas- ter's rod ; Tearing her bosom for the wealth that gave The strength that made the toiler still a slave. Too long we hear the deep impassioned cry That echoes vainly to the heedless sky ; OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 293 Too long, too long, the Macedonian call Falls fainting far beyond the outward wall, Within whose sweep, beneath the shadow- ing trees, A slumbering nation takes its dangerous ease; Too long the rumors of thy hatred go For those who loved thee and thy children so. Thou must arise forthwith, and strong, thou must Throw off the smirching of this baser dust, Lay by the practice of this later creed, And be thine honest self again indeed. There was a time when even slavery's chain Held in some joys to alternate with pain, Some little light to give the night relief, Some little smiles to take the place of grief. There was a time when, jocund as the day, The toiler hoed his row and sung his lay, Found something gleeful in the very air, And solace for his toiling everywhere. Now all is changed, within the rude stockade, A bondsman whom the greed of men has made Almost too brutish to deplore his plight, Toils hopeless on from joyless morn till night. For him no more the cabin's quiet rest, The homely joys that gave to labor zest ; No more for him the merry banjo's sound, Nor trip of lightsome dances footing round. For him no more the lamp shall glow at eve, Nor chubby children pluck him by the sleeve ; No more for him the master's eyes be bright, He has nor freedom's nor a slave's de- light; What, was it all for naught, those awful years That drenched a groaning land with blood and tears ? Was it to leave this sly convenient hell, That brother fighting his own brother fell ? When that great struggle held the world in awe, And all the nations blanched at what they saw, Did Sanctioned Slavery bow its conquered head That this unsanctioned crime might rise instead ? Is it for this we all have felt the flame, This newer bondage and this deeper shame ? Nay, not for this, a nation's heroes bled, And North and South with tears beheld their dead. Oh, Mother South, hast thou forgot thy ways, Forgot the glory of thine ancient days, Forgot the honor that once made thee great, And stooped to this unhallowed estate ? It cannot last, thou wilt come forth in might, A warrior queen full armored for the fight; And thou wilt take, e'en with thy spear in rest, Thy dusky children to thy saving breast. Till then, no more, no more the gladsome song, Strike only deeper chords, the notes 01 wrong ; Till then, the sigh, the tear, the oath, the moan, Till thou, oh, South, and thine, come to thine own. 294 THE LIFE AND WORKS ROBERT GOULD SHAW Why was it that the thunder voice of Fate Should call thee, studious, from the classic groves, Where calm-eyed Pallas with still foot- step roves, And charge thee seek the turmoil of the state ? What bade thee hear the voice and rise elate, Leave home and kindred and thy spicy loaves, To lead th' unlettered and despised droves To manhood's home and thunder at the gate? Far better the slow blaze of Learning's light, The cool and quiet of her dearer fane, Than this hot terror of a hopeless fight, This cold endurance of the final pain, Since thou and those who with thee died for right Have died, the Present teaches, but in Tain! ROSES Oh, wind of the spring-time, oh, free wind of May, When blossoms and bird-song are rife ; Oh, joy for the season, and joy for the day, That gave me the roses of life, of life, That gave me the roses of life. Oh, wind of the summer, sing loud in the night, When flutters my heart like a dove ; One came from thy kingdom, thy realm of delight, And gave me the roses of love, of love, And gave me the roses of love. Oh, wind of the winter, sigh low in thy grief, I hear thy compassionate breath ; I wither, I fall, like the autumn-kissed leaf, He gave me the roses of death, of death, He gave me the roses of death. WHEN SAM'L SINGS Hyeah dat singin' in de medders Whaih de folks is mekin' hay ? Wo'k is pretty middlin' heavy Fu' a man to be so gay. You kin tell dey's somep'n special F'om de canter o' de song ; Somep'n sholy pleasin' Sam'l, W'en he singin' all day long. Hyeahd him wa'blin' 'way dis mo'nin' 'Fo' 'twas light enough to see. Seem lak music in de evenin' Allus good enough fu' me. But dat man commenced to hollah 'Fo' he'd even washed his face ; Would you b'lieve, de scan'lous rascal Woke de birds erroun' de place ? Sam'l took a trip a-Sad'day ; Dressed hisse'f in all he had, Tuk a cane an' went a-strollin', Lookin' mighty pleased an' glad. Some folks don' know whut de mattah, But I do, you bet yo' life ; Sam'l smilin' an'a-smgin' 'Case he been to see his wife. She live on de fu' plantation, Twenty miles erway er so ; But huh man is mighty happy W'en he git de chanst to go. Walkin' allus ain' de nices' Mo'nin' fin's him on de way But he allus comes back smilin', Lak his pleasure was his pay. Den he do a heap o' talkin', Do' he mos'ly kin' o' still, But de wo'ds, dey gits to runnin' Lak de watah fu' a mill. " Whut's de use o' havin' trouble, Whut's de use o' havin' strife ? " Dat's de way dis Sam'l preaches W'en he been to see his wife. An' I reckon I git jealous, Fu' I laffan' joke an' sco'n, An' I say, " Oh, go on, Sam'l, Des go on, an' blow yo' ho'n." SAM'L TOOK A TRIP A-SAD'DAY DON' FIDDLE DAT CHUNE NO Mo' OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 297 But I know dis comin' Sad'day, Dey'll be brighter days in life ; An' I'll be ez glad ez Sam'l Wen I go to see my wife. Fu ITCHING HEELS o' my eachin' heels, set de peace down ; Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'. Don' you see how dat melody stuhs me up An' baigs me to tek to de flo' ? You knows I's a Christian, good an' strong ; I wusship Pom June to June ; My pra'cJis dey ah loud an' my hymns ah long : I baig you don' fiddle dat chune. I's a crick in my back an' a misery hyeah Whaih de j'ints's gittin' ol' an' stiff, But hit seems lak you brings me de bref o' my youf ; Wy, I's suttain I noticed a w'iff. Don' fiddle dat chune no mo', my chile, Don't fiddle dat chune no mo' ; I'll git up an' taih up dis groun' fu' a mile, An' den I'll be chu'ched fu' it, sho'. Oh, fiddle dat chune some mo', I say, An' fiddle it loud an' fas' : I's a youngstah ergin in de mi'st o' my sin ; De p'esent's gone back to de pas'. I'll dance to dat chune, so des fiddle erway ; I knows how de backslidah feels ; So fiddle it on 'twell de break o' de day Fu' de sake o' my eachin' heels. THE HAUNTED OAK Pray why are you so bare, so bare, Oh, bough of the old oak-tree ; And why, when I go through the shade you throw, Runs a shudder over me ? My leaves were green as the best, I trow, And sap ran free in my veins, But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird A guiltless victim's pains. I bent me down to hear his sigh ; I shook with his gurgling moan, And I trembled sore when they rode away, And left him here alone. They'd charged him with the old, old crime, And set him fast in jail : Oh, why does the dog howl all night long, And why does the night wind wail ? He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, And he raised his hand to the sky ; But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, And the steady tread drew nigh. Who is it rides by night, by night, Over the moonlit road ? And what is the spur that keeps the pace, What is the galling goad ? And now they beat at the prison door, " Ho, keeper, do not stay ! We are friends of him whom you hold within, And we fain would take him away " From those who ride fast on our heels With mind to do him wrong; They have no care for his innocence, And the rope they bear is long." They have fooled the jailer with lying words, They have fooled the man with lies; The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn, And the great door open flies. Now they have taken him from the jail, And hard and fast they ride, And the leader laughs low down in his throat, As they halt my trunk beside. Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black, And the doctor one of white, And the minister, with his oldest son, Was curiously bedight. 298 THE LIFE AND WORKS Oh, foolish man, why weep you now ? Tis but a little space, And the time will come when these shall dread The mem'ry of your face. I feel the rope against my bark, And the weight of him in my grain, I feel in the throe of his final woe The touch of my own last pain. And never more shall leaves come forth On a bough that bears the ban ; I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, From the curse of a guiltless man. And ever the judge rides by, rides by, And goes to hunt the deer, And ever another rides his soul In the guise of a mortal fear. And ever the man he rides me hard, And never a night stays he ; For I feel his curse as a haunted bough, On the trunk of a haunted tree. WELTSCHMERTZ The poet once told this author that he wrote the poem " Weltschmertz " not long before his great sorrow came into his life, and in anticipated comradeship he could "sympathize" with the falling leaf, the bare tree, the bird leaving her wind-swept nest, and with those who had lost friends. His sorrow was to be greater than death, a living grief, an ever-present remorse. Foreknowing is one of the gifts of the poetic mind, and a poet is no more phi- losopher than prophet or seer. Many times a beautiful concept will take possession of the mind only to be later verified in actual happenings. Every picture of Dunbar's Weltschmertz was afterwards painted on the canvas of Dunbar's own experience. Did not the falling leaf and the bare tree anti-type his deserted hearthstone ? the wind-swept nest his home after the fires of anger had burned out and the two human singers who had sung there had flown to other climes ? Were not his " unbidden tears " at the sight of a passing hearse, bearing a child to the cemetery, forewarnings of the time when he would come to feel as did his brother poet Riley upon the death of a friend's baby " Oh, how much sadder I Who have no child to die ! " And so one might follow the poem through, and at the end decide that it proved a flawless prophecy. You ask why I am sad to-day, I have no cares, no griefs, you say ? Ah, yes, 'tis true, I have no grief But is there not the falling leaf? The bare tree there is mourning left With all of autumn's gray bereft ; It is not what has happened me. Think of the bare, dismantled tree. The birds go South along the sky, I hear their lingering, long good-bye. Who goes reluctant from my breast ? And yet the lone and wind-swept nest. The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by, Why does a tear come to my eye ? Is it the March rain blowing wild? I have no dead, I know no child. I am no widow by the bier Of him I held supremely dear. I have not seen the choicest one Sink down as sinks the westering sun. Faith unto faith have I beheld, For me, few solemn notes have swelled Love beckoned me out to the dawn, And happily I followed on. And yet my heart goes out to them Whose sorrow is their diadem ; The falling leaf, the crying bird, The voice to be, all lost, unheard OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 299 Not mine, not mine, and yet too much The thrilling power of human touch, While all the world looks on and scorns I wear another's crown of thorns. Count me a priest who understands The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands ; Count me a comrade of the thief Hot driven into late belief. Oh, mother's tear, oh, father's sigh, Oh, mourning sweetheart's last good-bye, I yet have known no mourning save Beside some brother's brother's grave. A LOVE SONG Ah, love, my love is like a cry in the night, A long, loud cry to the empty sky, The cry of a man alone in the desert, With hands uplifted, with parching lips, Oh, rescue me, rescue me, Thy form to mine arms, The dew of thy lips to my mouth, Dost thou hear me ? my call thro' the night ? Darling, I hear thee and answer, Thy fountain am I, All of the love of my soul will I bring to thee, All of the pains of my being shall wring to thee, Deep and forever the song of my loving shall sing to thee, Ever and ever thro' day and thro' night shall I cling to thee. Hearest thou the answer ? Darling, I come, I come. TO AN INGRATE This is to-day, a golden summer's day, And yet and yet My vengeful soul will not forget The past, forever now forgot, you say. From that half height where I had sadly climbed, I stretched my hand, 17 I lone in all that land, Down there, where, helpless, you were limed. Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace, You struggled up. It is a bitter Cup, That now for naught, you turn away your face. I shall remember this for aye and aye. Whate'er may come, Although my lips are dumb, My spirit holds you to that yesterday. IN THE TENTS OF AKBAR In the tents of Akbar Are dole and grief to-day, For the flower of all the Indies Has gone the silent way. In the tents of Akbar Are emptiness and gloom, And where the dancers gather, The silence of the tomb. Across the yellow desert, Across the burning sands, Old Akbar wanders madly, And wrings his fevered hands. And ever makes his moaning To the unanswering sky, For Sutna, lovely Sutna, Who was so fair to die. For Sutna danced at morning, And Sutna danced at eve ; Her dusky eyes half hidden Behind her silken sleeve. Her pearly teeth out-glancing Between her coral lips, The tremulous rhythm of passion Marked by her quivering hips. As lovely as a jewel Of fire and dewdrop blent, 300 THE LIFE AND WORKS So danced the maiden Sutna In gallant Ak bar's tent. And one who saw her dancing, Saw her bosom's fall and rise Put all his body's yearning Into his lovelit eyes. Then Akbar came and drove him A jackal from his door, And bade him wander far and look .On Sutna's face no more. Some day the sea disgorges, The wilderness gives back, Those half-dead who have wandered, Aimless, across its track. And he returned the lover, Haggard of brow and spent ; He found fair Sutna standing Before her master's tent. Not mine, nor Akbar's, Sutna ! " He cried and closely pressed, And drove his craven dagger Straight to the maiden's breast. Oh, weep, oh, weep, for Sutna, So young, so dear, so fair, Her face is gray and silent Beneath her dusky hair. And wail, oh, wail, for Akbar, Who walks the desert sands, Crying aloud for Sutna, Wringing his fevered hands. In the tents of Akbar The tears of sorrow run, But the corpse of Sutna's slayer, Lies rotting in the sun. THE FOUNT OF TEARS All hot and grimy from the road, Dust gray from arduous years, I sat me down and eased my load Beside the Fount of Tears. The waters sparkled to my eye, Calm, crystal-like, and cool, And breathing there a restful sigh, I bent me to the pool. When, lo ! a voice cried : " Pilgrim, rise, Harsh tho' the sentence be, And on to other lands and skies This fount is not for thee. " Pass on, but calm thy needless fears, Some may not love or sin, An angel guards the Fount of Tears ; All may not bathe therein." Then with my burden on my back I turned to gaze awhile, First at the uninviting track, Then at the water's smile. And so I go upon my way, Thro'out the sultry years, But pause no more, by night, by day, Beside the Fount of Tears. LIFE'S TRAGEDY It may be misery not to sing at all And to go silent through the brimming day. It may be sorrow never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way. To have come near to sing the perfect song And only by a half-tone lost the key, There is the potent sorrow, there the grief, The pale, sad staring of life's tragedy. To have just missed the perfect love, Not the hot passion of untempered youth, But that which lays aside its vanity And gives thee, for thy trusting worship, truth This, this it is to be accursed indeed ; For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by the things we have, But by what kept us from the perfect thing. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 301 DE WAY T'INGS COME De way t'ings come, hit seems to me, Is des' one monst'ous mystery ; De way hit seem to strike a man, Dey ain't no sense, dey ain't no plan ; Ef trouble sta'ts a pilin' down, It ain't no use to rage er frown, It ain't no use to strive er pray, Hit's mortal boun' to come dat way. Now, ef you's hongry, an' yo' plate Des' keep on sayin' to you, " Wait," Don't mek no diffunce how you feel, 'Twon't do no good to hunt a meal, Fu' dat ah meal des' boun' to hide Ontwell de devil's satisfied, An' 'twell dey's somep'n by' to cyave You's got to ease yo'se'f an' sta've. But ef dey's co'n meal on de she'f You needn't bothah 'roun' yo'se'f, Somebody's boun' to amble in An' 'vite you to dey co'n meal bin ; An' ef you's stuffed up to de froat Wid co'n er middlin', fowl er shoat, Des' look out an' you'll see fu' sho A 'possum, faint befo' yo' do'. De way t'ings happen, huhuh, chile, Dis worl' 's done puzzled me one w'ile I's mighty skeered I'll fall in doubt, I des' won't try to reason out De reason why folks strive an' plan A dinnah fu' a full-fed man, An' shet de do' an' cross de street F'om one dat raally needs to eat. NOON Shadder in de valley Sunlight on de hill, Sut'ny wish dat locus' Knowed how to be still. Don't de heat already Mek a body hum, 'Dout dat insec* sayin' Hottah days to come ? Fiel' 's a shinin' yaller Wid de bendin' grain, Guinea hen a callin', Now's de time fu' rain ; Shet yo' mouf, you rascal, Wha' 's de use to cry ? You do' see no rain clouds Up dah in de sky. Dis hyeah sweat's been po'in* Down my face sence dawn ; Ain't hit time we's hyeahin* Dat ah dinnah ho'n ? Go on, Ben an' Jaspah, Lif ' yo' feet an' fly, Hit out fu' de shadder Fo' I drap an' die. Hongry, lawd a' mussy, Hongry as a baih, Seems lak I hyeah dinnah Callin' evahwhaih ; Daih's de ho'n a blowin* ! Let dat cradle swing, One mo* sweep, den da'kies, Beat me to de spring ! AT THE TAVERN A lilt and a swing, And a ditty to sing, Or ever the night grow old ; The wine is within, And I'm sure 'twere a sin For a soldier to choose to be cold, my dear, For a soldier to choose to be cold. We're right for a spell, But the fever is well, No thing to be braved, at least ; So bring me the wine ; No low fever in mine, For a drink is more kind than a priest, my dear, For a drink is more kind than a priest. DEATH Storm and strife and stress, Lost in a wilderness, Groping to find a way, Forth to the haunts of day 302 THE LIFE AND WORKS Sudden a vista peeps, Out of the tangled deeps, Only a point the ray But at the end is day. Dark is the dawn and chill, Daylight is on the hill, Night is the flitting breath, Day rides the hills of death. NIGHT, DIM NIGHT Night, dim night, and it rains, my love, it rains, (Art thou dreaming of me, I wonder) The trees are sad, and the wind complains, Outside the rolling of the thunder, And the beat against the panes. Heart, my heart, thou art mournful in the rain, (Are thy redolent lips a-quiver?) My soul seeks thine, doth it seek in vain ? My love goes surging like a river, Shall its tide bear naught save pain ? LYRICS OF LOVE AND SORROW These sonnets were all born of Mr. Dun- bar's own great love and his sorrow at the loss of it. One can readily picture the poet, bereft of the woman he loved so pas- sionately the "Alice," of his youthful poem, and the wife of earlier years, sitting alone some " winter's midnight " with his bruised heart on " Heart-break Hill." The world's sweetest music and its greatest poems have been the aftermaths of human heart-breaks, and these little fragments, so perfect in metrical form, so melodious and so masterly are no excep- tion to the rule. He wrote every word with a mixture of life-blood and bitter tears. Love is the light of the world, my dear, Heigho, but the world is gloomy ; The light has failed and the lamp down hurled, Leaves only darkness to me. Love is the light of the world, my dear, Ah me, but the world is dreary ; The night is down, and my curtain furled But I cannot sleep, though weary. Love is the light of the world, my dear, Alas for a hopeless hoping, When the flame went out in the breeze that swirled, And a soul went blindly groping. II The light was on the golden sands, A glimmer on the sea ; My soul spoke clearly to thy soul, Thy spirit answered me. Since then the light that gilds the sands, And glimmers on the sea, But vainly struggles to reflect The radiant soul of thee. Ill The sea speaks to me of you All the day long ; Still as I sit by its side You are its song. The sea sings to me of you Loud on the reef; Always it moans as it sings, Voicing my grief. IV My dear love died last night ; Shall I clothe her in white ? My passionate love is dead, Shall I robe her in red ? But nay, she was all untrue. She shall not go drest in blue ; Still my desolate love was brave, Unrobed let her go to her grave. V There are brilliant heights of sorrow That only the few may know ; OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 303 And the lesser woes of the world, like waves, Break noiselessly, far below. I hold for my own possessing, A mount that is lone and still The great high place of a hopeless grief, And I call it my " Heart-break Hill." And once on a winter's midnight I found its highest crown, And there in the gloom, my soul and I, Weeping, we sat us down. But now when I seek that summit We are two ghosts that go ; Only two shades of a thing that died, Once in the long ago. So I sit me down in the silence, And say to my soul, " Be still," So the world may not know we died that night, From weeping on " Heart break Hill." A BOY'S SUMMER SONG 'Tis fine to play In the fragrant hay, And romp on the golden load ; To ride old Jack To the barn and back, Or tramp by a shady road. To pause and drink, At a mossy brink ; Ah, that is the best of joy, And so I say On a summer's day? What's so fine as being a boy? Ha, Ha ! With line and hook By a babbling brook, The fisherman's sport we ply ; And list the song Of the feathered throng That flit in the branches nigh. At last we strip For a quiet dip ; Ah, that is the best of joy. For this I say On a summer's day, What's so fine as being a boy? Ha, Ha! THE SAND-MAN I know a man With face of tan, But who is ever kind ; Whom girls and boys Leave games and toys Each eventide to find. When day grows dim, They watch for him, He comes to place his claim; He wears the crown Of Dreaming-town ; The sand-man is his name. When sparkling eyes Droop sleepywise And busy lips grow dumb ; When little heads Nod towards the beds, We know the sand-man's come. JOHNNY SPEAKS The sand-man he's a jolly old fellow, His face is kind and his voice is mellow, But he makes your eyelids as heavy as lead, And then you got to go off to bed ; I don't think I like the sand-man. But I've been playing this livelong day ; It does make a fellow so tired to play ! Oh, my, I'm a-yawning right here be- fore ma, I'm the sleepiest fellow that ever you saw. I think I do like the sand-man. WINTER SONG Oh, who would be sad tho' the sky be a-graying, And meadow and woodlands are empty and bare ; For softly and merrily now there come playing, The little white birds thro' the winter- kissed air. 304 THE LIFE AND WORKS The squirrel's enjoying the rest of the thrifty, He munches his store in the old hollow tree; Tho' cold is the blast and the snowflakes are drifty He fears the white flock not a whit more than we. Chorus : Then heigho for the flying snow ! Over the whitened roads we go, With pulses that tingle, And sleigh-bells a-jingle For winter's white birds here's a cheery heigho 1 THE FOREST GREETING Good hunting ! aye, good hunting, Wherever the forests call ; But ever a heart beats hot with fear, And what of the birds that fall ? Good hunting ! aye, good hunting, Wherever the north winds blow ; But what of the stag that calls for his mate ? And what of the wounded doe ? Good hunting ! aye, good hunting, And ah ! we are bold and strong ; But our triumph call through the forest hall Is a brother's funeral song. For we are brothers ever, Panther and bird and bear ; Man and the weakest that fear his face, Born to the nest or lair. Yes, brothers, and who shall judge us ? Hunters and game are we ; But who gave the right for me to smite ? Who boasts when he smiteth me ? Good hunting! aye, good hunting, And dim is the forest track ; But the sportsman Death comes striding on : Brothers, the way is black. A CHRISTMAS FOLKSONG De win' is blowin* wahmah, An hit's blowin' f 'om de bay ; Dey's a so't o' mist a-risin' All erlong de meddah way ; Dey ain't a hint o' frostin' On de groun' ner in de sky, An' dey ain't no use in hopin* Dat de snow'll 'mence to fly. It's goin' to be a green Christmas, An' sad de day fu' me. I wish dis was de las' one Dat evah I should see. Dey's dancin' in de cabin, Dey's spahkin' by de tree ; But dancin' times an' spahkin' Are all done pas' fur me. Dey's feastin' in de big house, Wid all de windahs wide Is dat de way fu' people To meet de Christmas-tide ? It's goin' to be a green Christmas, No mattah what you say. Dey's us dat will remembah An' grieve de comin' day. Dey's des a bref o' dampness A-clingin' to my cheek ; De aihs been dahk an' heavy An' threatenin' fu' a week, But not wid signs o' wintah, Dough wintah 'd seem so deah De wintah's out o' season, An' Christmas eve is heah. It's goin' to be a green Christmas, An' oh, how sad de day ! Go ax de hongry chu'chya'd, An' see what hit will say. Dey's Allen on de hillside, An' Marfy in de plain ; Fu' Christmas was like spring-time, An' come wid sun an' rain. Dey's Ca'line, John, an' Susie, Wid only dis one lef ' : An' now de curse is comin' Wid murder in hits bref. It's goin' to be a green Christmas Des hyeah my words an' see : Befo' de summah beckons Dey's many'll weep wid me. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 30? SCAMP Ain't it nice to have a mammy Wen you kin' o' tiahed out Wid a-playin' in de meddah, An' a-runnin' roun' about Till hit's made you mighty hongry, An' yo' nose hit gits to know What de smell means dat's a-comin* F'om de open cabin do' ? She wash yo' face, An' mek yo' place, You's hongry as a tramp ; Den hit's eat you suppah right away, You sta'vin' little scamp. Wen you's full o' braid an' bacon, An' dey ain't no mo' to eat, An' de lasses dat's a-stickin' On yo' face ta'se kin' o' sweet, Don' you t'ink hit's kin' o' pleasin Fu' to have som'body neah Dat'll wipe yo' han's an' kiss you Fo' dey lif you f om yo' cheah ? To smile so sweet, An' wash yo' feet, An' leave 'em co'l an' damp ; Den hit's come let me undress you, now You lazy little scamp. Don' yo' eyes git awful heavy, An' yo' lip git awful slack, Ain't dey som'p'n* kin' o' weaknin' In de backbone of yo' back ? Don' yo' knees feel kin' o' trimbly, An' yo' head go bobbin' roun', W'en you says yo' " Now I lay me," An' is sno'in' on de " down " ? She kiss yo' nose, She kiss yo' toes, An' den tu'n out de lamp, Den hit's creep into yo' trunnel baid, You sleepy little scamp. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY Sweetest of the flowers a-blooming In the fragrant vernal days Is the Lily of the Valley With its soft, retiring ways. Well, you chose this humble blossom As the nurse's emblem flower, Who grows more like her ideal Every day and every hour. Like the Lily of the Valley In her honesty and worth, Ah, she blooms in truth and virtue In the quiet nooks of earth. Tho' she stands erect in honor When the heart of mankind bleeds, Still she hides her own deserving In the beauty of her deeds. In the silence of the darkness Where no eye may see and know, There her footsteps shod with mercy, And fleet kindness come and go. Not amid the sounds of plaudits, Nor before the garish day, Does she shed her soul's sweet perfume, Does she take her gentle way. But alike her ideal flower, With its honey-laden breath, Still her heart blooms forth its beauty In the valley shades of death. ENCOURAGED This dainty verse was inscribed to a friend, who through his last years, was staunch and real and true, who understood him, scolded him when he needed it, praised him when he deserved it, and whose love was a ray of sunshine, whole- some, and warm and bright. Ever appre- ciative, he thanked his friend in this four- lined bit of verse. Because you love me I have much achieved, Had you despised me then I must have failed, But since I knew you trusted and believed, I could not disappoint you and so prevailed. 308 THE LIFE AND WORKS TO J. Q. What are the things that make life bright ? A star gleam in the night. What hearts us for the coming fray ? The dawn tints of the day. What helps to speed the weary mile ? A brother's friendly smile. What turns o' gold the evening gray? A flower beside the way. DIPLOMACY Tell your love where the roses blow, And the hearts of the lilies quiver, Not in the city's gleam and glow, But down by a half-sunned river. Not in the crowded ballroom's glare, That would be fatal, Marie, Marie, How can she answer you then and there? So come then and stroll with me, my dear, Down where the birds call, Marie, Marie. THE PLANTATION CHILD'S LULLABY Wintah time hit comin' Stealin' thoo de night ; Wake up in the mo'nin' Evaht'ing is white ; Cabin lookin' lonesome Standin* in de snow, Meks you kin' o' nervous, W'en de win' hit blow. Trompin' back from feedin', Col' an' wet an' blue, Homespun jacket ragged, Win' a-blowin* thoo. Cabin lookin' cheerful, Unnerneaf de do', Yet you kin' o' keerful W'en de win' hit blow. Hickory log a-blazin' Light a-lookin' red, Faith o' eyes o' peepin' F'om a trun'le bed, Little feet a-patterin' Cleak across de flo' ; Bettah had be keerful W'en de win' hit blow. Suppah done an' ovah, Evaht'ing is still ; Listen to de snowman Slippin' down de hill. Ashes on de fiah, Keep it wa'm but low. What's de use o' keerin' Ef de win' do blow ? Smoke house full o' bacon, Brown an' sweet an' good ; Taters in de cellah, 'Possum roam de wood ; Little baby snoozin' Des ez ef he know. What's de use o' keerin' Ef de win' do blow? WADIN' IN DE CRICK Days git wa'm an' wa'mah, School gits mighty dull, Seems lak dese hyeah teachahs Mus' feel mussiful. Hockey's wrong, I know it Ain't no gent'man's trick ; But de aih's a-callin', " Come on to de crick." Dah de watah's gu'glin* Ovah shiny stones, Des hit's ve'y singin' Seems to soothe yo' bones. W'at's de use o' waitin', Go on good an' quick : Dain't no fun lak dis hyeah Wadin' in de crick. W'at dat jay-bu'd sayin' ? Bettah shet yo' haid, Fus* t'ing dat you fin' out, You'll be layin' daid. Jay-bu'ds sich a tattlah, Des seem lak his trick Fu' to tell on folkses Wadin' in de crick. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR Wilier boughs a-bendin', Hidin' of de sky, Wavin' kin' o' frien'ly Ez de win' go by, Elum trees a-shinin',' Dahk an' green an' thick, Seem to say, " I see yo' Wadin' in de crick." But de trees don' chattah, Dey des look an' sigh Lak hit's kin' o' peaceful Des a bein' nigh, An' yo' t'ank yo' Mastah Dat dey trunks is thick Wen yo' mammy fin's you Wadin' in de crick. Den yo' run behin' dem Lak yo' scaihed to def, Mammy come a flyin', Mos' nigh out o' bref ; But she set down gentle An' she drap huh stick, An' fus' t'ing, dey's mammy Wadin' in de crick. CURIOSITY Mammy's in de kitchen, an' de do' is shet ; All de pickaninnies climb an' tug an' sweat, Gittin' to de winder, stickin' dah lak flies, Evah one ermong us des all nose an' eyes. " Whut's she cookin', Isaac ? " " Whut's she cookin', Jake ? " " Is it sweet pertaters ? Is hit pie er cake ? " But we couldn't mek out even whah we stood Whut was mammy cookin' dat could smell so good. Mammy spread de winder, an' she frown an' frown. How de pickaninnies come a-tumblin* down ! Den she say : " Ef you-all keeps a-peepin' in, How Fse gwine to whup you, my ! 't 'ill be a sin ! Need n' come a-sniffin' an' a-nosin" hyeah, 'Ca'se I knows my business, nevah feah." Won't somebody tell us how I wish dey would ! Whut is mammy cookin' dat it smells so good? We know she means business, an* we das- sent stay, Dough it's mighty tryin' fuh to go erway ; But we goes a-troopin' down de ol* wood- track 'Twell dat steamin' kitchen brings us stealin' back, Climbin' an' a-peepin' so's to see inside. Whut on earf kin mammy be so sha'p to hide ? I'd des up an' tell folks w'en I knowed I could, Ef I was a-cookin* t'ings dat smelt so good. Mammy in de oven, an* I see huh smile ; Moufs mus' be a-wat'rin' roun' hyeah fuh a mile ; Den we almos' hollah ez we hu'ies down, 'Ca'se hit's apple dumplin's, big an' fat an' brown ! W T 'en de do' is opened, solemn lak an* slow, Wisht you see us settin' all dah in a row Innercent an' p'opah, des lak chillun should W'en dey mammy's cookin 1 t'ings dat smell so good. OPPORTUNITY Granny's gone a-visitin', Seen huh git huh shawl W'en I was a hidin' down Hime de gyahden wall. Seen huh put her bonnet on, Seen huh tie de strings, An' I'se gone to dreamin' now 'Bout dem cakes an' t'ings. On de she'f behime de do' Mussy, what a feas' ! 312 THE LIFE AND WORKS Soon ez she gits out o' sight, I kin eat in peace. I bin watchin' fu' a week Des fu' dis hyeah chance. Mussy, w'en I gits in daih, I'll des sholy dance. Lemon pie an' gingah-cake, Let me set an' t'mk Vinegah an' sugah, too, Dat'll mek a drink ; Ef dey's one t'ing dat I loves Mos' pu'ticlahly, It is eatin* sweet t'ings an' A-drinkin' Sangaree. Lawdy, won' po' granny raih W'en she see de she'f; W'en I t'ink erbout huh face, Fs mos' 'shamed myse'f. Well, she gone, an' hyeah I is, Back behime de do' Look hyeah ! gran' 'sdone 'spected me, Dain't no sweets no mo'. Evah sweet is hid erway, Job des done up brown ; Pusson t'ink dat some un fought Dey was t'eves erroun' ; Dat des breaks my heart in two, Oh, how bad I 'feel ! Des to t'ink my own gramma B'lieved dat I Vd steal ! TWILIGHT Twixt a smile and a tear, 'Twixt a song and a sigh, 'Twixt the day and the dark, When the night draweth nigh. Ah, sunshine may fade From the heavens above, No twilight have we To the day of our love. THE FISHER CHILD'S LULLABY The wind is out in its rage to-night, And your father is far at sea. The rime on the window is hard and white But dear, you are near to me. Heave ho, weave low, Waves of the briny deep ; Seethe low and breathe low, But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep. The little boat rocks in the cove no more, But the flying sea-gulls wail ; I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore, For sight of a home set sail. Heave ho, weave low, Waves of the briny deep ; Seethe low and breathe low, But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep. Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die In the gale that rides the sea, But we'll not believe it, not you and I, Who mind us of Galilee. Heave ho, weave low, Waves of the briny deep ; Seethe low and breathe low, But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep. FAITH I's a-gittin' weary of de way dat people do, De folks dat's got dey 'ligion in dey fiah- place an' flue; Dey's allus somep'n' comin' so de spit'll have to turn, An' hit tain't no p'oposition fu*to mke de hickory bu'n. Ef de sweet pertater fails us an* de go'geous yallah yam, We kin tek a bit o' comfo't f 'om ouah slo' o' summah jam. W'en de snow hit git to flyin', dat's de Mastah's own desiah, De Lawd'll run de wintah an' yo' mammy'll run de fiah. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR I ain* skeered because de win' hit staht to raih and blow, I ain't bothahed w'en he come er rattlin* at de do', Let him taih hisse't an' shout, let him blow an' bawl, Dat's de time de branches shek an' bresh- wood 'mence to fall. Wen de sto'm er railin' an* de shettahs blowin' 'bout, Dat de time de fiahplace crack hits wel- come out. Tain' my livin' business fu' to trouble ner enquiah, De Lawd'll min' de wintah an' my mammy'll min' de fiah. Ash cake allus gits ez brown w'en February's hyeah Ez it does in bakin' any othah time o* yeah. De bacon smell ez callin'-like, de kittle rock an' sing, De same way in de wintah dat dey do it in de spring ; Dey ain't no use in mopin' 'round an' lookin' mad an' glum Erbout de wintah season, fu' hit's des plumb boun' to come An' ef it comes to runnin' t'ings I'swillin' to retiah, De Lawd'll min 1 de wintah an' my mammy'll min' de fiah. THE FARM CHILD'S LULLABY Oh, the little bird is rocking in the cradle of the wind, And it's bye, my little wee one, bye ; The harvest all is gathered and the pippins all are binned ; Bye, my little wee one, bye ; The little rabbit's hiding in the golden shock of corn, The thrifty squirrel's laughing bunny's idleness to scorn ; You are smiling with the angels in your slumber, smile till morn ; So it's bye, my little wee one, bye. There'll be plenty in the cellar, there'll be plenty on the shelf; Bye, my little wee one, bye ; There'll be goodly store of sweetings for a dainty little elf; Bye, my little wee one, bye. The snow may be a-flying o'er the meadow and the hill, The ice has checked the chatter of the little laughing rill, . But in your cosey cradle you are warm and happy still; So bye, my little wee one, bye. Why, the Bob White thinks the snowflake is a brother to his song ; Bye, my little wee one, bye ; And the chimney sings the sweeter when the wind is blowing strong; Bye my little wee one, bye ; The granary's overflowing, full is cellar, crib, and bin, The wood has paid its tribute and the ax has ceased its din ; The winter may not harm you when you're sheltered safe within ; So bye, my little wee one, bye. THE PLACE WHERE THE RAIN- BOW ENDS There's a fabulous story Full of splendor and glory, That Arabian legends transcends ; Of the wealth without measure, The coffers of treasure, At the place where the rainbow ends. Oh, many have sought it, And all would have bought it, With the blood we so recklessly spend ; But none has uncovered, The gold, nor discovered The spot at the rainbow's end. They have sought it in battle, And e'en where the rattle Of dice with man's blasphemy blends ; THE LIFE AND WORKS But howe'er persuasive, It still proves evasive, This place where the rainbow ends. I own for my pleasure, I yearn not for treasure, Though gold has a power it lends ; And I have a notion, To find without motion, The place where the rainbow ends. The pot may hold pottage, The place be a cottage, That a humble contentment defends, Only joy fills its coffer, But spite of the scoffer, There's the place where the rainbow ends. Where care shall be quiet, And love shall run riot, And I shall find wealth in my friends ; Then truce to the story, Of riches and glory ; There's the place where the rainbow ends. HOPE De dog go howlin' 'long de road, , De night come shiverin' down ; My back is tiahed of its load, I cain't be fu' f'om town. No mattah ef de way is long, My haht is swellin' wid a song, No mattah 'bout de frownin' skies, I'll soon be home to see my Lize. My shadder staggah on de way, It's monst'ous col' to-night; But I kin hyeah my honey say " W'y bless me if de sight O' you ain't good fu' my so' eyes." (Dat talk's dis lak my lady Lize) I's so'y case de way was long But Lawd you bring me love an' song. No mattah ef de way is long, An' ef I trimbles so' I knows de fiah's burnin' strong, Behime my Lizy's do'. An' daih my res' an' joy shell be, Whaih my ol' wife's awaitin' me Why what I keer fu' stingin' bias', I see huh windah light at las'. APPRECIATION My muvver's ist the nicest one 'At ever lived wiz folks ; She lets you have ze mostes' fun, An' laffs at all your jokes. I got a ol' maid auntie, too, The worst you ever saw ; Her eyes ist bore you through and through, She ain't a bit like ma. She's ist as slim as slim can be, An' when you want to slide Down on ze balusters, w'y she Says 'at she's harrified. She ain't as nice as Uncle Ben, What says 'at little boys Won't never grow to be big men Unless they're fond of noise. But muvver's nicer zan 'em all, She calls you, " precious lamb," An' lets you roll your ten-pin ball, An' spreads your bread wiz jam. An* when you're bad, she ist looks sad, You fink she's goin' to cry ; An' when she don't you're awful glad, An' den you're good, oh, my ! At night, she take ze softest hand, An' lays it on your head, An' says " Be off to Sleepy- Land By way o' trundle-bed." So when you fink what muvver knows An' aunts an' uncle tan't, It skeers a feller ; ist suppose His muvver 'd been a aunt. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 315 DAY The gray dawn on the mountain top Is slow to pass away. Still lays him by in sluggish dreams, The golden God of day. And then a light along the hills, Your laughter silvery gay ; The Sun God wakes, a bluebird trills, You come and it is day. TO DAN Step me now a bridal measure, Work give way to love and leisure, Hearts be free and hearts be gay Doctor Dan doth wed to-day. Diagnosis, cease your squalling - Check that scalpel's senseless bawling, Put that ugly knife away Doctor Dan doth wed to-day. Tis no time for things unsightly, Life's the day and life goes lightly ; Science lays aside her sway Love rules Dr. Dan to-day. Gather, gentlemen and ladies, For the nuptial feast now made is, Swing your garlands, chant your lay For the pair who wed to day. Wish them happy days and many, Troubles few and griefs not any, Lift your brimming cups and say God bless them who wed to-day. Then a cup to Cupid daring, Who for conquest ever faring, With his arrows dares assail E'en a doctor's coat of mail. So with blithe and happy hymning And with harmless goblets brimming, Dance a step musicians play Doctor Dan doth wed to-day. WHAT'S THE USE What's the use o* folks a-frownin* When the way's a little rough ? Frowns lay out the road fur smilin' You'll be wrinkled soon enough. What's the use ? What's the use o' folks a-sighin' ? It's an awful waste o' breath, An' a body can't stand wastin* What he needs so bad in death. What's the use ? What's the use o' even weepin' ? Might as well go long an' smile. Life, our longest, strongest arrow, Only lasts a little while. What's the use ? A LAZY DAY The trees bend down along the stream, Where anchored swings my tiny boat. The day is one to drowse and dream And list the thrush's throttling note. When music from his bosom bleeds Among the river's rustling reeds. No ripple stirs the placid pool, When my adventurous line is cast, A truce to sport, while clear and cool, The mirrored clouds slide softly past. The sky gives back a blue divine, And all the world's wide wealth is mine. A pickerel leaps, a bow of light, The minnows shine from side to side. The first faint breeze comes up the tide I pause with half uplifted oar, While night drifts down to claim the shore. LIMITATIONS Ef you's only got de powah fe' to blow a little whistle, Keep ermong de people wid de whistles. Ef you don't, you'll fin' out sho'tly dat you's th'owed yo' fines' feelin' THE LIFE AND WORKS In a place dat's all a bed o' thistles. 'Tain't no use a-goin' now, ez sho's you bo'n, A-squeakin' of yo' whistle 'g'inst a gread big ho'n. Ef you ain't got but a teenchy bit o' victuals on de table, Whut's de use a-claimin' hit's a feas' ? Fe' de folks is mighty 'spicious, an' dey's ap* to come a-peerin', Lookin' fe' de scraps you leP at leas'. Wen de meal's a-hidin' f om de meal-bin's top, You needn't talk to hide it ; ef you sta'ts, des stop. Ef yo' min' kin only carry half a pint o' common idees, Don' go roun' a-sayin' hit's a bar'l ; 'Ca'se de people gwine to test you, an' dey'll fin' out you's a-lyin', Den dey'll twis' yo' sayin's in a snarl. Wuss t'ing in de country dat I evah hyahed A. crow dot sat a-squawkin', " I's a mockin'-bird." A GOLDEN DAY I found you and I lost you, All on a gleaming day. The day was filled with sunshine, And the land was full of May. A golden bird was singing Its melody divine, I found you and I loved you, And all the world was mine. I found you and I lost you, All on a golden day, But when I dream of you, dear, It is always brimming May. THE UNLUCKY APPLE 'Twas the apple that in Eden Caused our father's primal fall ; And the Trojan War, remember 'Twas an apple caused it all. So for weeks I've hesitated, You can guess the reason why, For I want to tell my darling She's the apple of my eye. PUTTIN' THE BABY AWAY Eight of 'em hyeah all tol' an' yet Dese eyes o *nine is wringin' wet ; My haht's a-achin' ha'd an' so', De way hit nevah ached befo' ; My soul's a-pleadin', Lawd give back Dis little lonesome baby black, Dis one, dis las' po' he'pless one Whose little race was too soon run." Po' Little Jim, des fo' yeahs' ol* A-layin' down so still an' col'. Somehow hit don' seem ha'dly faih, To have my baby lyin f daih Wi'dout a smile upon his face, Wi'dout a look erbout de place ; He ust to be so full o' fun Hit don' seem right dat all's done, done. Des eight in all but I don' caih, Dey wa'nt a single one to spaih ; De worl' was big, so was my haht, An' dis hyeah baby owned hits paht ; De house was po', dey clothes was rough, But daih was meat an' meal enough ; An' daih was room fu' little Jim ; Oh ! Lawd, what made you call fu' him ? It do seem monst'ous ha'd to-day, To lay dis baby boy away ; I'd learned to love his teasin' smile, He mought o' des been lef erwhile ; You wouldn't fought wid all de folks, Dat's roun' hyeah mixin* teahs an' jokes, De Lawd u'd had de time to see Dis chile an' tek him 'way Pom me. But let it go, I reckon Jim, '11 des go right straight up to him Dat took him Pom his mammy's nest An' leP dis achin' in my breas', An' lookin' in dat fathah's face An' 'memberin' dis lone sorrerin' place, He'll say, " Good Lawd, you ought to had Do sumpin' fu' to comfo't dad ! " OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ADVICE Wen you full o' worry 'Bout yo' wo'k an' sich, Wen you kind o' bothered Case you can't get rich, An' yo' neighboh p'ospah Past his jest desu'ts, An' de sneer of comerds Stuhes yo' heaht an' hu'ts, Des don' pet yo' worries, Lay 'em on de she'f, Tek a little trouble Brothah, wid yo'se'f. Ef a frien' comes mou'nin' 'Bout his awful case, You know you don' grieve him Wid a gloomy face, But you wrassle wid him, Try to tek him in ; Dough hit cracks yo' features, Law, you smile lak sin, Ain't you good ez he is ? Don' you pine to def ; Tek a little trouble Brothah, wid yo'se'f. Ef de chillun pestahs, An' de baby's bad, Ef yo' wife gits narvous, An' you're gettin' mad, Des you grab yo' boot-strops, Hoi' yo' body down, Stop a-t'inkin' cuss-w'rds, Chase away de frown, Knock de haid o' worry, Twell dey ain' none lef ; Tek a little trouble, Brothah, wid yo'se'f. THE DISCOVERY These are the days of elfs and fays : Who says that with the dreams of myth, These imps and elves disport themselves ? Ah no, along the paths of song Do all the tiny folk belong. Round all our homes, Kobolds and gnomes do daily cling, Then nightly fling their lanterns out. And shout on shout, they join the rout, And sing, and sing, within the sweet en- chanted ring. Where gleamed the guile of moonlight's smile, Once paused I, listening for a while, And heard the lay, unknown by day, The fairies' dancing roundelay. Queen Mab was there, her shimmering hair Each fairy prince's heart's despair. She smiled to see their sparkling glee, And once I ween, she smiled at me. Since when, you may by night or day, Dispute the sway of elf-folk gay ; But, hear me, stay ! I've learned the way to find Queen Mab and elf and fay. Where'er by streams, the moonlight gleams, Or on meadow softly beams, There, footing round on dew-lit ground, The fairy folk may all be found. MORNING The mist has left the greening plain, The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, The coquette rose awakes again Her lovely self adorning. The Wind is hiding in the trees, A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, Until the rose says, " Kiss me, please," 'Tis morning, 'tis morning. With staff in hand and careless free, The wanderer fares right jauntily, For towns and houses are, thinks he, For scorning, for scorning. My soul is swift upon the wing, And in its deeps a song I bring ; Come, Love, and we together sing, "'Tis morning, 'tis morning." 320 THE LIFE AND WORKS THE AWAKENING I did not know that life could be so sweet, I did not know the hours could speed so fleet, Till I knew you, and life was sweet again. The days grew brief with love and lack of pain I was a slave a few short days ago, The powers of Kings and Princes now I know ; I would not be again in bondage, save I had your smile, the liberty I crave. LOVE'S DRAFT The draft of love was cool and sweet You gave me in the cup, But, ah, love's fire is keen and fleet, And I am burning up. Unless the tears I shed for you Shall quench this burning flame. It will consume me through and through, And leave but ash a name. A MUSICAL Outside the rain upon the street, The sky all grim of hue, Inside, the music-painful sweet, And yet I heard but you. As is a thrilling violin, So is your voice to me And still above the other strains, It sajig in ecstasy. TWELL DE NIGHT IS PAS' All de night long twell de moon goes down, Lovin* I set at huh feet, Den fu' de long jou'ney back fom de town, Ha'd, but de dreams mek it sweet. All de night long twell de break of de day, Dreamin' agin in my sleep, Mandy comes drivin' my sorrers away, Axin' me, " Wha' fu' you weep ? " All de day long twell de sun goes down, Smilin', I ben* to my hoe, Fu' dough de weddah git nasty an' frown, One place I know I kin go. All my life long twell de night has pas' Let de wo'k come ez it will, So dat I fin' you, my honey, at las', Somewhaih des ovah de hill. AT NIGHT Whut time'd dat clock strike ? Nine ? No eight; I didn't think hit was so late. Aer chew ! I must 'a' got a cough, I raally b'lieve I did doze off Hit's mighty soothin' to de tiah, A-dozin' dis way by de fiah ; 00 oom hit feels so good to stretch 1 sutny is one weary wretch ! Look hyeah, dat boy done gone to sleep! He des ain't wo'th his boa'd an' keep; I des don't b'lieve he'd bat his eyes If Gab'el called him fom de skies ! But sleepin's good dey ain't no doubt Dis pipe o' mine is done gone out. Don't bu'n a minute, bless my soul, Des please to han' me dat ah coal. You 'Lias git up now, my son, Seems lak my nap is des begun ; You sutny mus' ma'k down de day Wen I treats comp'ny dis away ! W'y, Brother Jones, dat drowse come on, An' laws ! I dremp dat you was gone ! You 'Lias, whaih yo' mannahs, suh, To hyeah me call an' nevah stuh ! To-morrer mo'nin' w'en I call Dat boy'll be sleepin' to beat all, Don't mek no diffunce how I roah, He'll des lay up an' sno' and sno'. Now boy, you done hyeahed whut I said, You bettah tek yo'se'f yo' baid, Case ef you gits me good an' wrong I'll mek dat sno' a diffunt song. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 321 Dis wood fiah is invitin' dho', Hit seems to wa'm de ve'y flo' An' nuffin' ain't a whit ez sweet, Ez settin' toastin' of yo' feet. Hit mek you drowsy, too, but La ! Hyeah, 'Lias, don't you hyeah yo' ma? Ef I gits sta'ted f 'om dis cheah I' lay, you scamp, I'll mek you heah ! To-morrer mo'nin' I kin bawl Twell all de neighbohs hyeah me call ; An' you'll be snoozin' des ez deep Ez if de day was made fu* sleep ; Hit's funny when you got a cough Somehow yo' voice seems too fu' off Can't wake dat boy fu' all I say, I reckon he'll sleep daih twell day ! KIDNAPPED I held my heart so far from harm, I let it wander far and free In mead and mart, without alarm, Assured it must come back to me. And all went well till on a day, Learned Dr. Cupid wandered by A search along our sylvan way For some peculiar butterfly. A flash of wings, a hurried drive, A flutter and a short-lived flit ; This Scientist, as I am alive Had seen my heart and captured it. Right tightly now 'tis held among The specimens that he has trapped, And sings (oh, love is ever young), 'Tis passing sweet to be kidnapped. COMPENSATION Because I had loved so deeply, Because I had loved so long, 'God in his great compassion Gave me the gift of song. Because I have loved so vainly, And sung with such faltering breath, 18 The Master in infinite mercy Offers the boon of Death. WINTER'S APPROACH De sun hit shine an' de win' hit blow, Ol' Brer Rabbit be a-layin' low, He know dat de wintah time a-comin', De huntah man he walk an' wait, He walk right by Brer Rabbit's gate He know De dog he lick his sliverin' chop, An' he tongue 'gin' his mouf go flop, flop He He rub his nose fu' to clah his scent So's to tell w'ich way dat cotton-tail went, He De huntah's wife she set an' spin A good wahm coat fu' to wrop him in She She look at de skillet an' she smile, oh my ! An' ol' Brer Rabbit got to sholy fly. Dey know. ANCHORED If thro' the sea of night which here sur- rounds me, I could swim out beyond the farthest star, Break every barrier of circumstance thaf bounds me, And greet the Sun of sweeter life afar, Tho' near you there is passion, grief, and sorrow, And out there rest and joy and peace and all, I should renounce that beckoning for to- morrow, I could not choose to go beyond your call. 322 THE LIFE AND WORKS THE VETERAN Underneath the autumn sky, Haltingly, the lines go by. Ah, would steps were blithe and gay, As when first they marched away, Smile on lip and curl on brow, Only white-faced gray-beards now, Standing on life's outer verge, E'en the marches sound a dirge. Blow, you bugles, play, you fife, Rattle, drums, for dearest life. Let the flags wave freely so, As the marching legions go, Shout, hurrah and laugh and jest, This is memory at its best. (Did you notice at your quip, That old comrade's quivering lip ?) Ah, I see them as they come, Stumbling with the rumbling drum ; But a sight more sad to me E'en than these ranks could be Was that one with cane upraised Who stood by and gazed and gazed, Trembling, solemn, lips compressed, Longing to be with the rest. Did he dream of old alarms, As he stood, " presented arms " ? Did he think of field and camp And the unremitting tramp Mile on mile the lonely guard When he kept his midnight ward ? Did he dream of wounds and scars In that bitter war of wars ? What of that ? He stood and stands In my memory trembling hands, Whitened beard and cane and all As if waiting for the call Once again : " To arms, my sons," And his ears hear far-off guns, Roll of cannon and the tread Of the legions of the Dead ! BLUE Standin* at de winder, Feelin' kind o' glum, Listenin' to de rain-drops Play de kettle drum, Lookin' crost de medders Swimmin' lak a sea ; Lawd 'a' mussy on us, What's de good o' me ? Can't go out a-hoein', Wouldn't ef I could ; Groun' too wet fu' huntin', Fishin' ain't no good. Too much noise fo' sleepin', No one hyeah to chat ; Des mus' stan' an' listen To dat pit-a-pat. Hills is gittin' misty, Valley's gittin' dahk ; Watch-dog's 'mence a-howlin', Rathah have 'em ba'k Dan a-moanin' solemn Somewhaih out o' sight ; Rain-crow des a-chucklin' Dis is his delight. Mandy, bring my banjo, Bring de chillen in, Come in f om de kitchen, I feel sick ez sin. Call in Uncle Isaac, Call Aunt Hannah, too, Tain't no use in talkin', Chile, I's sholy blue. DREAMIN' TOWN Come away to dreamin' town, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Whaih de skies don' nevah frown, Mandy Lou ; Whaih de streets is paved with gol', Whaih de days is nevah col', An* no sheep strays f om de fol', Mandy Lou. Ain't you tiahed of every day, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, CHILE, Fs SHOLY BLUE IN DAT DREAMLAND OF DELIGHT OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 325 Tek my ban' an' come away, Mandy Lou, To the place whaih dreams is King, Whaih my heart hoi's everything, An' my soul can allus sing, Mandy Lou. Come away to dream wid me, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Whaih our hands an' hea'ts are free, Mandy Lou; Whaih de sands is shinin' white, In dat dreamland of delight, Whaih de rivahs glistens bright, Mandy Lou. Come away to dreamland town, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Whaih de fruit is bendin' down, Des fu' you. Smooth your brow of lovin' brown, An' my love will be its crcwn ; Come away to dreamin' town, Mandy Lou. YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW Yesterday I held your hand, Reverently I pressed it, And its gentle yieldingness From my soul I blessed it. But to-day I sit alone, Sad and sore repining ; Must our gold forever know Flames for the refining ? Yesterday I walked with you, Could a day be sweeter ? Life was all a lyric song Set to tricksy meter. Ah, to-day is like a dirge, Place my arms around you, Let me feel the same dear joy As when first I found you. Let me once retrace my steps, From these roads unpleasant, Let my heart and mind and soul All ignore the present. Yesterday the iron seared And to-day means sorrow. Pause, my soul, arise, arise, Look where gleams the morrow. THE CHANGE Love used to carry a bow, you know, But now he carries a taper ; It is either a length of wax aglow, Or a twist of lighted paper. I pondered a little about the scamp, And then I decided to follow His wandering journey to field and camp, Up hill, down dale or hollow. I dogged the rollicking, gay, young blade In every species of weather ; Till, leading me straight to the home of a maid He left us there together. And then I saw it, oh, sweet surprise, The taper it set a-burning The love-light brimming my lady's eyes, And my heart with the fire of yearning. THE CHASE The wind told the little leaves to hurry, And chased them down the way, While the mother tree laughed loud in glee, For she thought her babes at play. The cruel wind and the rain laughed loudly, We'll bury them deep, they said, And the old tree grieves, and the little leaves Lie low, all chilled and dead. SUPPOSE If 'twere fair to suppose That your heart were not taken, That the dew from the rose Petals still were not shaken, I should pluck you, 326 THE LIFE AND WORKS Howe'er you should thorn me and scorn me, And wear you for life as the green of the bower. If 'twere fair to suppose That that road was for vagrants, That the wind and the rose, Counted all in their fragrance ; Oh, my dear one, My love, I should take you and make you, The green of my life from the scintillant hour. THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN Cover him over with daisies white, And eke with the poppies red, Sit with me here by his couch to-night, For the First-Born, Love, is dead. Poor little fellow, he seemed so fair As he lay in my jealous arms ; Silent and cold he is lying there Stripped of his darling charms. Lusty and strong he had grown forsooth, Sweet with an infinite grace, Proud in the force of his conquering youth, Laughter alight in his face. Oh, but the blast, it was cruel and keen, And ah, but the chill it was rare ; The look of the winter-kissed flow'r you've seen When meadows and fields were bare. Can you not wake from this white, cold sleep And speak to me once again ? True that your slumber is deep, so deep, But deeper by far is my pain. Cover him over with daisies white, And eke with the poppies red, Sit with me here by his couch to-night, For the First-Born, Love, is dead. BEIN' BACK HOME Wearying of his losing battle for health, assured that his days were numbered, and too weak to continue his literary labors, poor Paul Dunbar went home to Dayton to die. Show me another, who, under such heart-breaking conditions, could have written such a poem as " Bein' Back Home." The old settee to which he refers in the fourth stanza, actually exists, and was the poet's favorite seat. His mother counts it among the most precious relics of her son. Home agin, an' home to stay Yes, it's nice to be away. Plenty things to do an' see, But the old place seems to me Jest about the proper thing. Mebbe 'ts 'cause the mem'ries cling Closer 'round yore place o' birth 'N ary other spot on earth. W'y it's nice jest settin' here, Lookin' out an' seein' clear, Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze In these sweet October days. What's as good as that there lane, Kind o' browned from last night's rain ? 'Pears like home has got the start When the goal's a feller's heart. What's as good as that there jay Screechin' up'ards towards the gray Skies ? An' tell me, what's as fine As that full-leafed pumpkin vine ? Tow'rin' buildin's yes, they're good ; But in sight o' field and wood, Then a feller understand 'Bout the house not made with han's. Let the others rant an' roam . When they git away from home ; Jest gi' me my old settee An' my pipe beneath a tree ; Sight o' medders green an' still, Now and then a gentle hill, Apple orchards, full o' fruit, Nigh a cider press to boot OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 327 That's the thing jest done up brown D'want to be too nigh to town ; Want to have the smells an' sights, An' the dreams o' long still nights, With the friends you used to know In the keerless long ago Same old cronies, same old folks, Same old cider, same old jokes. Say, it's nice a-gittin' back, When yore pulse is growin' slack, An' yore breath begins to wheeze Like a fair-set valley breeze ; Kind o' nice to set aroun' On the old familiar groun', Knowin' that when Death does come, That he'll find you right at home. DESPAIR Let me close the eyes of my soul That I may not see What stands between thee and me. Let me shut the ears of my heart That I may not hear A voice that drowns yours, my dear. Let me cut the cords of my life, Of my desolate being, Since cursed is my hearing and seeing. CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES Tim Murphy's gon* walkin* wid Maggie O'Neill, O chone ! If I was her muther, I'd frown on sich foolin', O chone ! I'm sure it's unmutherlike, darin' an' wrong To let a gyrul hear tell the sass an* the song Of every young felly that happens along, O chone ! An* Murphy, the things that's be'n sed of his doin', O chone ! 'Tis a cud that no decent folks want to be chewin', O chone ! If he came to my door wid his cane on a twirl, Fur to thry to make love to you, Biddy, my girl, Ah, wouldn't I send him away wid a whirl, O chone ! They say the gossoon is indecent and dirty, O chone ! In spite of his dressin' so. O chone ! Let him dress up ez foine ez a king or a queen, Let him put on more wrinkles than ever was seen, You'll be sure he's no match for my little colleen, O chone ! Faith the two is comin' back an* their walk is all over, O chone ! 'Twas a pretty short walk fur to take wid a lover, O chone ! Why, I believe that Tim Murphy's a kumin' this way, Ah, Biddy, jest look at him steppin* so gay. I'd niver belave what the gossipers say, O chone ! He's turned in the gate an' he's coming a-caperin', O chone ! Go, Biddy, go quick an' put on a clane apern, O chone ! Be quick as ye kin fur he's right at the dure; Come in, master Tim, fur ye're welcome I'm shure. We were talkin' o' ye jest a minute be- fore. O chone I 328 THE LIFE 'AND WORKS TILL THE WIND GETS RIGHT Oh, the breeze is blowin' balmy And the sun is in a haze ; There's a cloud jest givin' coolness, To the laziest of days. There are crowds upon the lakeside, But the fish refuse to bite, So I'll wait and go a-fishin' When the wind gets right. Now my boat tugs at her anchor, Eager now to kiss the spray, While the little waves are callin' Drowsy sailor come away, There's a harbor for the happy, And its sheen is just in sight, But I won't set sail to get there, Till the wind gets right. That's my trouble, too, I reckon, I've been waitin' all too long, Tho' the days were always bright Still the wind is always wrong. An' when Gabriel blows his trumpet, In the day o' in the night, I will still be found waitin', Till the wind gets right. A SUMMER NIGHT Summah is de lovin' time Do' keer what you say. Night is allus peart an' prime, Bettah dan de day. Do de day is sweet an' good, Birds a-singin* fine, Pines a-smellin' in de wood, But de night is mine. Rivah whisperin' " howdy do," Ez it pass you by Moon a-lookin' down at you, Winkin* on de sly. Frogs a-croakin' f om de pon', Singin' bass dey fill, An' you listen way beyon* Ol' man whippo'will. Hush up, honey, tek my han', Mek yo' footsteps light ; Somep'n' kin' o' hoi's de Ian' On a summah night. Somep'n' dat you nevah sees An' you nevah hyeahs, But you feels it in de breeze, Somep'n' nigh to teahs. Somep'n' nigh to teahs ? dat's so ; But hit's nigh to smiles. An' you feels it ez you go Down de shinin' miles. Tek my han', my little dove ; Hush an' come erway Summah is de time fu' love, Night-time beats de day ! AT SUNSET TIME A down the west a golden glow Sinks burning in the sea, And all the dreams of long ago Come flooding back to me. The past has writ a story strange Upon my aching heart, But time has wrought a subtle change, My wounds have ceased to smart. No more the quick delight of youth, No more the sudden pain, I look no more for trust or truth Where greed may compass gain. What, was it I who bared my heart Through unrelenting years, And knew the sting of misery's dart, The tang of sorrow's tears ? 'Tis better now, I do not weep, I do not laugh nor care ; My soul and spirit half asleep Drift aimless everywhere. We float upon a sluggish stream, We ride no rapids mad, While life is all a tempered dream And every joy half sad. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 329 NIGHT Silence, and whirling worlds afar Through all encircling skies. What floods come o'er the spirit's bar, What wondrous thoughts arise. The earth, a mantle falls away, And, winged, we leave the sod ; Where shines in its eternal sway The majesty of God. AT LOAFING-HOLT Since I left the city's heat For this sylvan, cool retreat, High upon the hillside here Where the air is clean and clear, I have lost the urban ways. Mine are calm and tranquil days, Sloping lawns of green are mine, Clustered treasures of the vine ; Long forgotten plants I know, Where the best wild berries grow, Where the greens and grasses sprout, When the elders blossom out. Now I am grown weather-wise With the lore of winds and skies. Mine the song whose soft refrain Is the sigh of summer rain. Seek you where the woods are cool, Would you know the shady pool Where, throughout the lazy day, Speckled beauties drowse or play ? Would you find in rest or peace Sorrow's permanent release ? Leave the city, grim and gray, Come with me, ah, come away. Do you fear the winter chill, Deeps of snow upon the hill ? 'Tis a mantle, kind and warm, Shielding tender shoots from harm. Do you dread the ice-clad streams, They are mirrors for your dreams. Here's a rouse, when summer's past To the raging winter's blast. Let him roar and let him rout, We are armored for the bout. How the logs are glowing, see ! Who sings louder, they or he ? Could the city be more gay ? Burn your bridges ! Come away ! WHEN A FELLER'S ITCHIN' TO BE SPANKED Wen us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise, Gramma says, " There's certain times comes to little boys W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;" She says, "we're a-itchin* for a right good spank." An' she says, " Now thes you wait, It's a-comin' soon or late, W'en a feller's itchin' fer a spank." W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels, Gramma says we wriggle 'roun' like a lot o' eels. W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail. What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail? Gramma says, tho', " thes you wait, It's a-comin' soon or late, You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked." Cats is funny creatures an' I like to make 'em yowl, Gramma alwus looks at me with a awful scowl An' she says, " Young gentlemen, mamma should be thanked Ef you'd get your knickerbockers right well spanked." An' she says, " Now thes you wait, It's a-comin' soon or late," W'en a feller's itchin' to be spanked. Ef you fin* the days is gettin' awful hot in school An' you know a swimmin' place where it's nice and cool, Er you know a cat-fish hole brimmin' full o' fish, Whose a-goin' to set around school and wish? 'Tain't no use to hide your bait, It's a-comin' soon or late, W'en a feller's itchin' to be spanked. 330 THE LIFE AND WORKS Ol' folks know most ever'thing 'bout the world, I guess, Gramma does, we wish she knowed thes a little less, But I alwus kind o' think it 'ud be as well Ef they wouldn't alwus have to up an' tell; We kids wish 'at they'd thes wait, It's a-comin' soon or late, Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked. THE RIVER OF RUIN Along by the river of ruin They dally the thoughtless ones, They dance and they dream By the side of the stream, As long as the river runs. It seems all so pleasant and cheery No thought of the morrow is theirs, And their faces are bright With the sun of delight, And they dream of no night-brooding cares. The women wear garlanded tresses, The men have rings on their hands, And they sing in their glee, For they think they are free They that know not the treacherous sands. Ah, but this be a venturesome journey, Forever those sands are ashrift, And a step to one side Means a grasp of the tide, And the current is fearful and swift. For once in the river of ruin, What boots it, to do or to dare, For down we must go In the turbulent flow, To the desolate sea of Despair. TO HER Your presence like a benison to me Wakes my sick soul to dreamful ecstasy, I fancy that some old Arabian night Saw you my houri and my heart's de- light. And wandering forth beneath the passion- ate moon, Your love-strung zither and my soul in tune, We knew the joy, the haunting of the pain That like a flame thrills through me now again. To-night we sit where sweet the spice winds blow, A wind the northland lacks and ne'er shall know, With clasped hands and spirits all aglow - As in Arabia in the long ago. A LOVE LETTER Oh, I des received a letter fom de sweet- est little gal ; Oh, my ; oh, my. She's my lovely little sweetheart an' her name is Sal : Oh, my ; oh, my. She writes me dat she loves me, an* she loves me true, She wonders ef I'll tell huh dat I loves huh too ; An' my heaht's so full o' music dat I do' know what to do ; Oh, my ; oh, my. I got a man to read it an' he read it fine ; Oh, my ; oh, my. Dey ain' no use denying dat her love is mine; Oh, my; oh, my. But hyeah's de t'ing dat's puttin' me in such a awful plight, I t'ink of huh at mornin' an' I dream of huh at night ; But how's I gwine to cou't huh w'en I do' know how to write ? Oh, my ; oh, my. My heaht is bubblin' ovah wid de t'ings I want to say ; Oh, my ; oh, my. A Letter f'om de Sweetes' Little Gal I . GIT TO T'INKIN' OF DE PAS' OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 333 An' dey's lots of folks to copy what I .tell 'em fu' de pay ; Oh, my ; oh, my. But dey's t'ings dat I's a-t'inkin* dat is only fu' huh ears, An' I couldn't lu'n to write 'em ef I took a dozen years ; So to go down daih an' tell huh is de only way, it 'pears; Oh, my ; oh, my. THE OLD CABIN In de dead of night I sometimes, Git to t'inkin' of de pas' An' de days w'en slavery helt me In my mis'ry ha'd an' fas'. Dough de time was mighty tryin', In dese houahs somehow hit seem Dat a brightah light come slippin' Thoo de kivahs of my dream. An' my min' fu'gits de whuppins Draps de feah o' block an' lash An' flies straight to somep'n' joyful In a secon's lightnin' flash. Den hit seems I see a vision Of a dearah long ago Of de childern tumblin' roun* me By my rough ol' cabin do*. Talk about yo' go'geous mansions An' yo' big house great an' gran', Des bring up de fines' palace Dat you know in all de Ian'. But dey's somep'n' dearah to me, Somep'n' faihah to my eyes In dat cabin, less you bring me To yo' mansion in de skies. I kin see de light a-shinin' Thoo de chinks atween de logs, I kin hyeah de way-off bayin' Of my mastah's huntin' dogs, An' de neighin' of de hosses Stampin* on de ol' bahn flo', But above dese soun's de laughin* At my deah ol' cabin do'. We would gethah daih at evenin', All my frien's 'ud come erroun* An' hit wan't no time, twell, bless you, You could hyeah de banjo's soun'. You could see de dahkies dancin' Pigeon wing an' heel an' toe, Joyous times I tell you people Roun* dat same ol' cabin do*. But at times my t'oughts gits saddah, Ez I riccolec' de folks, An' dey frolickin' an' talkin* Wid dey laughin' an' dey jokes. An' hit hu'ts me w'en I membahs Dat I'll nevah see no mo' Dem ah faces gethered smilin' Roun' dat po' ol' cabin do'. AFTER MANY DAYS I've always been a faithful man An' tried to live for duty, But the stringent mode of life Has somewhat lost its beauty. The story of the generous bread He sent upon the waters, Which after many days returns To trusting sons and daughters, To trusting sons Had oft impressed me, so I want My soul influenced by it, And bought a loaf of bread and sought A stream where I could try it. I cast my bread upon the waves And fancied then to await it; It had not floated far away When a fish came up and ate it. And if I want both fish and bread, And surely both I'm wanting, About the only way I see Is for me to go fishing. LIZA MAY Little brown face full of smiles, And a baby's guileless wiles, Liza May, Liza May. 334 THE LIFE AND WORKS Eyes a-peeping thro' the fence With an interest intense, Liza May. Ah, the gate is just ajar, And the meadow is not far, Liza May, Liza May. And the road feels very sweet, To your little toddling feet, Liza May. Ah, you roguish runaway, What will toiling mother say, Liza May, Liza May ? What care you who smile to greet Every one you chance to meet, Liza May ? Soft the mill-race sings its song, Just a little way along, Liza May, Liza May. But the song is full of guile, Turn, ah turn, your steps the while, Liza May. You have caught the gleam and glow Where the darkling waters flow, Liza May, Liza May. Flash of ripple, bend of bough, Where are all the angels now ? Liza May. Now a mother's eyes intense Gazing o'er a shabby fence, Liza May, Liza May. Then a mother's anguished face Peering all around the place, Liza May. Hear the agonizing call For a mother's all in all, Liza May, L za May. Hear a mother's maddened prayer To the calm unanswering air, Liza May. What's become of Liza May ? What has darkened all the day ? Liza May, Liza May. Ask the waters dark and fleet, If they know the smiling, sweet Liza May. Call her, call her as you will, On the meadow, on the hill, Liza May, Liza May. Through the brush or beaten track Echo only gives you back, Liza May. Ah, but you were loving sweet, On your little toddling feet, Liza May, Liza May. But through all the coming years, Must a mother breathe with tears, Liza May. THE MASTERS Oh, who is the Lord of the land of life, When hotly goes the fray ? When, fierce we smile in the midst of strife Then whom shall we obey ? Oh, Love is the Lord of the land of life Who holds a monarch's sway ; He wends with wish of maid and wife, And him you must obey. Then who is the Lord of the land of life, At setting of the sun ? Whose word shall sway when Peace is rife And all the fray is done ? ** Then Death is the Lord of the land of life, When your hot race is run. Meet then his scythe and pruning-knife When the fray is lost or won. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 335 TROUBLE IN DE KITCHEN Dey was oncet a awful quoil 'twixt de skillet an* de pot ; De pot was des a-bilin' an* de skillet sho* was hot. Dey slurred each othah's colah an' dey called each othah names, Wile de coal-oil can des gu'gled, po'in' oil erpon de flames. De pot, hit called de skillet des a flat, dis- figgered t'ing, An' de skillet 'plied dat all de pot could do was set an' sing, An' he 'lowed dat dey was 'lusions dat he wouldn't stoop to mek 'Case he reckernize his juty, an' he had too much at steak. Well, at dis de pot biled ovah, case his tempah gittin' highah, An' de skillet got to sputterin', den de fat was in de fiah. Mistah fiah lay daih smokin' an' a-t'inkin' to hisse'f, Wile de peppah-box us nudgin* of de gingah on de she'f. Den dey all des lef hit to 'im, 'bout de trouble an' de talk ; An' howevah he decided, w'y dey bofe 'u'd walk de chalk ; But de fiah uz so 'sgusted how dey quoil an' dey shout Dat he cooled 'em off, I reckon, w'en he puffed an' des went out. THE QUILTING Dolly sits a-quilting by her mother, stitch by stitch, Gracious, how my pulses throb, how my fingers itch, While I note her dainty waist and her slender hand, As she matches this and that, she stitches strand by strand. And I long to tell her Life's a quilt and I'm a patch ; Love will do the stitching if she'll only be my match. PARTED She wrapped her soul in a lace of lies> With a prime deceit to pin it ; And I thought I was gaining a fearsome prize, So I staked my soul to win it. We wed and parted on her complaint, And both were a bit of barter, Tho' I'll confess that I'm no saint, I'll swear that she's no martyr. FOREVER I had not known before Forever was so long a word. The slow stroke of the clock of time I had not heard. 'Tis hard to learn so late ; It seems no sad heart really learns, But hopes and trusts and doubts and fears, And bleeds and burns. The night is not all dark, Nor is the day all it seems, But each may bring me this relief My dreams and dreams. I had not known before That Never was so sad a word, So wrap me in forgetfulness I have not heard. CHRISTMAS Step wid de banjo an' glide wid de fiddle, Dis ain' no time fu' to pottah an' pid- dle; Fu' Christmas is comin', it's right on de way, An' dey's houahs to dance 'fo' de break o' de day. What if de win' is taihin* an' whistlin' ? Look at dat fiah how hit's spittin' an' bristlin' ! Heat in de ashes an* heat in de cindahs, OP mistah Fros' kin des look thoo de windahs. 336 THE LIFE AND WORKS Heat up de toddy an' pas' de wa'm glasses, Don' stop to shivah at blowin's an' blas'es, Keep on de kittle an' keep it a-hummin', Eat all an' drink all, dey's lots mo' a-comin'. Look hyeah, Maria, don't open dat oven, Want all dese people a-pushin' an' shovin'? Res' f'om de dance? Yes, you done cotch dat odah, Mammy done cotch it, an' law ! hit nigh flo'h huh ; 'Possum is monst'ous fu' mekin' folks fin' it! Come, draw yo' cheers up, I's sho' I do' min' it. Eat up dem critters, you men folks an' wimmens, 'Possums ain' skace w'en dey's lots o' pu'simmons. ROSES AND PEARLS Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet, The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound. How lavish nature is about your feet, To scatter flowers and jewels both around. Blushing -the stream of petal beauty flows, Softly the white strings trickle down and shine. Oh ! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose. Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine. RAIN-SONGS The rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky ; The wind, that world-old harpist, sitteth by; And ever as he sings his low refrain, He plays upon the harp-strings of the A LOST DREAM Ah, I have changed, I do not know Why lonely hours affect me so. In days of yore, this were not wont, No loneliness my soul could daunt. For me too serious for my age, The weighty tome of hoary sage, Until with puzzled heart astir, One God-giv'n night, I dreamed of her. I loved no woman, hardly knew More of the sex that strong men woo Than cloistered monk within his cell ; But now the dream is lost, and hell Holds me her captive tight and fast Who prays and struggles for the past. No living maid has charmed my eyes, But now, my soul is wonder-wise. For I have dreamed of her and seen Her red-brown tresses, ruddy sheen, Have known her sweetness, lip to lip, The joy of her companionship. When days were bleak and winds were rude, She shared my smiling solitude, And all the bare hills walked with me To hearken winter's melody. And when the spring came o'er the land We fared together hand in hand Beneath the linden's leafy screen That waved above us faintly green. In summer, by the riverside, Our souls were kindred with the tide That floated onward to the sea As we swept towards Eternity. ThTbird's call and the water's drone Were all for us and us alone. The water fall that sang all night Was her companion, my delight, And e'en the squirrel, as he sped Along the branches overhead, Half kindly and half envious, Would chatter at the joy of us. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 337 'Twas but a dream, her face, her hair, The spring-time sweet, the winter bare, The summer when the woods we ranged,- 'Twas but a dream, but all is changed. Yes, all is changed and all has fled, The dream is broken, shattered, dead. And yet, sometimes, I pray to know How just a dream could hold me so. A SONG On a summer's day as I sat by a stream, A dainty maid came by, And she blessed my sight like a rosy dream, And left me there to sigh, to sigh, And left me there to sigh, to sigh. On another day as I sat by the stream, This maiden paused a while, Then I made me bold as I told my dream, She heard it with a smile, a smile, She heard it with a smile, a smile. Oh, the months have fled and the autumn's red, The maid no more goes by ; For my dream came true and the maid I wed, And now no more I sigh, I sigh, And now no more I sigh. A SONG Thou art the soul of a summer's day, Thou art the breath of the rose. But the summer is fled And the rose is dead Where are they gone, who knows, who knows ? Thou art the blood of my heart o' hearts, Thou art my soul's repose, But my heart grows numb And my soul is dumb Where art thou, love, who knows, who knows ? Thou art the hope of my after years Sun for my winter snows But the years go by 'Neath a clouded sky. Where shall we meet, who knows, who knows ? PART m The Best Stories of Paul Laurence Dunbar A FAMILY FEUD I WISH I could tell you the story as I heard it from the lips of the old black woman as she sat bobbing her tur- baned head to and fro with the motion of her creaky little rocking-chair, and droning the tale forth in the mellow voice of her race. So much of the charm of the story was in that voice, which even the cares of age had not hardened. It was a sunny afternoon in late November, one of those days that come like a backward glance from a reluctantly departing summer. I had taken advantage of the warmth and brightness to go up and sit with old Aunt Doshy on the little porch that fronted her cottage. The old woman nad been a trusted house-servant in one of the wealthiest of the old Kentucky families, and a visit to her never failed to elicit some reminiscence of the interesting past. Aunt Doshy was inordinately proud of her family, as she designated the Venables, and was never weary of detail- ing accounts of their grandeur and generosity. What if some of the harshness of reality was softened by the dis- tance through which she looked back upon them ; what 339 340 THE LIFE AND WORKS if the glamour of memory did put a halo round the heads of some people who were never meant to be canonized ? It was all plain fact to Aunt Doshy, and it was good to hear her talk. That day she began : " I reckon I hain't never tol' you 'bout ole Mas' an* young Mas' fallin' out, has I ? Hit's all over now, an' things is done change so dat I reckon eben ef ole Mas' was libin', he wouldn't keer ef I tol', an' I knows young Mas' Tho'nton wouldn't Dey ain't nuffin' to hide 'bout it nohow, 'ca'se all quality families has de same kin' o' 'spectable fusses. " Hit all happened 'long o' dem Jamiesons whut libed jinin' places to our people, an' whut ole Mas' ain't spoke to fu' nigh onto thutty years. Long while ago, when Mas' Tom Jamieson an' Mas' Jack Venable was bofe young mans, dey had a qua'l 'bout de young lady dey bofe was a-cou'tin', an' by an' by dey had a du'l an' Mas' Jamieson shot Mas' Jack in de shouldah, but Mas' Jack ma'ied de lady, so dey was eben. Mas' Jamieson ma'ied too, an' after so many years dey was bofe wid'ers, but dey ain't fu' give one another yit. When Mas' Tho'nton was big enough to run erroun', ole Mas' used to try to press on him dat a Venable mus'n' never put his foot on de Jamieson Ian' ; an' many a tongue-lashin' an' some- times wuss de han's on our place got fu' mixin' wif de Jamieson servants. But, la ! young Mas' Tho'nton was wuss'n de niggers. Evah time he got a chance he was out an' gone, over lots an' fiel's an' into de Jamieson ya'd a-playin' wif little Miss Nellie, whut was Mas' Tom's little gal. I never did see two chillun so 'tached to one an- other. Dey used to wander erroun', han' in han', lak brother an' sister, an' dey'd cry lak dey little hea'ts OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 341 'u'd brek ef either one of dey pappy s seed 'em an* pa'ted 'em. " I 'member once when de young Mastah was erbout eight year ole, he was a-settin' at de table one mo'nin' eatin' wif his pappy, when all of er sudden he pause an' say, jes' ez solerm-lak, ' When I gits big, I gwine to ma'y Nellie.' His pappy jump lak he was shot, an' tu'n right pale, den he say kin' o' slow an' gaspy-lak, * Don't evah let me hyeah you say sich a thing ergin, Tho'nton Venable. Why, boy, I'd raver let evah drap o' blood outen you, dan to see a Venable cross his blood wif a Jamieson.' " I was jes' a-bringin' in de cakes whut Mastah was pow'ful fon' of, an' I could see bofe dey faces. But, la ! honey, dat chile didn't look a bit skeered. He jes' sot dah lookin' in his pappy 's face, he was de spittin' image of him, all 'cept his eyes, dey was his mother's, den he say, * Why, Nellie's nice,' an' went on eatin' a aig. His pappy laid his napkin down an' got up an' went erway 'om de table. Mas' Tho'nton say, * Why, father didn't, eat his cakes.' * I reckon yo' pa ain't well,' says I, fu' I knowed de chile was innercent. " Well, after dat day, ole Mas' tuk extry pains to keep de chillun apa't but 'twa'n't no use. 'Tain't never no use in a case lak dat. Dey jes' would be together, an' ez de boy got older, it seemed to grieve his pappy mighty. I reckon he didn't lak to jes' fu'bid him seein' Miss Nellie fu' he know how haidstrong Mas' Tho'nton was, anyhow. So things kep' on dis way, an' de boy got handsomer evah day. My, but his pappy did set a lot o' sto' by him. Dey wasn't nuffin' dat boy eben wished fu' dat his pappy didn't gin him. Seemed lak he fa'ly wusshiped him. le 342 THE LIFE AND WORKS He'd jes' watch him ez he went erroun' de house lak he was a baby yit. So hit mus' V been putty ha'd wif Mas' Jack when hit come time to sen' Mas' Tho'nton off to college. But he never showed it. He seed him off wif a cheerful face, an' nobidy would 'a' ever guessed dat it hu't him ; but dat afternoon he shet hisse'f up an' hit was th'ee days befo' anybody 'cept me seed him, an' nobidy 'cept me knowed how his vittels come back not teched. But after de fus' letter come, he got better. I hyeahd him a-lamn' to hisse'f ez he read it, an' dat day he et his dinner. "Well, honey, dey ain't no tellin' whut Mas' Jack's plans was, an' hit ain't fu' me to try an' guess 'em ; but ef he had sont Mas' Tho'nton erway to brek him off f'om Miss Nellie, he mout ez well 'a' let him stayed at home ; fu' Jamieson's Sal whut nussed Miss Nellie tol' me dat huh mistis got a letter f'om Mas' Tho'nton evah day er so. An' when he was home fu' holidays, you never seed nufnn' lak it. Hit was jes' walkin' er ridin' er dribin' wif dat young lady evah day of his life. An' dey did look so sweet together dat it seemed a shame to pa't 'em him wif his big brown eyes an' sof curly hair an' huh all white an' gentle lak a little dove. But de ole Mas' couldn't see hit dat erway, an' I knowed dat hit was a-troublin' him mighty bad. Ez well ez he loved his son, hit allus seemed lak he was glad when de holidays was over an' de boy was back at college. " Endurin' de las' year dat de young Mastah was to be erway, his pappy seemed lak he was jes' too happy an 1 res' less fu' anything. He was dat proud of his son, he didn't know whut to do. He was allus tellin' visitors dat come to de house erbout him, how he was a 'markable OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 343 boy an' was a-gwine to be a honor to his name. An 1 when 'long to'ds de ve'y end of de term, a letter come say in' dat Mas' Tho'nton had done tuk some big honor at de college, I jes' thought sho Mas' Jack 'u'd plum bus* hisse'f, he was so proud an' tickled. I hyeahd him talkin' to his ole frien' Gunnel Mandrey an' mekin' great plans 'bout whut he gwine to do when his son come home. He gwine tek him trav'lin' fus' in Eur'p, so's to ' finish him lak a Venable ought to be finished by seein' somep'n' of de worF ' dem's his ve'y words. Den he was a-gwine to come home an' 'model de house an* fit it up, * fu' ' I never shell fu'git how he said it, ' fu' I 'spec' my son to tek a high place in de society of ole Kintucky an' to mo' dan surstain de reputation of de Venables.' Den when de las' day come an' young Mastah was home fu' sho, so fine an* clever lookin' wif his new mustache sich times ez dey was erbout dat house nobidy never seed befo'. All de frien's an' neighbors, 'scusin', o' co'se, de Jamie- sons, was invited to a big dinner dat lasted fu' hours. Dey was speeches by de gent'men, an' evahbidy drinked de graderate's health an' wished him good luck. But all de time I could see dat Mas' Tho'nton wasn't happy, dough he was smilin' an' mekin' merry wif evahbidy. It 'pressed me so dat I spoke erbout hit to Aunt Emmerline. Aunt Emmerline was Mas' Tho'nton's mammy, an' sence he'd growed up, she didn't do much but he'p erroun' de house a little. " * You don' mean to tell me dat you noticed dat too ?' says she when I toP huh erbout it. " Yes, I did/ says I, ' an' I noticed hit strong.' " ' Dey's somep'n' ain't gwine right wif my po' chile,' she say, * an' dey ain't no tellin' whut it is.' 344 THE LIFE AND WORKS " * Hain't you got no idee, Aunt Emmerline ? ' I say. " ' La ! chile/ she say in a way dat mek me think she keepin' somep'n' back, * la ! chile, don' you know young mans don' come to dey mammys wif dey secuts lak dey do when dey's babies ? How I gwine to know whut's pesterin' Mas' Tho'nton?' " Den I knowed she was hidin' somep'n', an' jes' to let huh know dat I'd been had my eyes open too, I say slow an' 'pressive lak, * Aunt Emmerline, don' you reckon hit Miss Nellie Jamieson ? ' She jumped lak she was skeered, an' looked at me right ha'd ; den she say, ' I ain' reck'nin' nuffin' 'bout de white folks' bus' ness.' An' she pinched huh mouf up right tight, an' I couldn't git another word outen huh ; but I knowed dat I'd hit huh jes' erbout right. " One mo'nin' erbout a week after de big dinner, jes' ez dey was eatin', Mas' Tho'nton say, * Father, I'd lak to see you in de liberry ez soon ez you has de time. I want to speak to you 'bout somep'n' ve'y impo'tant.' De ole man look up right quick an' sha'p, but he say ve'y quiet lak, ' Ve'y well, my son, ve'y well ; I's' at yo' service at once.' " Dey went into de liberry, an' Mas' Tho'nton shet de do' behin' him. I could hyeah dem talkin' kin' o' low while I was cl'arin' erway de dishes. After while dey 'menced to talk louder. I had to go out an' dus' de hall den near de liberry do', an' once I hyeahd ole Mas' say right sho't an' sha'p, ' Never ! ' Den young Mas' he say, ' But evah man has de right to choose fu' his own se'f.' " ' Man, man ! ' I hyeahd his pappy say in a way I had never hyeahd him use to his son befo', ' evah male bein' dat wahs men's clothes an' has a mustache ain't a man.' " ' Man er whut not,' po' young Mastah's voice was a OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 345 tremblin', ' I am at leas' my father's son an' I deserve bet- ter dan dis at his han's.' I hyeahd somebody a-walkin' de flo', an' I was feared dey'd come out an' think dat I was a-listenin', so I dus'es on furder down de hall, an' didn't hyeah no mo' ontwell Mas' Tho'nton come hurry in' out an' say, ' Ike, saddle my hoss.' He was ez pale ez he could be, an' when he spoke sho't an' rough lak dat, he was so much lak his father dat hit skeered me. Ez soon ez his hoss was ready, he jumped into de saddle an' went fly in' outen de ya'd lak mad, never eben lookin' back at de house. I didn't see Mas' Jack fu' de res' of de day, an' he didn't come in to suppah. But I seed Aunt Em- merline an' I knowed dat she had been somewhah an* knowed ez much ez I did erbout whut was gwine on, but I never broached a word erbout hit to huh. I seed she was oneasy, but I kep' still 'twell she say, ' Whut you reckon keepin' Mas' Tho'nton out so late ? ' Den I jes say, * I ain't reck'nin' 'bout de white folks' bus'ness.' She looked a little bit cut at fus', den she jes' go on laknufnn* hadn't happened : ' I's mighty 'sturbed 'bout young Mas' ; he never stays erway f'om suppah 'dout say in' somep'n'.' " ' Oh, I reckon he kin fin' suppah somewhah else. 1 I says dis don't keer lak jes' fu' to lead huh on. " * I ain't so much pestered 'bout his suppah,' she say ; ' I's feared he gwine do somep'n' he hadn't ought to do after dat qua'l 'twixt him an' his pappy.' " ' Did dey have a qua'l ? ' says I. " ' G'long ! ' Aunt Emmerline say, ' you wasn't dus'hV one place in de hall so long fu' nuffin'. You knows an' I knows eben ef we don't talk a heap. I's troubled myse'f. Hit jes' in dat Venable blood to go right straight an' git 346 THE LIFE AND WORKS Miss Nellie an' ma'y huh right erway, an' ef he do it, I p'intly know his pa '11 never fu'give him.' Den Aunt Emmerline 'mence to cry, an' I feel right sorry fu' huh, 'ca'se Mas' Tho'nton huh boy, an' she think a mighty heap o' him. " Well, we hadn't had time to say much mo' when we hyeahd a hoss gallopin' into de ya'd. Aunt Emmerline jes' say, ' Dat's Gineral's lope ! ' an' she bus' outen de do. 1 I waits, 'spectin' huh to come back an' say dat Mas' Tho'nton done come at las'. But after while she come in wif a mighty long face an' say, ' Hit's one o' Jamieson's darkies ; he brung de hoss back an' a note Mas' gin him fu' his pappy. Mas' Tho'nton done gone to Lexin'ton wif Miss Nellie an' got ma'ied.' Den she jes' brek down an' 'mence a-cryin' ergin an' a-rockin' huhse'f back an' fofe an' saying ' Oh, my po' chile, my po' boy, whut's to 'come o' you ! ' " I went up-stairs an' lef huh we bofe stayed at de big house but I didn't sleep much, 'ca'se all thoo de night I could hyeah ole Mas' a-walkin' back an' fofe ercross his flo', an' when Aunt Emmerline come up to baid, she mou'ned all night, eben in huh sleep. I tell you, honey, dem was mou'nin' times. " Nex' mo'nin' when ole Mas' come down to brekfus', he looked lak he done had a long spell o' sickness. But he wasn't no man to 'spose his feelin's. He never let on, never eben spoke erbout Mas' Tho'nton bein' erway f'om de table. He didn't eat much, an' fin'ly I see him look right long an' stiddy at de place whah Mas' Tho'nton used to set an' den git up an' go 'way f'om de table. I knowed dat he was done filled up. I went to de liberry do' an' I could hyeah him sobbin' lak a chile. I tol' OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 347 Aunt Emmerline 'bout it, but she jes' shuck huh haid an 1 didn't say nuffin' a' -tall. " Well, hit went dis erway fu' 'bout a week. Mas' Jack was gittin' paler an' paler evah day, an' hit jes' 'menced to come to my min' how ole he was. One day Aunt Emmerline say she gwine erway, an' she mek Jim hitch up de spring wagon an' she dribe on erway by huhse'f. Co'se, now, Aunt Emmerline she do putty much ez she please, so I don't think nuffin' 'bout hit. When she come back, 'long to'ds ebenin', I say, ' Aunt Emmer- line, whah you been all day ? ' ""' Nemmine, honey, you see,' she say, an' laff. Well, I ain't seed nobidy laff fu' so long dat hit jes' mek me feel right wa'm erroun' my hea't, an' I laff an' keep on lamn* jes' at nuffin'. "Nex' mo'nin' Aunt Emmerline mighty oneasy, an' I don'* know whut de matter ontwell I hyeah some un say, ' Tek dat hoss, Ike, an' feed him, but keep de saddle on. 1 Aunt Emmerline jes' fa'ly fall out de do' an' I lak to drap, 'ca'se hit's Mas' Tho'nton's voice. In a minute he come to me an' say, ' Doshy, go tell my father I'd lak to speak to him. 1 "I don' skeercely know how I foun' my way to de liberry, but I did. Ole Mas' was a-settin' dah wif a open book in his han', but his eyes was jes' a-starin' at de wall, an' I knowed he wasn't a-readin'. I say, 'Mas' Jack/ an' he sta't jes' lak he rousin' up, ' Mas' Jack, Mas' Tho'nton want to speak to you.' He jump up quick, an' de book fall on de flo', but he grab a cheer an' stiddy hisse'f. I done toP you Mas' Jack wasn't no man to 'spose his feelin's. He jes' say, slow lak he hol'in' hisse'f, 'Sen' him in hyeah.' I goes back an' 'livers de message, den I 348 THE LIFE AND WORKS flies roun' to de po'ch whah de liberry winder opens out, 'ca'se, I ain't gwine lie erbout it, I was mighty tuk up wif all dis gwine on an' I wanted to see an' hyeah, an' who you reckon 'roun' dah but Aunt Emmerline ! She jes' say, ' S-sh ! ' ez I come 'roun', an' clas' huh han's. In a minute er so, de liberry do' open an' Mas' Tho'nton come in. He shet hit behin' him, an' den stood lookin' at his pa, dat ain't never tu'ned erroun' yit. Den he say sof, * Father.' Mas' Jack tu'ned erroun' raal slow an' look at his son fu' a while. Den he say, * Do you still honor me wif dat name ? ' Mas' Tho'nton got red in de face, but he answer, ' I don' know no other name to call you.' " ' Will you set down ? ' Mas' speak jes' lak he was a-talkin' to a stranger. " * Ef you desiah me to.' I see Mas' Tho'nton was a-bridlin' up too. Mas' jes' th'owed back his haid an* say, ' Fa' be it f om any Venable to fu'git cou'tesy to his guesY Young Mas' moved erway f'om de cheer whah he was a- gwine to set, an' his haid went up. He spoke up slow an' delibut, jes' lak his pa, ' I do not come, suh, in dat cha'acter, I is hyeah ez yo' son.' " Well, ole Mas' eyes fa'ly snapped fiah. He was white ez a sheet, but he still spoke slow an' quiet, hit made me creep, * You air late in 'memberin' yo' relation- ship, suh.' " * I hab never fu'got it.' " ' Den, suh, you have thought mo' of yo' rights dan of yo' duties.' Mas' Jack was mad an' so was Mas' Tho'nton ; he say, ' I didn't come hyeah to 'scuss dat.' An' he tu'ned to'ds de do'. I hyeah Aunt Emmerline groan jes' ez Mas' say, 'Well, whut did you come fu' ?' " ' To be insulted in my father's house by my father, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 349 an' I's got all dat I come fu' 1 ' Mas' Tho'nton was ez white ez his pa now, an' his han' was on de do'-knob. Den all of a sudden I hyeah de winder go up, an' I lak to fall over gittin' outen de way to keep f'om bein' seed. Aunt Emmerline done opened de winder an' gone in. Dey bofe tu'ned an' looked at huh s' prised lak, an' Mas' Jack sta'ted to say somep'n', but she th'owed up huh han' an' say, ' Wait 1 ' lak she owned de house. * Mas 1 Jack,' she say, * you an' Mas' Tho'nton ain't gwine pa't dis way. You mus'n't. You's father an' son. You loves one another. I knows I ain't got no bus'ness meddlin' in yo' 'fairs, but I cain't see you all qua'l dis way. Mastah, you's bofe stiffnecked. You's bofe wrong. I know Mas' Tho'nton didn't min' you, but he didn't mean no ha'm he couldn't he'p it it was in de Venable blood, an' you mus'n't 'spise him fu' it' " ' Emmerline ' ole Mas' tried to git in a word, but she wouldn't let him. " * Yes, Mastah, yes, but I nussed dat boy an' tuk keer o' him when he was a little bit of a he'pless thing; an' when his po' mammy went to glory, I 'member how she look up at me wif dem blessed eyes o' hern an' lay him in my arms an' say, "Emmerline, tek keer o' my baby." I's done it, Mastah, I's done it de bes' I could. I's nussed him thoo sickness when hit seemed lak his little soul mus' foller his mother anyhow, but I's seen de look in yo' eyes, an' prayed to God to gin de chile back to you. He done it, he done it, an' you sha'n't th'ow erway de gif of God ! ' Aunt Emmerline was a-cryin' an' so was Mas' Tho'nton. Ole Mas' mighty red, but he clared his th'oat an' said wif his voice tremblin', * Emmerline, leave de room.' De ole ooman come out a-cryin' lak 350 THE LIFE AND WORKS huh hea't 'u'd brek, an' jes' ez de do' shet behin' huh, ole Mas' brek down an' hoF out his arms, cryin', ' My son, my son. 1 An' in a minute he an' Mas' Tho'nton was a-hoFin' one another lak dey'd never let go, an' his pa was a-pattin' de boy's haid lak he was a baby. All of a sudden ole Mas' heF him off an' looked at him an' say, 1 Dat ole fool talkin' to me erbout yo 1 mother's eyes, an' you stannin' hyeah a-lookin' at me wif 'em.' An' den he was a-cryin' ergin, an' dey was bofe huggin'. " Well, after while dey got all settled down, an' Mas' Tho'nton tol' his pa how Aunt Emmerline drib to Lexin'- ton an' foun' him an' made him come home. * I was wrong, father,' he say, * but I reckon ef it hadn't 'a' been fu' Aunt Emmerline, I would 'a' stuck it out.' " ' It was in de Venable blood,' his pa say, an' dey bofe laff. Den ole Mas' say, kin' o' lak it hu't him, 'An' whah's yo' wife ? ' Young Mas' got mighty red ergin ez he answer, * She ain't fu' erway.' " ' Go bring huh,' Mas' Jack say. " Well, I reckon Mas' Tho'nton lak to flew, an' he had Miss Nellie dah in little er no time. When dey come, Mas' he say, * Come hyeah, 1 den he pause awhile ' my daughter/ Den Miss Nellie run to him, an' dey was an- other cryin' time, an' I went on to my work an' lef 'em talkin' an' laffin' an' cryin'. " Well, Aunt Emmerline was skeered to def. She jes' p'intly knowed dat she was gwine to git a tongue-lashin'. I don' know whether she was mos' skeered er mos' happy. Mas' sont fu' huh after while, an' I listened when she went in. He was tryin' to talk an' look pow'ful stern, but I seed a twinkle in his eye. He say, 1 1 want you to know, Emmerline, dat hit ain't yo' place to dictate to yo' OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 351 mastah whut he shell do Shet up, shet up ! I don' want a word outen you. You been on dis place so long, an' been bossin' de other darkies an' yo' Mas' Tho'nton erroun' so long, dat I 'low you think you own de place. Shet up, not a word outen you ! Ef you an' yo' young Mas' 's a-gwine to run dis place, I reckon I'd better step out. Humph 1 You was so sma't to go to Lexin'ton de other day, you kin go back dah ergin. You seem to think you's white, an' hyeah's de money to buy a new dress fu' de ole fool darky dat nussed yo' son an' made you fu'give his foo'ishness when you wanted to be a fool yo'se'f.' His voice was sof ergin, an' he put de money in Aunt Emmerline's han' an' pushed huh out de do', huh a-cryin' an' him put' nigh it. " After dis, Mas' Jack was jes' bent an' boun' dat de young people mus' go on a weddin' trip. So dey got ready, an' Miss Nellie went an' toF huh pa goo' -bye. Min' you, dey hadn't been nuffin' said 'bout him an' Mas' not bein' frien's. He done fu'give Miss Nellie right erway fu' runnin' off. But de mo'nin' dey went erway, we all was out in de ya'd, an' Aunt Emmerline settin' on de seat wif Jim, lookin' ez proud ez you please. Mastah was ez happy ez a boy. ' Emmerline,' he hollahs ez dey drib off, 'tek good keer o' dat Venable blood.' De ca'iage stopped ez it went out de gate, an' Mas' Tom Jamieson kissed his daughter. He had rid up de road to see de las' of huh. Mastah seed him, an' all of a sudden somep'n' seemed to tek holt o' him an' he hollahed, 4 Come in, Tom.' " ' Don' keer ef I do,' Mas' Jamieson say, a-tu'nin' his hoss in de gate. * You Venables has got de res' o' my fambly.' We all was mos' s' prised to def. 352 THE LIFE AND WORKS " Mas* Jamieson jumped off en his hoss, an' Mas' Venable come down de steps to meet him. Dey shuk han's, an' Mas' Jack say, ' Dey ain't no fool lak a ole fool.' " ' An' fu' unekaled foo'ishness,' Mas' Tom say, * recker- men' me to two ole fools.' Dey went into de house a-laffin', an* I knowed hit was all right 'twixt 'em, fu' putty soon I seed Ike out in de ya'd a-getherin' mint" OLD AUNT DOSHY MANDY MASON JIMSELLA No one could ever have accused Mandy Mason of be- ing thrifty. For the first twenty years of her life condi- tions had not taught her the necessity for thrift. But that was before she had come North with Jim. Down there at home one either rented or owned a plot of ground with a shanty set in the middle of it, and lived off the products of one's own garden and coop. But here it was all very different : one room in a crowded tenement house, and the necessity of grinding day after day to keep the wolf a very terrible and ravenous wolf from the door. No wonder that Mandy was discouraged and finally gave up to more than her old shiftless ways. Jim was no less disheartened. He had been so hopeful when he first came, and had really worked hard. But he could not go higher than his one stuffy room, and the* food was not so good as it had been at home. In this state of mind, Mandy's shiftlessness irritated him. He grew to look on her as the source of all his disappoint- ments. Then, as he walked Sixth or Seventh Avenue, he saw other colored women who dressed gayer than Mandy, looked smarter, and did not wear such great shoes. These he contrasted with his wife, to her great disadvantage. " Mandy," he said to her one day, " why don't you fix yo'se'f up an' look like people? You go 'roun' hyeah lookin' like I dunno what" 355 356 THE LIFE AND WORKS " Whyn't you git me somep'n' to fix myse'f up in ? " came back the disconcerting answer. " Ef you had any git up erbout you, you'd git somep'n' fu' yo'se'f an' not wait on me to do evahthing." " Well, ef I waits on you, you keeps me waitin', fu' I ain' had nothin' fit to eat ner waih since I been up hyeah." " Nev' min' ! You's mighty free wid yo' talk now, but some o' dese days you won't be so free. You's gwine to wake up some mo'nin' an' fin' dat I's lit out ; dat's what you will." " Well, I 'low nobody ain't got no string to you." Mandy took Jim's threat as an idle one, so she could afford to be independent. But the next day had found him gone. The deserted wife wept for a time, for she had been fond of Jim, and then she set to work to struggle on by herself. It was a dismal effort, and the people about her were not kind to her. She was hardly of their class. She was only a simple, honest countrywoman, who did not go out with them to walk the avenue. When a month or two afterwards the sheepish Jim returned, ragged and dirty, she had forgiven him and taken him back. But immunity from punishment spoiled him, and hence of late his lapses had grown more frequent and of longer duration. He walked in one morning, after one of his absences, with a more than usually forbidding face, for he had heard the news in the neighborhood before he got in. During his absence a baby had come to share the poverty of his home. He thought with shame at himself, which turned into anger, that the child must be three months old and he had never seen it. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 357 " Back ag'in, Jim?" was all Mandy said as he entered and seated himself sullenly. " Yes, Fs back, but I ain't back fu' long. I jes' come to git my clothes. Fs a-gwine away fu' good." " Gwine away ag'in 1 Why, you been gone fu' nigh on to fou' months a'ready. Ain't you nevah gwine to stay home no mo' ? " " I toF you I was gwine away fu' good, didn't I ? Well, dat's what I mean." " Ef you didn't want me, Jim, I wish to Gawd dat you'd 'a' lef me back home among my folks, whaih people knowed me an' would 'a' give me a helphV han'. Dis hyeah No'f ain't no fittin' place fu' a lone colo'ed ooman less'n she got money." " It ain' t no place fu' nobody dat's jes' lazy an' no 'count." " I ain't no 'count. I ain't wuffless. I does de bes' I kin. I been wo' kin' like a dog to try an' keep up while you trapsein' 'roun', de Lawd knows whaih. When I was single I could git out an' mek my own livin'. I didn't ax nobody no odds ; but you wa'n't satisfied ontwell I ma'ied you, an' now, when Fs tied down wid a baby, dat's de way you treats me." The woman sat down and began to cry, and the sight of her tears angered her husband the more. " Oh, cry ! " he exclaimed. " Cry all you want to. I reckon you'll cry yo' fill befo' you gits me back. What do I keer about de baby ! Dat's jes 1 de trouble. It wa'n't enough fu' me to have to feed an' clothe you a-layin' 'roun' doin' nothin', a baby had to go an' come too." " It's yo'n, an' you got a right to tek keer of it, dat's 358 THE LIFE AND WORKS what you have. I ain't a-gwine to waih my soul-case out a-tryin' to pinch along an' sta've to def at las'. I'll kill myse'f an' de chile, too, fus'." The man looked up quickly. " Kill yo'se'f," he said. Then he laughed. " Who evah hyeahed tell of a niggah killin' hisse'f ?" " Nev' min', nev' min', you jes' go on yo' way rejoicin'. I 'spect you runnin' roun' aftah somebody else dat's de reason you cain't nevah stay at home no mo'." "Who toP you dat?" exclaimed the man, fiercely. " I ain't runnin' aftah nobody else 'tain't none o' yo' busi- ness ef I is." The denial and implied confession all came out in one breath. " Ef hit ain't my bus'ness, I'd like to know whose it gwine to be. I's yo' lawful wife an' hit's me dat's a-sta'vin' to tek keer of yo' chile." " Doggone de chile ; I's tiahed o' hyeahin' 'bout huh." " You done got tiahed mighty quick when you ain't nevah even seed huh yit. You done got tiahed quick, sho." " No, an' I do 1 want to see huh, neithah." "You do' know nothin* 'bout de chile, you do' know whethah you wants to see huh er not." " Look hyeah, ooman, don't you fool wid me. I ain't right, nohow ! " Just then, as if conscious of the hubbub she had raised, and anxious to add to it, the baby awoke and began to wail. With quick mother instinct, the black woman went to the shabby bed, and, taking the child in her arms, be- gan to croon softly to it : "Go s'eepy, baby ; don' you be 'f'aid ; mammy ain' gwine let nurfin' hu't you, even ef OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 359 pappy don' wan' look at huh li'l face. Bye, bye, go s'eepy, mammy's li'l gal." Unconsciously she talked to the baby in a dialect that was even softer than usual. For a moment the child subsided, and the woman turned angrily on her husband : " I don' keer whethah you evah sees dis chile er not. She's a blessed li'l angel, dat's what she is, an' I'll wo'k my fingahs off to raise huh, an' when she grows up, ef any nasty niggah comes erroun' mekin' eyes at huh, I'll tell huh 'bout huh pappy an' she'll stay wid me an' be my comfo't." 11 Keep yo' comfo't. Gawd knows I do' want huh." " De time '11 come, though, an' I kin wait fu' it. Hush- a-bye, Jimsella." The man turned his head slightly. " What you call huh ? " " I calls huh Jimsella, dat's what I calls huh, 'ca'se she de ve'y spittin' image of you. I gwirie to jes' lun to huh dat she had a pappy, so she know she's a hones' chile an* kin' hoi' up huh haid." "Oomph!" They were both silent for a while, and then Jim said, " Huh name ought to be Jamsella don't you know Jim's sho't fu' James?" " I don't keer what it's sho't fu'." The woman was holding the baby close to her breast and sobbing now. " It wasn't no James dat come a-cou'tin' me down home. It was jes' plain Jim. Dat's what de mattah, I reckon you done got to be James." Jim didn't answer, and there was another space of silence, only interrupted by two or three contented gurgles from the baby. " I bet two bits she don't look like me," he said finally, in a dogged tone that was a little tinged with curiosity. 20 360 THE LIFE AND WORKS " I know she do. Look at huh yo'se'f." " I ain' gwine look at huh." " Yes, you's 'fraid dat's de reason." " I ain' 'fraid nuttin' de kin'. What I got to be 'fraia fu' ? I reckon a man kin look at his own darter. I will look jes'.to spite you." He couldn't see much but a bundle of rags, from which sparkled a pair of beady black eyes. But he put his finger down among the rags. The baby seized it and gurgled. The sweat broke out on Jim's brow. " Cain't you let me hold de baby a minute?" he said angrily* " You must be 'fraid I'll run off wid huh." He took the child awkwardly in his arms. The boiling over of Mandy's clothes took her to the other part of the room, where she was busy for a few minutes. When she turned to look for Jim, he had slipped out, and Jimsella was lying on the bed trying to kick free of the coils which swaddled her. At supper-time that evening Jim came in with a piece of " shoulder-meat " and a head of cabbage. " You'll have to git my dinnah ready fu' me to ca'y to- morrer. I's wo'khV on de street, an' I cain't come home twell night." " Wha', what ! " exclaimed Mandy, " den you ain' gwine leave, aftah all." " Don't bothah me, ooman," said Jim. " Is Jimsella 'sleep ?" THE WALLS OF JERICHO PARKER was sitting alone under the shade of a locust tree at the edge of a field His head was bent and he was deep in thought. Every now and then there floated to him the sound of vociferous singing, and occasionally above the music rose the cry of some shouting brother or sister. But he remained in his attitude of meditation as if the singing and the cries meant nothing to him. They did, however, mean much, and, despite his out- ward impassiveness, his heart was in a tumult of wounded pride and resentment. He had always been so faithful to his flock, constant in attendance and careful of their wel- fare. Now it was very hard, at the first call of the stranger to have them leave their old pastor and crowd to the new exhorter. It was nearly a week before that a free negro had got permission to hold meetings in the wood adjoining the Mordaunt estate. He had invited the negroes of the sur- rounding plantations to come and bring their baskets with them that they might serve the body while they saved the soul. By ones and twos Parker had seen his congregation drop away from him until now, in the cabin meeting house where he held forth, only a few retainers, such as Mandy and Dinah and some of the older ones on the plantation, were present to hear him. It grieved his heart, for he had been with his flock in sickness and in distress, in sorrow and in trouble, but now, at the first ap- proach of the rival they could and did desert him, He 361 362 THE LIFE AND WORKS felt it the more keenly because he knew just how power- ful this man Johnson was. He was loud-voiced and theatrical, and the fact that he invited all to bring their baskets gave his scheme added influence ; for his congre- gations flocked to the meetings as to a holy picnic. It was seldom that they were thus able to satisfy both the spiritual and material longings at the same time. Parker had gone once to the meeting and had hung unobserved -on the edge of the crowd ; then he saw by what power the preacher held the people. Every night, at the very height of the service, he would command the baskets to be opened and the people, following the ex- ample of the children of Israel, to march, munching their food, round and round the inclosure, as their Biblical archetypes had marched around the walls of Jericho. Parker looked on and smiled grimly. He knew, and the sensational revivalist knew, that there were no walls there to tumble down, and that the spiritual significance of the performance was entirely lost upon the people. What- ever may be said of the Mordaunt plantation exhorter, he was at least no hypocrite, and he saw clearly that his rival gave to the emotional negroes a breathing chance and opportunity to eat and a way to indulge their dancing pro- clivities by marching trippingly to a spirited tune. He went away in disgust and anger, but thoughts deeper than either burned within him. He was thinking some such thoughts now as he sat there on the edge of the field listening to the noise of the basket meeting. It was unfortunate for his peace of mind that while he sat there absorbed in resentful musings two of the young men of his master's household should come along. They did not know how Parker felt about the matter, or they never OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 363 would have allowed themselves to tease him on the score of his people's defection. " Well, Parker," said Ralph, " seems mighty strange to me that you are not down there in the woods at the meet- ing." The old man was silent. " I am rather surprised at Parker myself," said Tom Mordaunt; "knowing how he enjoys a good sermon I expected him to be over there. They do say that man Johnson is a mighty preacher." Still Parker was silent. " Most of your congregation are over there," Ralph re- sumed. Then the old exhorter, stung into reply, raised his head and said quietly : " Dat ain't nuffin' strange, Mas' Ralph. I been preachin' de gospel on yo' father's plantation, night aftah night, nigh on to twenty-five years, an' spite o' dat, mos' o' my congregation is in hell." " That doesn't speak very well for your preaching," said Ralph, and the two young fellows laughed heartily. " Come, Parker, come, don't be jealous ; come on over to the meeting with us, and let us see what it is that Johnson has that you haven't. You know any man can get a congregation about him, but it takes some particular power to hold them after they are caught." Parker rose slowly from the ground and reluctantly joined his two young masters as they made their way towards the woods. The service was in full swing. At a long black log, far to the front, there knelt a line of mourners wailing and praying, while the preacher stood above them waving his hands and calling on them to be- lieve and be saved. Everv now and then some one vol- 364 THE LIFE AND WORKS untarily broke into a song, either a stirring, marching spiritual or some soft crooning melody that took strange hold upon the hearts of even the most skeptical listeners. As they approached and joined the crowd some one had just swung into the undulating lilt of 1 'Some one buried in de graveyard, Some one buried in de sea, All come togethah in de mo'nin', Go soun' de Jubilee." Just the word " Jubilee " was enough to start the whole throng into agitated life, and they moaned and shouted and wailed until the forest became a pandemonium. Johnson, the preacher, saw Parker approach with the two young men and a sudden spirit of conquest took pos- session of him. He felt that he owed it to himself to crystallize his triumph over the elder exhorter. So, with a glance that begged for approbation, he called aloud : "Open de baskets ! Rise up, fu' de Jericho walls o' sin is a-stan'in'. You 'member dey ma'ched roun' seven times, an' at de sevent' time de walls a-begun to shake an' shiver ; de foundations a-begun to trimble ; de chillen a-hyeahed de rum'lin' lak a thundah F om on high, an' putty soon down come de walls a-fallin' an' a-crum lin' ! Oh, brothahs an' sistahs, let us a-ma'ch erroun' de walls o 5 Jericho to-night seven times, an' a-eatin' o' de food dat de Lawd has pervided us wid. Dey ain't no walls o' brick an' stone a-stan'in' hyeah to-night, but by de eye o' Christian faif I see a great big wall o' sin a-stan'in' strong an' thick hyeah in ouah midst. Is we gwine to let it stan'?" " Oh, no, no 1 " moaned the people. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 365 " Is we gwine to ma'ch erroun' dat wall de same ez Joshuay an' his ban' did in de days of oF, ontwell we hyeah de cracklin' an' de rum'lin', de breakin' an' de taihin', de onsettlin' of de foundations an' de fallin' of de stones an' mo'tah?" Then raising his voice he broke into the song : " Den we'll ma'ch, ma'ch down, ma'ch, ma'ch down, Oh, chillen, ma'ch down, In de day o' Jubilee." The congregation joined him in the ringing chorus, and springing to their feet began marching around and around the inclosure, chewing vigorously in the breathing spaces of the hymn. The two young men, who were too used to such sights to be provoked to laughter, nudged each other and bent their looks upon Parker, who stood with bowed head, re- fusing to join in the performance, and sighed audibly. After the march Tom and Ralph started for home, and Parker went with them. "He's very effective, don't you think so, Tom?" said Ralph. " Immensely so," was the reply. " I don't know that I have ever seen such a moving spectacle." " The people seem greatly taken up with him." "Personal magnetism, that's what it is. Don't you think so, Parker?" " Hum," said Parker. " It's a wonderful idea of his, that marching around the walls of sin." " So original, too. It's a wonder you never thought of a thing like that, Parker. I believe it would have held 366 THE LIFE AND WORKS your people to you in the face of everything. They do love to eat and march." "Well," said Parker, "you all may think what you please, but I ain't nevah made no business of mekin' a play show outen de Bible. Dem folks don't know what dey're doin'. Why, ef dem niggahs hyeahed anything commence to fall they'd taih dat place up gittin r erway f'om daih. It's a wondah de Lawd don' sen' a jedgmen' on 'em fu' tu'nin' his wo'd into mockery." The two young men bit their lips and a knowing glance flashed between them. The same idea had leaped into both of their minds at once. They said no word to Parker, however, save at parting, and then they only begged that he would go again the next night of the meeting. " YQU must, Parker," said Ralph. " You must repre- sent the spiritual interest of the plantation. If you don't, that man Johnson will think we are heathen or that our exhorter is afraid of him." At the name of fear the old preacher bridled and said with angry dignity: " Nemmine, nemmine ; he shan't nevah think dat. I'll be daih." Parker went alone to his cabin, sore at heart ; the young men, a little regretful that they had stung him a bit too far, went up to the big house, their heads close together, and in the darkness and stillness there came to them the hymns of the people. On the next night Parker went early to the meeting- place and, braced by the spirit of his defiance, took a conspicuous front seat. His face gave no sign, though his heart throbbed angrily as he saw the best and most OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 367 trusted of his flock come in with intent faces and seat themselves anxiously to await the advent of an alien. Why had those rascally boys compelled him for his own dignity's sake to come there ? Why had they forced him to be a living witness of his own degradation and of his own people's ingratitude ? But Parker was a diplomat, and when the hymns began he joined his voice with the voices of the rest. Something, though, tugged at Parker's breast, a vague hoped-for something ; he knew not what the promise of relief from the tension of his jealousy, the harbinger of revenge. It was in the air. Everything was tense as if awaiting the moment of catastrophe. He found himself joyous, and when Johnson arose on the wings of his elo- quence it was Parker's loud " Amen " which set fire to all the throng. Then, when the meeting was going well, when the spiritual fire had been thoroughly kindled and had gone from crackling to roaring; when the hymns were loudest and the hand-clapping strongest, the reviv- alist called upon them to rise and march around the walls of Jericho. Parker rose with the rest, and, though he had no basket, he levied on the store of a solicitous sister and marched with them, singing, singing, but waiting, wait- ing for he knew not what. It was the fifth time around and yet nothing had hap- pened. Then the sixth, and a rumbling sound was heard near at hand. A tree crashed down on one side. White eyes were rolled in the direction of the noise and the bur- den of the hymn was left to the few faithful. Half way around and the bellow of a horn broke upon the startled people's ears, and the hymn sank lower and lower. The preacher's face was ashen, but he attempted to inspire the 368 THE LIFE AND WORKS people, until on the seventh turn such a rumbling and such a clattering, such a tumbling of rocks, such a falling of trees as was never heard before gave horror to the night. The people paused for one moment and then the remains of the bread and meat were cast to the winds, baskets were thrown away, and the congregation, thor- oughly maddened with fear, made one rush for the road and the quarters. Ahead of them all, his long coat-tails flying and his legs making not steps but leaps, was the Rev. Mr. Johnson. He had no word of courage or hope to offer the frightened flock behind him. Only Parker, with some perception of the situation, stood his ground. He had leaped upon a log and was crying aloud : " Stan' still, stan' still, I say, an' see de salvation," but he got only frightened, backward glances as the place was cleared. When they were all gone, he got down off the log and went to where several of the trees had fallen. He saw that they had been cut nearly through during the day on the side away from the clearing, and ropes were still along the upper parts of their trunks. Then he chuckled softly to himself. As he stood there in the dim light of the fat- pine torches that were burning themselves out, two stealthy figures made their way out of the surrounding gloom into the open space. Tom and Ralph were hold- ing their sides, and Parker, with a hand on the shoulder of each of the boys, laughed unrighteously. " Well, he hyeahed de rum'lin' an 1 crum'linY' he said, and Ralph gasped. "You're the only one who stood your ground, Parker," said Tom. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 369 " How erbout de walls o' Jericho now ?" was all Parker could say as he doubled up. When the people came back to their senses they began to realize that the Rev. Mr. Johnson had not the qualities of a leader. Then they recalled how Parker had stood still in spite of the noise and called them to wait and see the salvation, and so, with a rush of emotional feeling, they went back to their old allegiance. Parker's meeting- house again was filled, and for lack of worshipers Mr. Johnson held no more meetings and marched no more around the walls of Jericho. "STAN' STILL, STAN' STILL, AN' SEE DE SALVATION" His EYES WERE BRIGHT, AND HE WAS BREATHING QUICKLY HOW BROTHER PARKER FELL FROM GRACE IT all happened so long ago that it has almost been forgotten upon the plantation, and few save the older heads know anything about it save from hearsay. It was in Parker's younger days, but the tale was told on him for a long time, until he was so old that every little dis- paragement cut him like a knife. Then the young scape- graces who had the story only from their mothers' lips spared his dotage. Even to young eyes, the respect which hedges about the form of eighty obscures many of the imperfections that are apparent at twenty-eight, and Parker was nearing eighty. The truth of it is that Parker, armed with the authority which his master thought the due of the plantation ex- horter, was wont to use his power with rather too free a rein. He was so earnest for the spiritual welfare of his fellow servants that his watchful ministrations became a nuisance and a bore. Even Aunt Doshy, who was famous for her devotion to all that pertained to the church, had been heard to state that " Brothah Pahkah was a moughty powahful 'zortah, but he sholy was monst'ous biggity." This from a mem- ber of his flock old enough to be his mother, quite summed up the plantation's estimate of this black disciple. There was many a time when it would have gone hard with Brother Parker among the young bucks on the Mordaunt plantation but that there was scarcely one of them but could remember a time when Parker had come 373 374 THE LIFE AND WORKS to his cabin to console some sick one, help a seeker, comfort the dying or close the eyes of one already dead, and it clothed him about with a sacredness, which, however much inclined, they dared not invade. " Ain't it enough," Mandy's Jim used to say, " fu' Brothah Pahkah to 'tend to his business down at meetin' widout spookin' 'roun' all de cabins an' outhouses ? Seems to me dey's enough dev'ment gwine on right undah his nose widout him gwine 'roun' tryin' to smell out what's hid." Every secret sinner on the place agreed with this dictum, and it came to the preacher's ears. He smiled broadly. " Uh, huh," he remarked, " hit's de stuck pig dat squeals. I reckon Jim's up to somep'n' right now, an' I lay I'll fin' out what dat somep'n' is," Parker was a subtle philosopher and Jim had by his remark unwittingly disclosed his interest in the preacher's doings. It then behooved his zealous disciple to find out the source of this unusual interest and opposition. On the Sunday following his sermon was strong, fiery and convincing. His congregation gave themselves up to the joy of the occasion and lost all consciousness of time or place in their emotional ecstasy. But, although he continued to move them with his eloquence, not for one moment did Parker lose possession of himself. His eyes roamed over the people before him and took in the absence of several who had most loudly and heartily agreed with Jim's dictum. Jim himself was not there. " Uh, huh," said the minister to himself even in the midst of his exhortations. "Uh, huh, erway on some dev'ment, I be bounV 1 He could hardly wait to hurry through his sermon. Then he seized his hat and almost OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 375 ran away from the little table that did duty as a pulpit desk. He brushed aside with scant ceremony those who would have asked him to their cabins to share some special delicacy, and made his way swiftly to the door. There he paused and cast a wondering glance about the plantation. " I des wondah whaih dem scoun'els is mos' lakly to be." Then his eye fell upon an old half-ruined smoke- house that stood between the kitchen and the negro quarters, and he murmured to himself, " Lak ez not, lak ez not." But he did not start directly for the object of his suspicions. Oh, no, he was too deep a diplomat for that. He knew that if there were wrong-doers in that innocent-looking ruin they would be watching in his direction about the time when they expected meeting to be out ; so he walked off swiftly, but carelessly, in an op- posite direction, and, instead of going straight past the kitchen, began to circle around from the direction of the quarters, whence no danger would be apprehended. As he drew nearer and nearer the place, he thought he heard the rise and fall of eager voices. He approached more cautiously. Now he was perfectly sure that he could hear smothered conversation, and he smiled grimly as he pictured to himself the surprise of his quarry when he should come up with them. He was almost upon the smoke-house now. Those within were so absorbed that the preacher was able to creep up and peer through a crack at the scene within. There, seated upon the earthen floor, were the un- regenerate of the plantation. In the very midst of them was Mandy's Jim, and he was dealing from a pack of greasy cards. 376 THE LIFE AND WORKS It is a wonder that they did not hear the preacher's gasp of horror as he stood there gazing upon the iniquitous performance. But they did not. The delight of High-Low-Jack was too absorbing for that, and they suspected nothing of Parker's presence until he slipped around to the door, pushed it open and confronted them like an accusing angel. Jim leaped to his feet with a strong word upon his lips. " I reckon you done fu'got, Brothah Jim, what day dis is," said the preacher. u I ain't fu'got nuffin'," was the dogged reply ; " I don't see what you doin' roun' hyeah nohow." " I's a lookin' aftah some strayin' lambs," said Parker, "an' I done foun' 'em. You ought to be ashamed o' yo'se'ves, evah one o' you, playin' cyards on de Lawd's day." There was the light of reckless deviltry in Jim's eyes. " Dey ain't no ha'm in a little game o' cyards." " Co'se not, co'se not," replied the preacher scornfully. " Dem's des de sins that's ca'ied many a man to hell wid his eyes wide open, de little no-ha'm kin'." "I don't reckon you evah played cyards," said Jim sneeringly. "Yes, I has played, an' I thought I was enjoyin' myse'f ontwell I foun' out dat it was all wickedness an' idleness." " Oh, I don't reckon you was evah ve'y much of a player. I know lots o' men who has got uligion des case dey couldn't win at cyards." The company greeted this sally with a laugh and then looked aghast at Jim's audacity. " Uligion's a moughty savin' to de pocket," Jim went OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 377 on. " We kin believe what we wants to, and I say you nevah was no playah, an' dat's de reason you tuk up de Gospel/ 1 " Hit ain't so. I 'low dey was a time when I could 'a' outplayed any one o' you sinnahs hyeah, but " " Prove it ! " The challenge shot forth like a pistol's report. Parker hesitated. " What you mean ? " he said. " Beat me, beat all of us, an' we'll believe you didn't quit play in' case you allus lost You a preachah now, an* I daih you." Parker's face turned ashen and his hands gripped to- gether. He was young then, and the hot .blood sped tumultuously through his veins. " Prove it," said Jim ; " you cain't. We'd play you outen yo' coat an' back into de pulpit ag'in." " You would, would you ? " The light of battle was in Parker's eyes, the desire for conquest throbbing in^ his heart. " Look a'hyeah, Jim, Sunday er no Sunday, preachah er no preachah, I play you th'ee games fu' de Gospel's sake." And the preacher sat down in the circle, his face tense with anger at his tormentor's insinuations. He did not see the others around him. He saw only Jim, the man who had spoken against his cloth. He did not see the look of awe and surprise upon the faces of the others, nor did he note that one of the assembly slipped out of the shed just as the game began. Jim found the preacher no mean antagonist, but it mat- tered little to him whether he won or not. His triumph was complete when he succeeded in getting this man, who kept the conscience of the plantation, to sin as others sinned. 21 378 THE LIFE AND WORKS " I see you ain't fu'got yo' cunnin'," he remarked as the preacher dealt in turn. " 'Tain't no time to talk now," said Parker fiercely. The excitement of the onlookers grew more and more intense. They were six and six, and it was the preacher's deal. His eyes were bright, and he was breathing quickly. Parker was a born fighter and nothing gave him more joy than the heat of the battle itself. He riffled the cards. Jim cut. He dealt and turned Jack. Jim laughed. " You know the trick," he said. " Dat's one game," said Parker, and bent over the cards as they came to him. He did not hear a light step out- side nor did he see a shadow that fell across the open doorway. He was just about to lead when a cold voice, full of contempt, broke upon his ear and made him keep the card he would have played poised in his hand. " And so these are your after-meeting diversions, are they, Parker ? " said his master's voice. Stuart Mordaunt was standing in the door, his face cold and stern, while his informant grinned maliciously. Parker brushed his hand across his brow as if dazed. " Well, Mas' Stua't, he do play monst'ous well fu' a preachah," said his tempter. The preacher at these words looked steadily at Jim, and then the realization of his position burst upon him. The tiger in him came uppermost and, with flaming eyes, he took a quick step towards Jim. " Stop," said Mordaunt, coming between them ; " don't add anything more to what you have^ already done." " Mas' Stua't, I I " Parker broke down, and, turn- ing away from the exultant faces, rushed headlong out of OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 379 the place. His master followed more leisurely, angry and hurt at the hypocrisy of a trusted servant. Of course the game was over for that day, but Jim and his companions hung around the smoke-house for some time, rejoicing in the downfall of their enemy. Afterwards, they went to their cabins for dinner. Then Jim made a mistake. With much laughter and boasting he told Mandy all about it, and then suddenly awakened to the fact that she was listening to him with a face on which only horror was written. Jim turned to his meal in silence and disgust. A woman has no sense of humor. " Whaih you gwine ? " he asked, as Mandy began put- ting on her bonnet and shawl with ominous precision. 11 1's gwine up to be big house, dat's whaih Ps gwine." " What you gwine daih fu' ? " " Ps gwine to tell Mas' Stua't all erbout hit." " Don't you daih." " Heish yo' mouf. Don't you talk to me, you nasty, low-life scamp. Ps gwine tell Mas' Stua't, an' I hope an' pray he'll tek all de hide oflen yo' back." Jim sat in bewildered misery as Mandy flirted out of the cabin ; he felt vaguely some of the hopelessness of defeat which comes to a man whenever he attempts to lay sacrilegious hands on a woman's religion or what stands to her for religion. Parker was sitting alone in his cabin with bowed head when the door opened and his master came across the floor and laid his hand gently on the negro's shoulder. " I didn't know how it was, Parker," he said softly. " Oh, Ps back-slid, Ps fell from grace," moaned Parker. "Nonsense," said his master, "you've fallen from nothing. There are times when we've got to meet the 380 THE LIFE AND WORKS devil on his own ground and fight him with his own weapons." Parker raised his head gladly. " Say dem wo'dsag'in, Mas' Stua't," he said. His master repeated the words, but added : " But it isn't safe to go into the devil's camp too often, Parker." " I ain't gwine into his camp no mo.' Aftah dis I's gwine to stan' outside an' hollah in." His face was beam- ing and his voice trembled with joy. " I didn't think I'd preach to-night," he said timidly. " Of course you will," said Mordaunt, " and your mis- tress and I are coming to hear you, so do your best." His master went out and Parker went down on his knees. He did preach that night and the plantation remem- bered the sermon. JIM'S PROBATION FOR so long a time had Jim been known as the hardest sinner on the plantation that no one had tried to reach the heart under his outward shell even in camp-meeting and revival times. Even good old Brother Parker, who was ever looking after the lost and straying sheep, gave him up as beyond recall. "Dat Jim," he said, " Oomph, de debbil done got his stamp on dat boy, an' dey ain' no use in tryin' to scratch hit off." " But Parker," said his master, " that's the very sort of man you want to save. Don't you know it's your business as a man of the gospel to call sinners to re- pentance ? " " Lawd, Mas' Mordaunt," exclaimed the old man, " my v'ice done got hoa'se callin' Jim, too long ergo to talk erbout. You jes' got to let him go 'long, maybe some o* dese days he gwine slip up on de gospel an 1 fall plum' inter salvation." Even Mandy, Jim's wife, had attempted to urge the old man to some more active efforts in her husband's behalf. She was a pillar of the church herself, and was woefully disturbed about the condition of Jim's soul. Indeed, it was said that half of the time it was Mandy's prayers and exhortations that drove Jim into the woods with his dog and his axe, or an old gun that he had come into posses- sion of from one of the younger Mordaunts. Jim was unregenerate. He was a fighter, a hard 381 3 82 THE LIFE AND WORKS drinker, fiddled on Sunday, and had been known to go out hunting on that sacred day. So it startled the whole place when Mandy announced one day to a few of her intimate friends that she believed " Jim was under con- viction." He had stolen out hunting one Sunday night and in passing through the swamp had gotten himself thoroughly wet and chilled, and this had brought on an attack of acute rheumatism, which Mandy had pointed out to him as a direct judgment of heaven. Jim scoffed at first, but Mandy grew more and more earnest, and finally, with the racking of the pain, he waxed serious and determined to look to the state of his soul as a means to the good of his body. " Hit do seem," Mandy said, " dat Jim feel de weight o' his sins mos' powahful." " I reckon hit's de rheumatics," said Dinah. " Don' mek no diffunce what de inst'ument is," Mandy replied, " hit's de 'suit, hit's de 'suit." When the news reached Stuart Mordaunt's ears he be- came intensely interested. Anything that would convert Jim, and make a model Christian of him would be provi- dential on that plantation. It would save the overseers many an hour's worry ; his horses, many a secret ride ; and the other servants, many a broken head. So he again went down to labor with Parker in the interest of the sinner. " Is he mou'nin' yit ? " said Parker. " No, not yet, but I think now is a good time to sow the seeds in his mind." " Oomph," said the old man, " reckon you bettah let Jim alone twell dem sins o' his'n git him to tossin' an' cryin' an' a mou'nin'. Den'll be time enough to strive OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 383 wid him. Fs allus willin' to do my pa't, Mas* Stuart, but w'en hit comes to oP time sinnahs lak Jim, I believe in lay in' off, an' lettin' de sperit do de strivin'." " But Parker," said his master, " you yourself know that the Bible says that the spirit will not always strive.' ' " Well, la den, Mas', you don' spec' I gwine outdo de sperit." But Stuart Mordaunt was particularly anxious that Jim's steps might be turned in the right direction. He knew just what a strong hold over their minds the Negroes' own emotional religion had, and he felt that could he once get Jim inside the pale of the church, and put him on guard of his salvation, it would mean the loss of fewer of his shoats and pullets. So he approached the old preacher, and said in a confidential tone, " Now look here, Parker, I've got a fine lot of that good old tobacco you like so up to the big house, and I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll just try to work on Jim, and get his feet in the right path, you can come up and take all you want." " Oom-oomph," said the old man, " dat sho' is mon- st'ous fine terbaccer, Mas' Stua't." " Yes, it is, and you shall have all you want of it." " Well, I'll have a little wisit wid Jim, an' des' see how much he 'fected, an' if dey any stroke to be put in fu' de gospel ahmy, you des 1 count on me ez a mighty strong wa'ior. Dat boy been lay in' heavy on my mind fu' lo, dese many days." As a result of this agreement, the old man went down to Jim's cabin on a night when that interesting sinner was suffering particularly from his rheumatic pains. " Well, Jim," the preacher said, " how you come on ? " 384 THE LIFE AND WORKS "Po'ly, po'ly," said Jim, "I des' plum' racked an 1 'stracted f om haid to foot. 1 ' " Uh, huh, hit do seem lak to me de Bible don' tell nuffin' else but de trufe." " What de Bible been sayin' now ? " asked Jim sus- piciously. " Des' what it been say in' all de res' o' de time. 'Yo 1 sins will fin' you out.' " Jim groaned and turned uneasily in his chair. The old man saw that he had made a point and pursued it. " Don' you reckon now, Jim, ef you was a bettah man dat you wouldn' suffah so ? " " I do' know, I do' know nuffin' 'bout hit." " Now des' look at me. I ben a-trompin' erlong in dis low groun' o' sorrer fu' mo' den seventy yeahs, an' I hain't got a ache ner a pain. Nevah had no rheumatics in my life, an' yere you is, a young man, in a mannah o' speakin', all twinged up wid rheumatics. Now what dat p'nt to ? Hit mean de Lawd tek keer o' dem dat's his'n. Now Jim, you bettah come ovah on de Lawd's side, an' git erway f'om yo' ebil doin's." Jim groaned again, and lifted his swollen leg with an effort just as Brother Parker said, " Let us pray." The prayer itself was less effective than the request was just at that time, for Jim was so stiff that it made him fairly howl with pain to get down on his knees. The old man's supplication was loud, deep, and diplomatic, and when they arose from their knees there were tears in Jim's eyes, but whether from cramp or contrition it is not safe to say. But a day or two after, the visit bore fruit in the appearance of Jim at meeting where he sat on one of the very last benches, his shoulders hunched, OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 385 and his head bowed, unmistakable signs of the convicted sinner. The usual term of mourning passed, and Jim was con- verted, much to Mandy's joy, and Brother Parker's delight. The old man called early on his master after the meeting, and announced the success of his labors. Stuart Mor- daunt himself was no less pleased than the preacher. He shook Parker warmly by the hand, patted him on the shoulder, and called him a "sly old fox." And then he took him to the cupboard, and gave him of his store of good tobacco, enough to last him for months. Something else, too, he must have given him, for the old man came away from the cupboard grinning broadly, and ostenta- tiously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. " Great work you've done, Parker, a great work." "Yes, yes, Mas'," grinned the old man, "now ef Jim can des' stan' out his p'obation, hit' 11 be monstrous fine." " His probation 1 " exclaimed the master. " Oh, yes suh, yes suh, we has all de young convu'ts stan' a p'obation o' six months, fo' we teks 'em reg'lar inter de chu'ch. Now ef Jim will des' stan' strong in de faif " " Parker," said Mordaunt, " you're an old wretch, and I've got a mind to take every bit of that tobacco away from you. No. I'll tell you what I'll do." He went back to the cupboard and got as much again as he had given Parker, and handed it to him, saying : " I think it will be better for all concerned if Jim's pro- bation only lasts two months. Get him into the fold, Parker, get him into the fold 1 " And he shoved the an- cient exhorter out of the door. 386 THE LIFE AND WORKS It grieved Jim that he could not go 'possum hunting on Sundays any more, but shortly after he got religion, his rheumatism seemed to take a turn for the better and he felt that the result was worth the sacrifice. But as the pain decreased in his legs and arms, the longing for his old wicked pleasures became stronger and stronger upon him, though Mandy thought that he was living out the period of his probation in the most exemplary manner, and inwardly rejoiced. It was two weeks before he was to be regularly ad- mitted to church fellowship. His industrious spouse had decked him out in a bleached cotton shirt in which to at- tend divine service. In the morning Jim was there. The sermon which Brother Parker preached was powerful, but somehow it failed to reach this new convert. His gaze roved out of the window towards the dark line of the woods beyond, where the frost still glistened on the trees and where he knew the persimmons were hanging ripe. Jim was present at the afternoon service also, for it was a great day ; and again, he was preoccupied. He started and clasped his hands together until the bones cracked, when a dog barked somewhere out on the hill. The sun was going down over the tops of the woodland trees, throwing the forest into gloom, as they came out of the log meeting-house. Jim paused and looked lovingly at the scene, and sighed as he turned his steps back towards the cabin. That night Mandy went to church alone. Jim had dis- appeared. Nowhere around was his axe, and Spot, his dog, was gone. Mandy looked over towards the woods whose tops were feathered against the frosty sky, and away off, she heard a dog bark. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 387 Brother Parker was feeling his way home from meeting late that night, when all of a sudden, he came upon a man creeping towards the quarters. The man had an axe and a dog, and over his shoulders hung a bag in which the outlines of a 'possum could be seen. " Hi, oh, Brothah Jim, at it agin?" Jim did not reply. " Well, des' heish up an' go 'long. We got to mek some 'lowances fu' you young convu'ts. W'en you gwine cook dat 'possum, Brothah Jim?" " I do' know, Brothah Pahkah. He so po', I 'low I haveter keep him and fatten him fu' awhile." " Uh, huh ! well, so long, Jim." "So long, Brothah Pahkah." Jim chuckled as he went away. " I 'low I fool dat oP fox. Wanter come down an' eat up my one little 'possum, do he? huh, uh 1 " So that very night Jim scraped his 'possum, and hung it out-of-doors, and the next day, brown as the forest whence it came, it lay on a great platter on Jim's table. It was a fat 'possum, too. Jim had just whetted his knife, and Mandy had just finished the blessing when the latch was lifted and Brother Parker stepped in. " Hi, oh, Brothah Jim, I's des in time." Jim sat with his mouth open. " Draw up a cheer, Brothah Pahkah," said Mandy. Her husband rose, and put his hand over the 'possum. " Wha wha'd you come hyeah fu' ? " he asked. " I thought I'd des' come in an' tek a bite wid you." " Ain' gwine tek no bite wid me," said Jim. " Heish," said Mandy, " wha' kin' o' way is dat to talk to de preachah ? " " Preachah or no preachah, you hyeah what I say," and he took the 'possum, and put it on the highest shelf. 388 THE LIFE AND WORKS " Wha's de mattah wid you, Jim? dat's one o' de 'quiah- ments o' de chu'ch." The angry man turned to the preacher. " Is it one o' de 'quiahments o' de chu'ch dat you eat hyeah ter-night ? " " Hit sholy am usual fu' de shepherd to sup wherevah he stop," said Parker, suavely. " Ve'y well, ve'y well/' said Jim, " I wants you to know dat I 'specs to stay out o' yo' chu'ch. I's got two weeks mo' p'obation. You tek hit back, an' gin hit to de nex' niggah you ketches wid a 'possum." Mandy was horrified. The preacher looked longingly at the 'possum, and took up his hat to go. There were two disappointed men on the plantation when he told his master the next day the outcome of Jim's probation. . DAT JIM "You OLD SCOUNDREL," SAID A WELL-KNOWN VOICE A SUPPER BY PROXY THERE was an air of suppressed excitement about the whole plantation. The big old house stared gravely out as if it could tell great things if it would, and the cabins in the quarters looked prophetic. The very dogs were on the alert, and there was expectancy even in the eyes of the piccaninnies who rolled in the dust. Something was go- ing to happen. There was no denying that. The wind whispered it to the trees and the trees nodded. Then there was a clatter of horses' hoofs, the crack of a whip. The bays with the family carriage swept round the drive and halted at the front porch. Julius was on the box, resplendent in his holiday livery. This was the signal for a general awakening. The old house leered an irri- tating " I told you so.' 1 The quarters looked complacent. The dogs ran and barked, the piccaninnies laughed and shouted, the servants gathered on the lawn and, in the midst of it all, the master and mistress came down the steps and got into the carriage. Another crack of the whip, a shout from the servants, more antics from the piccaninnies, the scurrying of the dogs and the vehicle rumbled out of sight behind a clump of maples. Immedi- ately the big house resumed its natural appearance and the quarters settled back into whitewashed respectability. Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt were off for a week's visit. The boys were away at school, and here was the plantation left in charge of the negroes themselves, except for the presence of an overseer who did not live on the place. 392 THE LIFE AND WORKS The conditions seemed pregnant of many things, but a calm fell on the place as if every one had decided to be particularly upon his good behavior. The piccaninnies were subdued. The butlers in the big house bowed with wonderful deference to the maids as they passed them in the halls, and the maids called the butlers " mister" when they spoke to them. Only now and again from the fields could a song be heard. All this was ominous. By the time that night came many things were changed. The hilarity of the little darkies had grown, and although the house servants still remained gravely quiet, on the re- turn of the field hands the quarters became frankly joy- ous. From one cabin to another could be heard the sound of " Juba, Juba ! " and the loud patting of hands and the shuffling of feet. Now and again some voice could be heard rising above the rest, improvising a verse of the song, as : " Mas' done gone to Philamundelphy, Juba, Juba. Lef ' us bacon, lef us co'n braid, Juba, Juba. Oh, Juba dis an' Juba dat, an' Juba skinned de yaller cat To mek his wife a Sunday hat, oh, Juba ! " Not long did the sounds continue to issue from isolated points. The people began drifting together, and when a goodly number had gathered at a large cabin, the inevita- ble thing happened. Some one brought out a banjo and a dance followed. Meanwhile, from the vantage ground of the big house, the more favored servants looked disdainfully on, and at the same time consulted together. That they should do something to entertain themselves was only right and proper. No one of ordinary intelligence could think for OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 393 a moment of letting this opportunity slip without taking advantage of it. But a dance such as the quarters had ! Bah 1 They could never think of it. That rude, informal affair 1 And these black aristocrats turned up their noses. No, theirs must be a grave and dignified affair, such as their master himself would have given, and they would send out invitations to some on the neighboring planta- tions. It was Julius, the coachman, who, after winning around the head butler, Anderson, insisted that they ought to give a grand supper. Julius would have gone on without the butler's consent had it not been that Anderson carried the keys. So the matter was canvassed and settled. The next business was the invitations, but no one could write. Still, this was a slight matter; for neatly folded envelopes were carried about to the different favored ones, containing nothing, while at the same time the in- vitations were proffered by word of mouth. " Hi, dah ! " cried Jim to Julius, on the evening that the cards had been distributed ; " I ain't seed my inbitation yit." " You needn't keep yo' eyes bucked looking fu' none, neithah," replied Julius. " Uh, puttin' on airs, is you ? " " I don't caih to convuss wid you jest now," said Julius pompously. Jim guffawed. " Well, of all de sights I evah seed, a dahky coachman offen de box tryin' to look lak he on it ! Go 'long, Julius, er you'll sholy kill me, man." The coachman strode on with angry dignity. It had been announced that the supper was to be a " ladies' an' gent'men's pahty," and so but few from the 394 THE LIFE AND WORKS quarters were asked. The quarters were naturally angry and a bit envious, for they were but human and not yet intelligent enough to recognize the vast social gulf that yawned between the blacks at the " big house " and the blacks who were quartered in the cabins. The night of the grand affair arrived, and the Mordaunt mansion was as resplendent as it had ever been for one of the master's festivities. The drawing-rooms were gaily festooned, and the long dining-room was a blaze of light from the wax candles that shone oh the glory of the Mor- daunt plate. Nothing but the best had satisfied Julius and Anderson. By nine o'clock the outside guests began to arrive. They were the dark aristocrats of the region. It was a well-dressed assembly, too. Plump brown arms lay against the dainty folds of gleaming muslin, and white-stocked, brass-buttoned black counterparts of their masters strode up the walks. There were Dudley Stone's Gideon and Martha, Robert Curtis' Ike with Dely, and there were Quinn, and Doshy, and, over them all, Aunt Tempe to keep them straight. Of these was the company that sat down to Stuart Mordaunt' s board. After some rivalry, Anderson held the head of the table, while Julius was appeased by being placed on the right beside his favorite lady. Aunt Tempe was opposite the host where she could reprove any unseemly levity or tendency to skylarking on the part of the young people. No state dinner ever began with more dignity. The con- versation was nothing less than stately, and everybody bowed to everybody else every time they thought about it. This condition of affairs obtained through the soup. Somebody ventured a joke and there was even a light laugh during the fish. By the advent of the entree the OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 395 tongues of the assembly had loosened up, and their laughter had melted and flowed as freely as Stuart Mor- daunt's wine. " Well, I mus' say, Mistah An'erson, dis is sholy a mos' salub'ious occasion." " Thank you, Mistah Cu'tis, thank you ; it ah allus my endeavoh to mek my gues'es feel deyse'ves at home. Let me give you some mo' of dis wine. It's f om de bes' dat's in my cellah." " Seems lak I remembah de vintage," said Ike, sipping slowly and with the air of a connoisseur. " Oh, yes, you drinked some o' dis on de 'casion of my darter's ma'ige to Mas' to Mistah Daniels." "I ricollec', yes, I ricollec'." " Des lis'en at dem dahkies," said the voice of a listen- ing field hand. Gideon, as was his wont, was saying deeply serious things to Martha, and Quinn whispered something in Doshy's ear that made her giggle hysterically and cry : "Now, Mr. Quinn, ain't you scan'lous? You des seem lak you possessed dis evenin'." In due time, however, the ladies withdrew, and the gen- tlemen were left over their cigars and cognac. It was then that one of the boys detailed to wait on the table came in and announced to the host that a tramp was without begging for something to eat. At the same in- stant the straggler's face appeared at the door, a poor, unkempt-looking white fellow with a very dirty face. Anderson cast a look over his shoulder at him and com- manded pompously : " Tek him to de kitchen an' give him all he wants." The fellow went away very humbly. 396 THE LIFE AND WORKS In a few minutes Aunt Tempe opened the dining-room door and came in. " An'erson," she cried in a whisper. " Madam/' said the butler rising in dignity, " excuse me but " " Hyeah, don't you come no foo'ishness wid me ; I ain't no madam. Fs tiahed playing fine lady. I done been out to de kitchen, an' I don' lak dat tramp's face an' fo'm." " Well, madam," said Anderson urbanely, " we haven't asked you to ma'y him." At this there was a burst of laughter from the table. " Nemmine, nemmine, I tell you, I don' lak dat tramp's face an' fo'm, an' you'd bettah keep yo' eye skinned, er you'll be laughin' on de othah side o' yo' mouf." The butler gently pushed the old lady out, but as the door closed behind her she was still saying, " I don' lak dat tramp's face an' fo'm." Unused to playing fine lady so long, Aunt Tempe deserted her charges and went back to the kitchen, but the " straggler man " had gone. It is a good thing she did not go around the veranda, where the windows of the dining-room opened, or she would have been considera- bly disturbed to see the tramp peeping through the blinds evidently at the Mordaunt plate that sparkled con- spicuously on the table. Anderson with his hand in his coat, quite after the manner of Stuart Mordaunt, made a brief speech in which he thanked his guests for the honor they had done him in coming to his humble home. " I know," he said, " I have done my po' bes' ; but at some latah day I hopes to entertain you in a mannah dat de position an' character , OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 397 of de gent' men hyeah assembled desuves. Let us now jine de ladies." His hand was on the door and all the gentlemen were on their feet when suddenly the window was thrown up and in stepped the straggler. " W'y, w'y, how daih you, suh, invade my premises ? " asked Anderson, casting a withering glance at the in- truder, who stood gazing around him. " Leave de room dis minute 1 " cried Julius, anxious to be in the fray. But the tramp's eyes were fastened on Anderson. Finally he raised one finger and pointed at him. " You old scoundrel," he said in a well-known voice, as he snatched off his beard and wig and threw aside his disguising duster and stood before them. " Mas' Stu'at ! " " You old scoundrel, you ! I've caught you, have I ? " Anderson was speechless and transfixed, but the others were not, and they had cleared that room before the master's linen duster was well off. In a moment the shuffling of feet ceased and the lights went out in the parlor. The two stood there alone, facing each other " Mas' Stu'at." " Silence," said Mordaunt, raising his hand, and taking a step towards the trembling culprit. " Don' hit me now, Mas' Stu'at, don' hit me ontwell I's kin' o' shuk off yo' pussonality. Ef you do, it'll be des' de same ez thumpin' yo'se'f." Mordaunt turned quickly and stood for a moment look- ing through the window, but his shoulders shook. " Well," he said, turning ; " do you think you've at last relieved yourself of my personality ? " 398 THE LIFE AND WORKS " I don't know, I don't know. De gyahment sho' do fit monstrous tight." "Humph. You take my food, you take my wine, you take my cigars, and now even my personality isn't safe. " Look here, what on earth do you mean by entertain- ing half the darkies in the county in my dining-room ? " Anderson scratched his head and thought. Then he said : " Well, look hyeah, Mas' Stu'at, dis hyeah wasn't rightly my suppah noways." "Not your supper ! Whose was it ? " "Yo'n." "Mine?" "Yes, suh." " Why, what's the matter with you, Anderson ? Next thing you'll be telling me that I planned it all, and invited all those servants." " Lemme 'splain it, Mas', lemme 'splain it. Now I didn't give dat suppah as An'erson. I give it ez Mas' Stu'at Mordaunt ; an' Quinn an' Ike an' Gidjon, dey didn't come fu' deyse'ves, dey come fu* Mas' Cu'tis, an' Mas' Dudley Stone. Don' you un'erstan', Mas' Stu'at? We wasn' we-all, we was you-all." " That's very plain ; and in other words, I gave a sup- per by proxy, and all my friends responded in the same manner ? " " Well, ef dat means what I said, dat's it." " Your reasoning is extremely profound, Anderson. It does you great credit, but if I followed your plan I should give you the thrashing you deserve by proxy. That would just suit you. So instead of that I am going to feed you, for the next day or so, by that ingenious OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 399 method. You go down and tell Jim that I want him up here early to-morrow morning to eat your breakfast.'* " Oh, Mas' Stu'at ! Whup me, whup me, but don't tell dose dahkies in de quahtahs, an' don't sta've me ! " For Anderson loved the good things of life. " Go." Anderson went, and Mordaunt gave himself up to mirth. The quarters got their laugh out of Anderson's dis- comfiture. Jim lived high for a day, but rumors from the kitchen say that the butler did not really suffer on ac count of his supper by proxy. THE FAITH CURE MAN HOPE is tenacious. It goes on living and working when science has dealt it what should be its death-blow. In the close room at the top of the old tenement house little Lucy lay wasting away with a relentless disease. The doctor had said at the beginning of the winter that she could not live. Now he said that he could do no more for her except to ease the few days that remained for the child. But Martha Benson would not believe him. She was confident that doctors were not infallible. Anyhow, this one wasn't, for she saw life and health ahead for her little one. Did not the preacher at the Mission Home say : " Ask, and ye shall receive " ? and had she not asked and asked again the life of her child, her last and only one, at the hands of him whom she worshiped ? No, Lucy was not going to die. What she needed was country air and a place to run about in. She had been housed up too much ; these long Northern winters were too severe for her, and that was what made her so pinched and thin and weak. She must have air, and she should have it. " Po' little lammie," she said to the child, " mammy's little gal boun' to git well. Mammy gwine sen' huh out in de country when the spring comes, whaih she kin roll in de grass an' pick flowers an' git good an' strong. Don' baby want to go to de country ? Don' baby want to see 400 OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 401 de sun shine ? " And the child had looked up at her with wide, bright eyes, tossed her thin arms and moaned for reply, " Nemmine, we gwine fool dat doctah. Some day we'll th'ow all his nassy medicine 'way, an' he come in an' say : ' Whaih's all my medicine ? ' Den we answeh up sma't like : ' We done th'owed it out. We don' need no nassy medicine.' Den he look 'roun' an' say : * Who dat I see runnin' roun' de flo' hyeah, a-lookin' so fat ? ' an' you up an' say : * Hit's me, dat's who 'tis, mistah doctor man 1 ' Den he go out an' slam de do' behin' him. Ain' dat fine ? " But the child had closed her eyes, too weak even to listen. So her mother kissed her little thin forehead and tiptoed out, sending in a child from across the hall to take care of Lucy while she was at work, for sick as the little one was she could not stay at home and nurse her. Hope grasps at a straw, and it was quite in keeping with the condition of Martha's mind that she should open her ears and her heart when they told her of the wonder- ful works of the faith-cure man. People had gone to him on crutches, and he had touched or rubbed them and they had come away whole. He had gone to the homes of the bed-ridden, and they had risen up to bless him. It was so easy for her to believe it all. The only religion she had never known, the wild, emotional religion of most of her race, put her credulity to stronger tests than that. Her only question was, would such a man come to her humble room. But she put away even this thought. He must come. She would make him. Already she saw Lucy strong, and running about like a mouse, the joy of her heart and the light of her eyes. 402 THE LIFE AND WORKS As soon as she could get time she went humbly to see the faith doctor, and laid her case before him, hoping, fearing, trembling. Yes, he would come. Her heart leaped for joy. " There is no place," said the faith curist, " too humble for the messenger of heaven to enter. I am following One who went among the humblest and the lowliest, and was not ashamed to be found among publicans and sinners. I will come to your child, madam, and put her again un- der the law. The law of life is health, and no one who will accept the law need be sick. I am not a physician. I do not claim to be. I only claim to teach people how not to be sick. My fee is five dollars, merely to defray my expenses, that's all. You know the servant is worthy of his hire. And in this little bottle here I have an elixir which has never been known to fail in any of the things claimed for it. Since the world has got used to taking medicine we must make some concessions to its preju- dices. But this in reality is not a medicine at all. It is only a symbol. It is really liquefied prayer and faith." Martha did not understand anything of what he was saying. She did not try to ; she did not want to. She only felt a blind trust in him that filled her heart with un- speakable gladness. Tremul Jus with excitement, she doled out her poor dol- lars to him, seized the precious elixir and hurried away home to Lucy, to whom she was carrying life and strength. The little one made a weak attempt to smile at her mother, but the light flickered away and died into gray- ness on her face. " Now mammy's little gal gwine to git well fu' sho'. Mammy done bring huh somep'n' good." Awed and OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 403 reverent, she tasted the wonderful elixir before giving it to the child. It tasted very like sweetened water to her, but she knew that it was not, and had no doubt of its virtues. Lucy swallowed it as she swallowed everything her mother brought to her. Poor little one ! She had noth- ing to buoy her up or to fight science with. In the course of an hour her mother gave her the medi- cine again, and persuaded herself that there was a per- ceptible brightening in her daughter's face. Mrs. Mason, Caroline's mother, called across the hall : " How Lucy dis evening Mis' Benson ? " " Oh, I think Lucy air right peart," Martha replied. " Come over an' look at huh." Mrs. Mason came, and the mother told her about the new faith doctor and his wonderful powers. " Why, Mis' Mason," she said, " 'pears like I could see de change in de child de minute she swallowed dat medi- cine." Her neighbor listened in silence, but when she went back to her own room it was to shake her head and mur- mur : " Po' Marfy, she jes' ez blind ez a bat. She jes' go 'long, holdin' on to dat chile wid all huh might, an' I see death in Lucy's face now. Dey ain't no faif nur prayer, nur jack-leg doctors nuther gwine to save huh." But Martha needed no pity then. She was happy in her self-delusion. On the morrow the faith doctor came to see Lucy. She had not seemed so well that morning, even to her mother, who remained at home until the doctor arrived. He car- ried a conquering air, and a baggy umbrella, the latter of which he laid across the foot of the bed as he bent over the moaning child. 40 4 THE LIFE AND WORKS " Give me some brown paper," he commanded. Martha hastened to obey, and the priestly practitioner dampened it in water and laid it on Lucy's head, all the time murmuring prayers or were they incantations? to himself. Then he placed pieces of the paper on the soles of the child's feet and on the palms of her hands, and bound them there. When all this was done he knelt down and prayed aloud, ending with a peculiar version of the Lord's prayer, supposed to have mystic effect. Martha was greatly im- pressed, but through it all Lucy lay and moaned. The faith curist rose to go. " Well, we can look to have her out in a few days. Remember, my good woman, much depends upon you. You must try to keep your mind in a state of belief. Are you saved ? " " Oh, yes, suh. I'm a puffessor," said Martha, and having completed his mission, the man of prayers went out, and Caroline again took Martha's place at Lucy's side. In the next two days Martha saw, or thought she saw, a steady improvement in Lucy. According to instruc- tions, the brown paper was moved every day, moistened, and put back. Martha had so far spurred her faith that when she went out on Saturday morning she promised to bring Lucy something good for her Christmas dinner, and a pair of shoes against the time of her going out, and also a little doll. She brought them home that night. Caroline had grown tired and, lighting the lamp, had gone home. " I done brung my little lady bird huh somep'n 1 nice," said Martha, " here's a HP doll and de HI' shoes, honey. How's de baby feel ? " Lucy did not answer. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 405 "You sleep?" Martha went over to the bed. The little face was pinched and ashen. The hands were cold. "Lucy! Lucy!" called the mother. "Lucy! Oh, Gawd ! It ain't true ! She ain't daid ! My little one, my las' one ! " She rushed for the elixir and brought it to the bed. The thin dead face stared back at her, unresponsive. She sank down beside the bed, moaning. " Daid, daid, oh, my Gawd, gi' me back my chile ! Oh, don't I believe you enough? Oh, Lucy, Lucy, my little lamb! I got you yo' gif. Oh, Lucy ! " The next day was set apart for the funeral. The Mis- sion preacher read : " The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord," and some one said " Amen ! " But Martha could not echo it in her heart. Lucy was her last, her one treasured lamb. THE WISDOM OF SILENCE JEREMIAH ANDERSON was free. He had been free for ten years, and he was proud of it. He had been proud of it from the beginning, and that was the reason that he was one of the first to cast off the bonds of his old relations, and move from the plantation and take up land for himself. He was anxious to cut himself off from all that bound him to his former life. So strong was this feeling in him that he would not consent to stay on and work for his one-time owner even for a full wage. To the proposition of the planter and the gibes of some of his more dependent fellows he answered, " No, suh, Fs free, an* I sholy is able to tek keer o' myse'f. I done been fattenin' frogs fu' othah people's snakes too long now." " But, Jerry," said Samuel Brabant, " I don't mean you any harm. The thing's done. You don't belong to me any more, but naturally, I take an interest in you, and want to do what I can to give you a start. It's more than the Northern government has done for you, although such wise men ought to know that you have had no training in caring for yourselves." There was a slight sneer in the Southerner's voice. Jerry perceived it and thought it directed against him. Instantly his pride rose and his neck stiffened. " Nemmine me," he answered, " nemmine me. I's free, an' w'en a man's free, he's free." " All right, go your own way. You may have to come 406 OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 407 back to me some time. If you have to come, come. I don't blame you now. It must be a great thing to you, this dream this nightmare." Jerry looked at him. " Oh, it isn't a nightmare now, but some day, maybe, it will be, then come to me." The master turned away from the newly made free- man, and Jerry went forth into the world which was henceforth to be his. He took with him his few belong- ings ; these largely represented by his wife and four lusty-eating children. Besides, he owned a little money, which he had got working for others when his master's task was done. Thus, burdened and equipped, he set out to tempt Fortune. He might do one of two things farm land upon shares for one of his short-handed neighbors, or buy a farm, mortgage it, and pay for it as he could. As was natural for Jerry, and not uncommendable, he chose at once the latter course, bargained for his twenty acres for land was cheap then, bought his mule, built his cabin, and set up his household goods. Now, slavery may give a man the habit of work, but it cannot imbue him with the natural thrift that long years of self-dependence brings. There were times when Jerry's freedom tugged too strongly at his easy incli- nation, drawing him away to idle when he should have toiled. What was the use of freedom, asked an inward voice, if one might not rest when one would ? If he might not stop midway the furrow to listen and laugh at a droll story or tell one ? If he might not go a-fishing when all the forces of nature invited and the jay-bird called from the tree and gave forth saucy banter like the fiery, blue shrew that she was ? 4 o8 THE LIFE AND WORKS There were times when his compunction held Jerry to his task, but more often he turned an end furrow and laid his misgivings snugly under it and was away to the woods or the creek. There was joy and a loaf for the present. What more could he ask ? The first year Fortune laughed at him, and her laugh is very different from her smile. She sent the swift rains to wash up the new planted seed, and the hungry birds to devour them. She sent the fierce sun to scorch the young crops, and the clinging weeds to hug the fresh greenness of his hope to death. She sent cruelest jest of all another baby to be fed, and so weakened Cindy Ann that for many days she could not work beside her husband in the fields. Poverty began to teach the unlessoned delver in the soil the thrift which he needed ; but he ended his first twelve months with barely enough to eat, and nothing paid on his land or his mule. Broken and discouraged, the words of his old master came to him. But he was proud with an obstinate pride and he shut his lips together so that he might not groan. He would not go to his mas- ter. Anything rather than that. In that place sat certain beasts of prey, dealers, and lenders of money, who had their lairs somewhere within the boundaries of that wide and mysterious domain called The Law. They had their risks to run, but so must all beasts that eat flesh or drink blood. To them went Jerry, and they were kind to him. They gave him of their store. They gave him food and seed, but they were to own all that they gave him from what he raised, and they were to take their toll first from the new crops. Now, the black had been warned against these same OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 409 beasts, for others had fallen a prey to them even in so short a time as their emancipation measured, and they saw themselves the re-manacled slaves of a hopeless and ever-growing debt, but Jerry would not be warned. He chewed the warnings like husks between his teeth, and got no substance from them. Then, Fortune, who deals in surprises, played him an- other trick. She smiled upon him. His second year was better than his first, and the brokers swore over his paid up note. Cindy Ann was strong again and the oldest boy was big enough to help with the work. Samuel Brabant was displeased, not because he felt any malice towards his former servant, but for the reason that any man with the natural amount of human vanity must feel himself aggrieved just as his cherished prophecy is about to come true. Isaiah himself could not have been above it. How much less, then, the uninspired Mr. Brabant, who had his " I told you so," all ready. He had been ready to help Jerry after giving him admonitions, but here it was not needed. An unused " I told you so," however kindly, is an acid that turns the milk of human kindness sour. Jerry went on gaining in prosperity. The third year treated him better than the second, and the fourth better than the third. During the fifth he enlarged his farm and his house and took pride in the fact that his oldest boy, Matthew, was away at school. By the tenth year of his freedom he was arrogantly out of debt. Then his pride was too much for him. During all these years of his struggle the words of his master had been as gall in his mouth. Now he spat them out with a boast. He talked much in the market-place, and where many people gath- 4 io THE LIFE AND WORKS ered, he was much there, giving himself as a bright and shining example. " Huh," he would chuckle to any listeners he could find, " OP Mas' Brabant, he say, ' Stay hyeah, stay hyeah, you do' know how to tek keer o' yo'se'f yit.' But I des' look at my two han's an' I say to myse'f, whut I been doin' wid dese all dese yeahs tekin' keer o' my- se'f an' him, too. I wo'k in de fiel', he set in de big house an' smoke. I wo'k in de fiel', his son go away to college an' come back a graduate. Das hit. Well, w'en freedom come, I des' bent an' boun' I ain' gwine do it no mo' an' I didn't. Now look at me. I sets down w'en I wants to. I does my own wo' kin' an' my own smokin'o I don't owe a cent, an' dis yeah my boy gwine graduate f'om de school. Dat's me, an' I ain' called on oP Mas' yit." Now, an example is always an odious thing, because, first of all, it is always insolent even when it is bad, and there were those who listened to Jerry who had not been so successful as he, some even who had stayed on the plantation and as yet did not even own the mule they ploughed with- The hearts of those were filled with rage and their mouths with envy. Some of the sting of the latter got into their re-telling of Jerry's talk and made it worse than it was. Old Samuel Brabant laughed and said, " Well, Jerry's not dead yet, and although I don't wish him any harm, my prophecy might come true yet." There were others who, hearing, did not laugh, or if they did, it was with a mere strained thinning of the lips that had no element of mirth in it. Temper and toler- ance were short ten years after sixty-three. OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 411 The foolish farmer's boastings bore fruit, and one night when he and his family had gone to church he re- turned to find his house and barn in ashes, his mules burned and his crop ruined. It had been very quietly done and quickly. The glare against the sky had at- tracted few from the near-by town, and them too late to be of service. Jerry camped that night across the road from what re- mained of his former dwelling. Cindy Ann and the chil- dren, worn out and worried, went to sleep in spite of themselves, but he sat there all night long, his chin be- tween his knees, gazing at what had been his pride. Well, the beasts lay in wait for him again, and when he came to them they showed their fangs in greeting. And the velvet was over their claws. He had escaped them before. He had impugned their skill in the hunt, and they were ravenous for him. Now he was fatter, too. He went away from them with hard terms, and a sickness at his heart. But he had not said " Yes " to the terms. He was going home to consider the almost hopeless conditions under which they would let him build again. They were staying with a neighbor in town pending his negotiations and thither he went to ponder on his cir- cumstances. Then it was that Cindy Ann came into the equation. She demanded to know what was to be done and how it was to be gone about. " But Cindy Ann, honey, you do' know nuffin' 'bout bus' ness." "'Tain't whut I knows, but whut I got a right to know," was her response. "I do' see huccome you got any right to be a-pryin 1 into dese hyeah things." 23 4 i2 THE LIFE AND WORKS " I's got de same right I had to wo'k an' struggle erlong an' he'p you get whut we's done los'." Jerry winced and ended by telling her all. " Dat ain't nuffin' but owdacious robbery," said Cindy Ann. " Dem people sees dat you got a little somep'n', an' dey ain't gwine stop ontwell dey's bu'nt an' stoled evah blessed cent f'om you. Je'miah, don't you have nuffin' mo' to do wid 'em." " I got to, Cindy Ann." " Whut fu 1 you got to ? " " How I gwine bull 1 a cabin an' a ba'n an' buy a mule less'nldealwid'em?" " Dah's Mas' Sam Brabant. He'd he'p you out." Jerry rose up, his eyes flashing fire. " Cindy Ann," he said, " you a fool, you ain't got no mo' pride den a guinea hen, an' you got a heap less sense. W'y, befo' I go to oP Mas' Sam Brabant fu' a cent, I'd sta've out in de road." " Huh ! " said Cindy Ann, shutting her mouth on her impatience. One gets tired of thinking and saying how much more sense a woman has than a man when she*