P5 
 
 184 O 
 
 H2.62.T
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Runaway 
 Rhymes * 
 
 (Limited) 
 
 * James 
 Clarence 
 Ijaroey 
 
 HJH 
 
 PRIVATELY 
 PUBLISHED
 
 H 
 
 The verses in this little pamphlet make no claim to recogni 
 tion from the usually recognized canons of true poetry. They 
 are merely sketches, unrevised, untouched and most thoroughly 
 impromptu, written as one would write a letter to a friend and 
 sent to the printer with all- the ear-marks of hasty production. 
 They are only heart beats given a more tangible shape. To 
 those who recognized the heart throbs at their birth they will 
 be dear, and it is to them they are given in new form. If others 
 find a line or thought to please, or cheer or amuse, it will be 
 an added joy to those already known in the family circle where 
 they found expression. 
 
 Were they more worthy of wider consideration a difficulty 
 would arise as to a dedication. To particularize would be to 
 assign to them a dignity they do not possess, they may, there 
 fore, be laid as carelessly as written at the threshold of 
 
 762899
 
 feinee. 
 
 [Written and read by James Clarence Harvey at the presentation of a 
 bronze bust of Tom L. Johnson to Mrs. Johnson, in celebration of her 
 husband's forty-third birthday.] 
 
 The lilt of a rhyme must pass away, 
 
 As the scrolls of time unroll, 
 And the breathing canvas must decay 
 
 Though it echoes a human soul; 
 The carven stone, as the hours fly past, 
 
 Will crumble in time to dust, 
 But the molded bronze is made to last 
 
 'Neath its countless years of rust. 
 
 But what has been given the sons of earth 
 
 That is worthy to so endure? 
 Is aught that we know such homage worth, 
 
 From the taint of earth so pure? 
 The beauty of youth is a thing of to-day, 
 
 A king on a trembling throne; 
 We sigh with regret when old and gray 
 
 For the treasure so swiftly flown. 
 
 The tender ring of a voice that is true 
 
 Elusive must ever be; 
 No art can give it the reverence due 
 
 That others may bend the knee. 
 The glance of an eye is a transient thing. 
 
 That is gone ere the glance is born, 
 Like the song of a bird that awakes to sing 
 
 To the first faint rays of morn.
 
 But out from the soul there is one thing sweet, 
 
 Set free from all thought of guile, 
 To serve as a guide to wandering feet, 
 
 'Tis the warmth of a sunny smile. 
 It will change the deserts to flowering plains. 
 
 Bring drink to the thirsting sod, 
 Change all our losses to lasting gains, 
 
 Like a Heaven-sent gift from God. 
 
 And the inner chambers of memory hold, 
 
 More dear than a hoarded pile, 
 More precious than garnered heaps of gold, 
 
 The joy of an honest smile. 
 So the lasting bronze, if it will but serve, 
 
 The heart that would cherish, hails; 
 Since the halting lines of the poet swerve, 
 
 And the sculptor's chisel fails. 
 
 And the smile shall live, though the years that were 
 
 Shall be lost in the years to be, 
 And the heart of a future age shall stir 
 
 With its broad humanity. 
 
 Behold! a sower went forth to sow 
 
 Good seed in the Master's field. 
 The tale that was told, in the long ago, 
 
 The fruit of his toil revealed. 
 And another parable I would tell, 
 
 Though it be with a faltering pen, 
 Of a noble soul who sows so well 
 
 Good deeds in the hearts of men.
 
 And though some of them fall on stony ground 
 
 And bring him no sweet return, 
 And though some in the blazing sun are found, 
 
 Where they dry and wither and burn, 
 There are others that fall in the soil of love, 
 
 And up from the swelling seed, 
 There springeth a blessing from Heaven above 
 
 To comfort in time of need. 
 
 And the day shall come when the sower shall reap 
 
 And the peace of advancing years 
 Shall be sweet as a long and dreamless sleep, 
 
 And the waking free from tears. 
 And the summons shall come like the call of a friend 
 
 And the setting of life's bright sun 
 Will be a beginning, and not an end, 
 
 For the Master will say, "Well done." 
 
 July 18, 1897-
 
 10 
 
 (JJUjor. 
 
 [Miss Bessie Johnson was christened "The Major" and in return dubbed 
 the writer with the title of "The Governor." A bit of pleasantry which, 
 however, has fastened the names to their respective owners as though with 
 hooks of steel.] 
 
 She's a sprightly little, active little, military thing 
 
 So brimming with vitality she has to have her fling, 
 
 She must see Coney Island, if she does it on the sly, 
 
 With a saucy little sailor hat aslant across her eye. 
 
 She loves to shoot the rapids, and she hopes the chain will 
 
 break; 
 She loves to shoot the chutes, and hopes they'll drown her 
 
 in the lake; 
 
 She'll stop and start an argument at every crook and turn, 
 She'd never quit, except for breath, for she has words to burn; 
 She has a wondrous faculty for shuffling off her cares, 
 She'd rather knock a tennis ball than sit and say her prayers. 
 When once she takes to water, why, it's hard to get her out, 
 And only firm parental sway can manage her, no doubt; 
 And yet she has a heart within as pure as yellow gold, 
 She's free as birds upon the wing, and yet she's never bold. 
 She has a deep and thoughtful mind where motives are the best, 
 And you can judge of what she'll do by what she has confessed; 
 At first you think she's haughty that her nose is in the air, 
 But later on you have to own you're wrong, she's fair and 
 
 square. 
 
 But I could write till Doomsday with her virtues as my text, 
 Her vices might fill half a page, and then I'd be perplexed, 
 And after all, her vices, when you search with careful eyes, 
 You're apt to find are virtues too, but traveling in disguise. 
 In all the world she can't be matched for general worth, I'll 
 
 wager, 
 And she's my right-hand royal pal, my best right bower, the 
 
 Major.
 
 II 
 
 offtn'0 (gdce tm$ fflc 
 
 [During a race at Fort Hamilton there was considerable doubt as to the 
 harmony existing between the watches of various timekeepers, and as the 
 time allowance barely covered the advantage in crossing the line the race 
 was most exciting.] 
 
 I'm a weather beaten sailor, 
 
 And I've sailed the briny sea 
 From the Straits of Madagascar 
 
 To the Isle of Manatee; 
 But b'gosh I'll shift my scuppers 
 
 And I'll likewise shift my quid 
 At the sailin' o' that youngster 
 
 They call Tom Johnson's kid. 
 
 He ain't afraid o' water 
 
 Nor a spillin' in the deep, 
 I've seen him hangin' over 
 
 Where flies would fear to creep; 
 I'll tell ye what is, sir, 
 
 He's made o' solid stuff, 
 He knows just when to jibe her, 
 
 And he knows just when to luff. 
 
 An' he kin turn a buoy 
 
 The slickest ever wuz, 
 He's han'some as they make 'em, 
 
 An' what han'some is, it does; 
 He ain't no tidy creature 
 
 When he's rigged out for sport, 
 Though take a winter evenin' 
 
 And on clothes he's never short.
 
 12 
 
 I seen him beat young Gelston, 
 
 And Gelston's hired men, 
 A holding his own tiller 
 
 To make an honest ten, 
 Or possibly twuz twenty, 
 
 At least I heerd him say 
 "Seems like the whole creation 
 
 Is payin' up to-day." 
 
 I'll tell you what it is though, 
 
 Next time he sails a race 
 He'd better start a whisper 
 
 A travelin' round the place, 
 And git a new timekeeper, 
 
 Whose nose ain't out o' jint, 
 So's when he's watchin' watches 
 
 He'll know which way they pint. 
 
 The wind kept gittin' stiffer, 
 
 And when he crossed the line 
 He had about 2:30 
 
 By this old watch of mine; 
 And ef that watch o" Gelston's 
 
 Ain't crooked I'm a goat, 
 For it jest went out o' business 
 
 When Loftin passed the float.
 
 (& Conundrum. 
 
 TO MISS NARCISSUS JOHNSON. 
 
 A little flower of modest mien 
 
 Within God's garden grows, 
 And finds delight and happiness 
 
 In every breeze that blows. 
 
 A flower of womanhood divine 
 
 Rejoices on life's way, 
 And scatters smiles and kindly words 
 
 About her day by day. 
 
 The little flower drinks in the dew, 
 
 The sunshine and the rain, 
 In fragrance sweet the whole day through 
 
 It gives it back again. 
 
 Now which is sweeter of the two? 
 
 Which brings the greater bliss? 
 And which is most befitting named, 
 
 Since both will rhyme with kiss? 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 We have to add a syllable 
 To make the flower "Narcissus," 
 
 And then to make the rhyme, of course, 
 We hope Narciss will kiss us.
 
 lot $e Idtjet. 
 
 I know of a place, away from the world, 
 
 Away from the marts of trade, 
 Where a living fount of sunshine flows 
 
 And where happiness is made. 
 
 You may draw from this fount, if you seek the right 
 
 And you keep your conscience clear; 
 You have but to show that you're good and true 
 
 And the guardian lets you near. 
 
 I found this fountain by accident 
 
 In the lucky long ago, 
 And the hours I've spent at the fountainside 
 
 Are the happiest ones I know. 
 
 For I drink from its limpid, crystal depths, 
 
 And my youth comes back again, 
 While the future unfolds in beauty sweet 
 
 And the present is free from pain. 
 
 But when you have drunk from this fountain-head 
 
 You must never hold back the pay, 
 For the guardian claims you must give back love 
 
 For the life you gain each day. 
 
 And the more you drink, the more you'll gain, 
 
 For close at the fountainside 
 Are the brightest and sweetest and happiest souls 
 
 To be found in the whole world wide. 
 
 Can you guess where it is; do you know where to find 
 
 This place from the world apart? 
 It is here in the tender throb and thrill 
 
 Of big Tom Johnson's heart.
 
 Jem's 
 
 I hold that age is not a thing 
 
 To reckon up by years; 
 You count the smiles along life's way 
 
 And measure up the tears, 
 And then you strike an average 
 
 Some blissful, happy day, 
 And find that, while the tears have fled, 
 
 The smiles have come to stay. 
 What knows the heart of Time's swift flight, 
 
 Safe hid within the breast; 
 It only knows that life is drear 
 
 When filled with vague unrest. 
 It knows not night, it knows not day, 
 
 Nor what the year may be, 
 And throbs when bidden just as warm 
 
 At four or forty-three. 
 Old age comes not when hearts are fond 
 
 And tender eyes are true; 
 Old age is but a punishment 
 
 When loving words are few.
 
 i6 
 
 for tje 
 
 I have written a rhyme for rollicking Bess, 
 
 My little right-bower, God bless her; 
 I have dwelt on the charms she doth possess 
 
 And the spirits that possess her; 
 I have reeled off a verse for bright Narciss; 
 
 I have stood as father confessor, 
 Advising when, where and how to kiss 
 
 The suitors that come to address her. 
 
 And genial Tom has had his rhymes 
 
 In profusion ad infinitum; 
 In fact, he has suffered so many times 
 
 I fear he's inclined to fight 'em. 
 But the heart within has a sweeter song, 
 
 Unsung for the lack of measure; 
 Unuttered, because too brief, too long 
 
 A small but a precious treasure. 
 
 So small it is compassed in one small word, 
 
 Yet as wide as the great sea swelling, 
 And a sweeter song ear never heard 
 
 Than that in my heart upwelling; 
 For it tells of courage almost divine, 
 
 And of tenderness God-given; 
 It tells of eyes where the love-lights shine 
 
 And of sweetness born of Heaven. 
 
 It tells of a motherhood so sweet 
 
 That no soul can rise above her; 
 Of children who sit at her blessed feet 
 
 Through the live-long day and love her; 
 It tells of the husband, brave and strong, 
 
 Of the steps he tries to save her, 
 And of compensation all day long 
 
 In the smiling face God gave her.
 
 It murmurs of home and of mother love, 
 
 The sweetest words e'er spoken 
 A Heaven below, like the Heaven above, 
 
 The links of love's chain unbroken. 
 But the song in my heart is sweeter far, 
 
 I fail in its fond expression, 
 As the glare of the sun or the gleam of a star 
 
 Falls short in the cloud's repression. 
 
 Some day, it may be that my muse will sing 
 
 In a riper and rounder measure, 
 And my faltering feet to her shrine may bring 
 
 One thought that may bring her pleasure; 
 And then I shall feel that I have not striven 
 
 In selfish pathways solely, 
 When the best that I have in my heart is given 
 
 To the wife and mother holy.
 
 i8 
 
 (gutter* 
 
 [Mrs. Tom L. Johnson had celebrated the twenty-first day of her birth 
 month as the appropriate date, owing to a slip of the memory on the part 
 of her father. A family Bible later was found, which gave the birthday as 
 the 22d.] 
 
 It's a terrible thing to be all at sea 
 
 As to when you first came to light; 
 It keeps you guessing persistently 
 
 If the matter was managed right. 
 
 It's a difficult thing to figure out 
 
 Just why we are born at all. 
 To be born on two different days, no doubt, 
 
 Is the terriblest thing of all. 
 
 When the birthdays come, as they will, worse luck! 
 
 In the flight of the fleeting years, 
 We make them a season of jollity 
 To drown the regretful tears. 
 
 "Many happy returns!" we gaily sing, 
 
 As we toss off a rollicking rhyme, 
 And try to forget that we're growing old, 
 
 But we can't fool Father Time. 
 
 I'm speaking of men, the sons of toil 
 
 With woman 'tis not so bad; 
 She simply measures her matchless charms 
 
 By the birthdays she has had.
 
 If a woman at thirty is fair to see, 
 
 At forty she's sweeter far, 
 And the lovely traits of the past give way 
 
 To the lovelier ones that are. 
 
 Her voice grows softer, her touch more kind, 
 
 As the silver streaks her hair, 
 And her children mirror her golden youth, 
 
 And all seems fond and fair. 
 
 And whether a Corn-Cracker celebrates, 
 
 On a day marked twenty-one, 
 Or waits for the favored twenty-two, 
 
 What matters the time 'tis done? 
 
 What matters it whether a Buckeye brand 
 Hangs over the christening shrine? 
 
 Or whether Missouri's cognomen 
 Sets seal on the poet's line. 
 
 It is all the same if the heart within 
 Beats warm with the pulse of love, 
 
 And the record is kept of joy, not years, 
 In the big book up above? 
 
 And what is a year when all is told? 
 
 Tis a kiss and a sigh and a tear, 
 A trembling joy and a blasted hope, 
 
 A smile and a moment's fear.
 
 20 
 
 But the tear will dry and the sigh must pass 
 
 When a new-found hope is born, 
 And the kiss and the smile and the joy live on 
 
 'Till the everlasting morn. 
 
 So whether it be the twenty-first 
 
 Or the twenty-second day, 
 And whether it comes in Summer's heat 
 
 Or amongst the flowers of May. 
 
 A birthday is only a fitting place 
 
 For a tuneful rhyming line, 
 A fitting time for the tribute due 
 
 To womanhood divine.
 
 21 
 
 (AN OPINION UNASKED.) 
 
 [A bit of verse written for a special occasion and handled somewhat 
 freely because of its mythologic character aroused the gentle indignation 
 of a most delicate and refined nature. The following poem was the result, 
 which came indirectly to the eye of the writer of the somewhat startling 
 verses and suggested the defence which follows, called the Point of View.] 
 
 It seems to me that in this life 
 
 There is one sacred theme, 
 So holy e'en the poet's touch 
 
 Defiles its tender dream. 
 
 It seems to me, God's wondrous gifts 
 
 Are sacred trusts from Heaven, 
 Thro' which His message of love and peace 
 
 To the minds of men is given. 
 
 It seems to me who bears the stamp 
 
 Of genius in his heart 
 Should give his life, his mind, his soul, 
 
 To elevate his art. 
 
 It seems to me whose hand despoils 
 
 Fair Art's sweet purity, 
 His brow should bear the traitor's brand 
 
 Of shame and infamy. 
 
 It seems to me whose powers can chain 
 
 A glimpse of Paradise, 
 To raise the thoughts of men to God 
 
 Therein his glory lies. 
 
 Pure thoughts, brave deeds, God-given joys 
 
 Which live eternally, 
 Are themes most worthy master minds, 
 
 Or so it seems to me.
 
 22 
 
 (point of (gittt. 
 
 There's a griffin set high on the cornice there 
 
 On that towering pile of stone, 
 And a lion rampant, at either end, 
 Stands guarding his corner alone. 
 As you gaze aloft at the dizzy height 
 
 They grin with a lifelike glee, 
 And you think: "The sculptor who carved that stone, 
 
 What a wondrous man is he!" 
 But climb with me to that cornice high, 
 
 And speechless will be your tongue; 
 They might have been carved by an Aztec child 
 
 In the days when the world was young, 
 So rough and so rugged those faces grim, 
 
 Of the griffin and lions bold. 
 "Chance held the chisel," you whisper low, 
 
 And the length of your tale is told. 
 But back of those blocks stood a thinking mind, 
 
 Which knew what was best to do, 
 For it said: "What the world may say or think 
 
 Depends on the point of view." 
 The wicked young man of the Orient, 
 
 With a dozen dainty wives, 
 We say, in this civilized, Christianized land, 
 
 Is making a wreck of their lives, 
 And we send to him quickly a godly man 
 
 At a rate that is easy to fix, 
 And say he is doing a glorious work 
 
 If he brings him down to six. 
 There are sermons in stones. There are prayers let fall 
 
 Sometimes with an oath each side. 
 We never should say: " 'Tis a silver shield," 
 
 For it may be of gold inside.
 
 If whatever I touch, when it leaves my hand 
 
 Is cleaner than when it came 
 I can look my mother straight in the face 
 
 And feel no blush of shame. 
 If an Angelo, in the chiselled stone, 
 
 Can bid the pulses start; 
 If Correggio, with immortal brush, 
 
 Can send a glow to the heart. 
 Is the throb and thrill of human life 
 
 So shocking, so vile a thing 
 That we must to-day, to Diana's bath, 
 
 A modern mantle bring? 
 You, lady fair, live nearer to God 
 
 Where the heart of Nature sings, 
 And the birds and the clouds and the sunbeams fair 
 
 Sweet peace as a tribute brings. 
 We potters that model in city clay 
 
 Must mold as it comes to our hands, 
 Not "What we need," "What we want" is the cry 
 
 We answer to these demands. 
 The text of the preacher in Timbuctoo 
 
 And that of a great divine 
 Are wide apart as the poles of earth, 
 
 But which will the brighter shine? 
 The words of the one may beckon sleep, 
 
 While the preacher of Timbuctoo 
 May pluck from the fire a burning brand 
 
 It depends on the point of view. 
 I have written songs of a soulful kind, 
 
 Unprinted they still remain; 
 I have voiced some love-lorn madrigals 
 
 Begotten in pleasant pain; 
 I have sung a few brief lullabys, 
 
 And mothers have said "How sweet!"
 
 I have written hymns for the Sunday-school; 
 
 I have, hungry, walked the street; 
 I have taken a mythologic tale 
 
 And placed it in rhyming verse; 
 I have tried to make it cleaner, because 
 
 It couldn't be very much worse; 
 I have measured its wording carefully 
 
 And scanned every halting line, 
 Then sent it forth, and the verdict was, 
 
 "Say, when can you come and dine?" 
 So I'd rather live in the hearts of my friends, 
 
 And smile while life is sweet, 
 Than lay up treasures in some fair land 
 
 While, living, I walk the street. 
 And the question comes, If you do your best 
 
 What else is there left to do? 
 Oh, if only the world would learn to say, 
 
 It depends on the point of view.
 
 [Shortly after the writer met the author of the little poem and found her 
 on the eve of marriage. Love's dream was at its fullest and naturally gave 
 rise to the following.] 
 
 It is so easy, now, to see 
 
 Your "point of view," 
 Love's sunrise breaking in your sky 
 
 And flooding you 
 With roseate gleams, all golden bright, 
 
 And not a cloud 
 No wonder love is far too sweet 
 
 To breathe aloud. 
 
 O! gentle critic, now my friend, 
 
 As I am yours, 
 I pray your happiness may last 
 
 While life endures. 
 Man changes not in one brief hour; 
 
 But this is true: 
 In sweeter strain my muse shall sing 
 
 Because of you.
 
 26 
 
 to (Jttt. 
 
 [The following dainty bit of verse will show that, in spite of their quarrel 
 of rhymes before meeting, mutual explanations were sufficiently convincing 
 to make them friends.] 
 
 You say 'tis easy now to see my "point of view;" 
 Ah, "friend," my heart were glad indeed if it were true, 
 
 For then to you would come that inner light God gives to few, 
 That faith, nor life, nor death should bar love's way for her 
 and you 
 
 And if, perchance, my pen should touch a tender wound, 
 Forgive the heart-strings gently swayed, perforce rebound, 
 And since for me all joy, all love, all hope in life is found, 
 My heart's deep sympathy must overflow and all surround. 
 
 And thus, "dear friend," my prayer shall be that for you, too, 
 Love's sun may rise and gild your life with rosy hue, 
 
 And when in pleasant memories my thoughts revert to you 
 Your critic's pride will swell to know she "changed your pomt 
 of view."
 
 There are some bits of porcelain 
 
 By angels planned, 
 Of fragile texture, dainty hue; 
 
 No clumsy hand 
 Can hope to take and care for such 
 
 In vain desire 
 Lest first his touch be purified 
 
 By flame and fire. 
 
 To stand apart and reverence, 
 
 As I now do; 
 To feel I never may attain 
 
 Her point of view; 
 Alone is mine, and if I may 
 
 Some service bring 
 My soul soars high to where I hear 
 
 The angels sing. 
 
 Sometimes I feel, somewhere within, 
 
 A better self; 
 But when beside the porcelain 
 
 I am but delf. 
 I may not touch its daintiness, 
 
 And even though 
 I bear a cross, what matters it? 
 
 'Tis better so.
 
 She knits her brows and puckers her mouth 
 
 And the chess men lose their charm, 
 My senses swim as I see the sweep 
 
 Of a white and tapering arm. 
 No matter how much I should retreat, 
 
 No man of them all I stir, 
 For I haven't the heart to give them place 
 
 That is further away from her. 
 
 My knights will gallop across the board, 
 
 And the pawns trudge on behind, 
 The bishops cut cross-lots recklessly 
 
 To snares and pitfalls blind, 
 And even my castles, with lumbering gait, 
 
 Fall in with a solemn tread, 
 And my queen goes gossiping here and there, 
 
 As though she had lost her head. 
 
 Then I shake myself with a mental shake, 
 
 Lest I suffer complete disgrace, 
 But my thoughts go wandering over the squares 
 
 To dwell on that thoughtful face; 
 Then "Check!" says a voice with a chuckle, behind, 
 
 I snap up a pawn too late ! 
 What a capital move! What a pretty hand! 
 
 What a Caesar's ghost! Checkmate!
 
 QJtorning 
 
 To lie full length on the couch of sleep 
 
 When the joys of the day are done; 
 To press the pillow in slumber deep 
 
 And dream of the kiss of the sun; 
 To feel the whispering winds of night 
 
 Flow soft from the open sea, 
 And lull your senses till morning's light 
 
 Is Heaven enough for me. 
 
 The golden streets and the gates of pearl, 
 
 The crown and the songs of praise, 
 The harp that sets your brain in a whirl 
 
 As you play for a million days; 
 The constant exchange of compliment 
 
 As the angels say: "Well done!" 
 These hints to the soul are kindly meant, 
 
 But they don't suggest much fun. 
 
 I'd rather struggle and strive and lose 
 
 In the race that we know as life 
 If those that I love I may pick and choose 
 
 For companions in the strife. 
 I'm perfectly willing to stagger along 
 
 With a thousand trembling fears 
 If those who give ear, as I sing this song, 
 
 Would stay for a thousand years.
 
 Cifg of ffle tab. 
 
 [Written on the fly-leaf of a book while passing Greenwood, en route 
 from Fort Hamilton by the Nassau line.] 
 
 Where waves of grass-grown, dewy sod 
 
 Spread out before the eye 
 There sleep in peace the ranks of God. 
 
 No more the battle-cry 
 Of "Up, to arms!" rings in their ears 
 For over them resistless years 
 
 In solemn silence fly. 
 
 Somewhere beyond the great unknown 
 
 The rallying cry shall ring; 
 When Life, and Death, and Time are flown; 
 
 Then 'round the Almighty King 
 Ten thousand myriad souls shall rise 
 And songs of praise shall fill the skies, 
 
 And God shall claim his own.
 
 wrfinguteljeb (pdrfg on a QBenber. 
 
 [The Hon. Clifton Breckenridge, ex-Minister to Russia; Judge Pirtle, of 
 Kentucky; Tom L. Johnson and his son, Loftin; Mr. Horatio Ward, and 
 the writer, made the party in the private trolley car for an evening's 
 amusement at Coney Island.] 
 
 The Ambassador sat in his easy chair 
 
 In the private trolley car, 
 By his stately mien and his air serene 
 
 You could see he had traveled far; 
 And he puffed away at a fragrant weed 
 
 Of a brand that always suits, 
 And this was the theme of the statesman's dream, 
 
 "I'm a-going to shoot the chutes." 
 
 And a stalwart judge from the sunny South 
 
 A man of brawn and brain, 
 With a dignified air sat quietly there 
 
 With a look of mild disdain, 
 And he spoke of the nation and its affairs, 
 
 But at last he put up his boots 
 On the opposite chair, and says: "What d'ye care! 
 
 We're a-going to shoot the chutes." 
 
 And the man that stole the Brooklyn Bridge 
 
 From under the city's nose, 
 With good purpose, no doubt, he spread himself out 
 
 For a presidential doze 
 And a possible dream of some trolley line 
 
 And its fine financial fruits, 
 But the thought in his breast was the same as the rest, 
 
 "I'm a-going to shoot the chutes."
 
 And the poet picked up his paper and pen 
 
 For a snapshot shoot at them, 
 And he said to his muse: "Something crisp to amuse 
 
 A bright little sparkling gem." 
 But the muse looked scorn, and the poet blushed 
 
 To the place where his hair had roots 
 As he said: "Please excuse me a minute, my muse, 
 
 "I'm a-going to shoot the chutes." 
 
 And I've noticed that deacons and deep divines 
 
 And pillars of churches, too, 
 Walk around with a smile when at Coney Isle 
 
 And God knows the things they do. 
 And I've noticed as well, though I never would tell, 
 
 When sober men go on these toots 
 They have very queer fits, if a pretty girl sits 
 
 On the seat when they're shooting the chutes. 
 
 "Say, Governor, say," shout Loftin and Ray, 
 
 We shared in that push you recall. 
 Just briefly rehearse in a musical verse 
 
 That we don't arrive after the ball. 
 Then the rhymester exclaims: ' i can rhyme to your names, 
 
 But there's nothing left rhyming with chutes." 
 'Why you busted old poet, there's one and I know it," 
 
 Says Loftin. "Fill in with galoots."
 
 [A letter to "The Major" just after her sailing for Paris. The summer 
 home of the Johnsons at the Narrows commands a view of the stoppages of 
 steamships at the Quarantine Station.] 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 Dear Little Major: I wonder why it is that a stretch of water tangles 
 up the heart-strings so much more than a stretch of land! Loftin's old 
 rubber-soled shoes hang around the house in a nonchalant sort of a way, 
 and if we stumble over them we kick them under the bed and say: "God 
 bless him!" but if we suddenly come upon a pair of red stockings curled 
 up in the grass we fold them wet and dripping to our bosoms and mingle 
 briny tears with the salt water of the Narrows. 
 
 We plunged into the sea to-day and begged the tides to tell us tales of 
 mid-ocean and a swish and swash on the beach might have been mistaken 
 for a whispered "Bess," but it gave us no definite information. 
 
 To-night the Georges are sleeping in sight of their home and the twink 
 ling lights of the Victoria, could they but carry passengers over their 
 track of light, could do a rushing business in the George family. Your 
 papa and I went out in the launch and hailed them. They seemed like 
 messengers from you for somewhere; away out on the broad Atlantic 
 they had been nearer to you than any living being within the sound of our 
 voices. They wanted us to bring them ashore, but, knowing as we did that 
 it was simply a ruse to avoid paying duty on the crown jewels of Europe, 
 we refused to compound the felony. 
 
 All of us members of the family are breathing short, little prayers be 
 tween meals and long ones night and morning, hoping to influence the 
 powers that be to so shape their minds and thoughts that they will hunger 
 for mountain air when they land to-morrow morning. Your mamma took 
 twc launch rides to-day and climbed the hill twice in broad daylight and 
 without the aid of a net. I think that I detected a little twinkle of de- 
 spisery in her eye as, with calm and unruffled breath, she looked at us 
 puffing up the last turn. I am expecting that she will challenge me to-mor 
 row or next day to a Graeco-Roman wrestling match on the tennis court; 
 best three in five, the loser to walk down Broadway in Justine's bathing 
 suit and my shouting socks. If the Georges insist upon being bitten by 
 their own mosquitoes, a large tent will be erected on the Johnson premises, 
 where meals will be served at all hours and questions answered at evening 
 service. As we came up to-night we met Helen, Maud and Miss Getty, with 
 a train of your faithless suitors dangling at their heels, en route for the 
 dock. They asked us to join them, but we said: "No, we would rather
 
 34 
 
 scratch bites on the porch in silence and think of the absent one than to be 
 dcor-tenders at Weber and Fields." Marshall, Horatio, Stanley and all of 
 them would send love if they were here no, on second thoughts, they 
 wouldn't, for I have retired, and were some of them here they would im 
 mediately proceed to have seven kinds of epileptic fits and rush off for 
 Irene Johnson to come and teach me the error of my ways. 
 
 1 suppose you want all the latest news and your mamma's letter was 
 mailed at midday, so only the events of vital interest occurring since then 
 are within my province. 
 
 The cat still sleeps on the front door-step 
 
 And wags a lazy tail, 
 The mosquitoes cling in the dear old way 
 
 And get there without fail. 
 
 Your bathing suit hangs out on the line 
 
 And really makes me laugh, 
 For it doesn't look as graceful now 
 
 As it does in the photograph. 
 
 The water is wet and the jokes are dry, 
 
 But the very best joke of all 
 Is this: "If I sell the Fruitman's Guide 
 
 I'll give the salute in the fall." 
 
 The cousins come and the cousins go, 
 
 Short, slim, tall, dark and fair; 
 I called some "cousin" myself to-day 
 
 And they never turned a hair. 
 
 But Major, my dear little comrade friend, 
 
 Aside from the daily news 
 There's something lacking about the house 
 
 That gives me a touch of the blues. 
 
 I miss the bright little merry laugh, 
 
 And the peeling of breakfast fruit, 
 And the breeze and the snap, and the winsome smile 
 
 And I miss my little salute.
 
 35 
 
 But what I feel is a little thing, 
 
 A leaf in the torrent's whirl; 
 To what the mother's heart must miss 
 
 In the love of her baby girl. 
 
 For we never grow big in our parents' hearts 
 
 Whatever we do outside, 
 And they hold us ever with leading strings 
 
 As a safeguard and a guide. 
 
 So if ever the whirl of the wicked world 
 Should touch but your garment's hem, 
 
 Or if ever temptations should cross your path 
 And you feel allured by them, 
 
 It is safe to ask of your inmost heart: 
 
 "Would mother say: yes or no?" 
 And the answer given by your conscience clear 
 
 Will tell you the way to go. 
 
 Great Scot! but I'm preaching a sermon here 
 
 To the little Major, too, 
 Who can give me cards and spades besides 
 
 On things that are best to do. 
 
 But a kindly word from an honest heart 
 
 Can never go far astray, 
 And the tender soul of the thought will live 
 
 Though the words may pass away. 
 
 Drink deep at the fountain of culture, Bess, 
 
 Where the priceless pearls of art 
 Give breadth and depth to your daily life 
 .And the nobler throb to the heart.
 
 I'm nodding now to the God of Sleep, 
 
 You'll pardon me, Major, dear, 
 It isn't good form to wake, you know, 
 
 With a fountain pen in your ear. 
 
 So, Halt! 'Bout face! Eyes right! Salute! 
 
 My superior officer, Ma'am! 
 I'd write all night for a single sight 
 
 Of you and I wouldn't say 
 
 anything that could bring the blush of shame to the cheek of 
 modesty. 
 
 "THE GOVERNOR."
 
 37 
 
 I have sung a few songs, 
 
 Touched here and touched there, 
 Like an idle winged bird 
 
 That flies anywhere; 
 
 But my notes are not true 
 
 And my wings are not strong 
 The heart throbs are hid 
 
 In the soul of the song. 
 
 To the busy old world 
 
 'Tis a jingle of rhyme 
 That lives but a breath 
 
 In the cycle of time; 
 But the thought which, unseen, 
 
 Mocks the verse-maker's art, 
 Blights the bloom of the rose, 
 
 Leaving thorns in my heart.
 
 'B Cfocl 
 
 [Mr. Tom Johnson, when calling upon the writer one day, asked why 
 there was no clock in the apartment. The reply follows.] 
 
 I have given my clock to the old clothes man; 
 
 It has gone from my house to stay, 
 And clocks are forevermore under ban 
 
 For the night as well as the day. 
 Like a constant menace its voice has been, 
 
 As it ticked my life away, 
 And carelessly piled up years between 
 
 My joys and the hair grown gray. 
 
 The bachelor murmurs a snatch of song: 
 "Ah, nobody cares for me." 
 "Not a whit! Not a bit! 
 Not a bit! Not a whit!" 
 And that was the way my clock answered it; 
 And so to the old clothes man, you see, 
 It shall evermore belong. 
 
 The woodman stands by the forest oak, 
 
 And his axe is bright and keen; 
 It gleams in the light, and at every stroke 
 
 He buries its silver sheen. 
 His arm is strong and the flying chips 
 
 Group round in a circle wide, 
 Till at last to the earth the old oak slips 
 
 And prone is its power and pride. 
 
 The woodman murmurs a snatch of song: 
 "Ah, nobody cares for me." 
 With a clip! And a chip! 
 And a chippety clip! 
 'Twas a mighty oak, but chip by chip 
 
 The woodman conquered the old oak tree, 
 Unmindful of right or wrong.
 
 39 
 
 And I was the oak but a space gone by, 
 
 And my clock was the woodman grim, 
 And the chips were the moments and hours that fly 
 
 Through the day and the darkness dim. 
 If I woke in the night it was chipping away, 
 
 With stroke on stroke like a knell, 
 With never a pause for the happy day 
 
 When I loved each moment well. 
 
 But now, if I murmur a snatch of song: 
 "Ah, nobody cares for me." 
 Not a whit! Not a bit! 
 Not a bit! Not a whit! 
 No clock that is soulless will answer it, 
 For it's gone to the old clothes man, you see, 
 And to him it shall ever belong.
 
 QRcunifeb. 
 
 Somewhere, in mystic shades of No-man's-land, 
 
 Long aeons past, 
 I've known the pressure of your trembling hand, 
 
 Too sweet to last. 
 
 By some mysterious fate, ere love came true 
 
 We went astray, 
 And, groping on, the shifting shadows through, 
 
 I lost my way. 
 
 Long ages rolled in solemn silence by. 
 
 Your soul and mine 
 Chanced not to meet, where kindred spirits fly, 
 
 In summer shine. 
 
 Eyes, voice and soul, in subtle sweet refrain, 
 
 Once more hold sway; 
 Hold close; I would not wish so soon again 
 
 To lose my way.
 
 t>t feittfe <Bo0eq>. 
 
 Onc't ther' wuz a woman, an' 
 
 She come tu call on Ma, 
 An' Ma went out an' left her ther', 
 
 A talkin' tu my Pa; 
 An' she wuz tellin' how a gurrl 
 
 What lives acrosst the road, 
 Wuz goin' tu a party an' 
 
 Got kissed afore she knowed. 
 
 The man what done it only said, 
 
 He felt like havin' fun; 
 But when she told her brother George 
 
 He chased him with a gun. 
 And Aunt Mariar's gittin' old, 
 
 An' sez thet "Gurrls don't think 
 When men begins to kiss 'em, they're 
 
 A-tremblin' on a brink." 
 
 "An' soon or late they've got tu fall, 
 
 A prey tu vain desires, 
 An' scorch an' sputter all the'r lives 
 
 In Hell's eturrnal fires." 
 An' Ricketty Ann thet works fur us, 
 
 She snooted up her nose, 
 An', sort of disrespeckful like, 
 
 Sez, "Aunt Mariar knows." 
 
 But Uncle Bill, he up an' sez 
 
 "Thet laws ort tu be made, 
 So's when a feller wants a kiss 
 
 He needn't be afraid. 
 Fur them as likes tu hug an' kiss 
 
 A few selected fren's, 
 Ain't built the same as them as goes 
 
 Behine' the door with mens."
 
 An' Mellatissa Butterworth 
 
 She sez tu o'r gurrl Ann, 
 "She ain't afraid tu go behine' 
 
 The door with any man, 
 An' what he sez, an' what he does 
 
 Is jest her own affair, 
 An' them as talks about her, why- 
 
 They better jest take care." 
 
 An' Pa, he heerd her say it, an' 
 
 He sez, "Now Mellatiss, 
 I guess I'll tek ye up on thet 
 
 An' try an' git a kiss." 
 An' Ma jest then wuz comin' in 
 
 An' pointed tu the door, 
 An' Mellatissa Butterworth 
 
 Don't call on us no more.
 
 43 
 
 A cannibal maid, with strong white teeth, 
 
 Sat up in a tree one day, 
 And a missionary paused beneath 
 
 For a pious little pray. 
 The man was fair and the maid was young, 
 
 And she showed that her heart was smit; 
 She could only say "Goo" in her native tongue, 
 
 But his prayers had made a hit. 
 
 So the man climbed up as the maid climbed down, 
 And they met on a big, stout limb, 
 
 And they swung their feet, as he said "My sweet," 
 And she said "Goo" to him. 
 
 They sat very close on the big, stout limb, 
 
 And he taught her how to pray, 
 And he taught her to say "Kiss me" to him 
 
 In a fascinating way. 
 And he cared no more to idly roam, 
 
 For her lips were ruby red, 
 The godly man was far from home 
 
 And he straightway lost his head. 
 
 So they sat up closer and closer still 
 
 In their seat on the big, stout limb, 
 And they swung their feet as he said "My sweet" 
 
 And she said "Goo" to him. 
 
 But the cannibal maid was sorely vexed, 
 
 And she knew not what to do; 
 The habits formed in her youth perplexed, 
 
 As she softly murmured "Goo." 
 So tender and sweet the young man seemed, 
 
 She thought: "What a lovely stew 
 Or a roast he'd make." But she dreamed of love 
 
 As she softly murmured "Goo."
 
 44 
 
 So she cuddled up closer and closer still 
 
 In her seat on the big, stout limb, 
 And they swung their feet as he said "My sweet," 
 
 And she said "Goo" to him. 
 
 But time sped on, and the noonday sun 
 
 Looked down from the sky one day, 
 And saw that the race of love was run; 
 
 She had dined in her own sweet way, 
 For she sat alone on the big, stout limb, 
 
 And she looked like a dear young bride, 
 While the groom! She murmured at thought of him: 
 
 "How happy I feel inside!" 
 
 But she missed him sadly in after days, 
 
 In her seat on the big, stout limb, 
 For he couldn't say "Sweet" as she swung her feet, 
 
 And she couldn't say "Goo" to him.
 
 45 
 
 "fc tttfe (gif o' ffoff." 
 
 Dar's gwine ter be a little poker party, 
 
 An' it's gwine ter be at Mr. Tompkin's flat; 
 An' the welcome is x'stended very hearty 
 
 To the place where it's a gwine to happen at. 
 No gen'nleman's admitted wid a razzor; 
 
 It's a gwine ter be a quiet sittin' in; 
 De banker don' accept no razzle-dazzle; 
 
 Yo' got to buy yo' chips when yo' begin. 
 
 Did yo' evah stan' pat 
 
 On a bob-tail flush? 
 Did yo' evah make a short, straight bluff? 
 
 Ef yo' nevah did, ma honey 
 
 It's the way to blow yer money, 
 For it leaves you like a little bit of fluff. 
 
 Oh, a little bit o' fluff (puff, puff), 
 
 Jes' a little bit of fluff (puff, puff), 
 
 Ef you nevah did, ma honey, 
 
 It's the way to blow yer money, 
 For it leaves you like a little bit of fluff. 
 
 Las' Sunday, at de Church o' Zion meetin', 
 
 Dey took a big collection fo' de rent. 
 Seben dollahs an' a half dey took in nickles; 
 
 De pahson said de cash wuz Heaven sent. 
 Dat night de pahson's luck was dead agin' him, 
 
 For Deacon Brown he struck a bullet full, 
 And Deacon Smith had triplets to go in on, 
 
 But Deacon Jones' four ten-spots had de pull. 
 
 (Chorus.)
 
 4 6 
 
 So if any of you come to Tompkin's party, 
 
 Remember what the pahson didn't know 
 Dat standin' pat may seem a little smarty, 
 
 But bluffin' for a dollar doesn't go. 
 It's mighty nice to hab a Church of Zion, 
 
 When funds get low you only pass de hat; 
 But when yo' have to wuk to earn yo' living 
 
 Jes' quit yo foolish nonsense, standin' pat. 
 
 (Chorus.)
 
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