Copyright, 1893, by 
 A. B. PAINE AND W. A. WHITE. 
 
PS 
 
 Hft/AJ 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A NUMBER of the poems in this collection have 
 been printed and praised by newspapers and 
 magazines East, West, North, South. So many 
 people have shown an interest in them that the 
 authors are encouraged to hope that selections 
 of their work between book-covers will afford 
 some degree of satisfaction to the public. They 
 have not re-strung the lute of Mr. Apollo, or in 
 terrupted the corn-planting of Mrs. Ceres ; they 
 have in no way offended the Kansans ideas of 
 poesy for the best poetry made in Kansas is not 
 that of the Study. It does not smell of the mid 
 night oil. There is no Greek or Latin flavor to 
 it. Time-worn Mythological figures have no 
 place in its construction. Even songs of Ruins, 
 
IV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of Moonlight, of Babbling Brooks have given 
 way to living fancies. One sees and feels all 
 that is here written. 
 
 The " Rhymes of Two Friends" recall mem 
 ories we love the sound of a voice, the smile of 
 a face, the touch of a hand. They appeal to the 
 heart and soften the hard places in the struggle 
 for life. Surrendering to their charms one be 
 comes a Boy Innocent, a Young Man Eloquent, 
 an Old Man Reminiscent. We shall be the bet 
 ter for reading these Rhymes again and again. 
 
 EWING HERBERT. 
 
 HIAWATHA, KANS., Aug. 75, 1893. 
 
TJKIVBRSITY 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE. 
 
 The Organist 2 
 
 A Dream of the Sea 10 
 
 First Bright Days 12 
 
 The Lives of Men 13 
 
 The Gates Ajar 14 
 
 Miss Smith 16 
 
 Sometimes 17 
 
 The Island of Literature 18 
 
 The Waking 20 
 
 The Fisherman 21 
 
 The Wave and the Star 22 
 
 The Dancing Bear ,.. 23 
 
 My Three Friends 25 
 
 Chrysanthemum 26 
 
 Resurgam 27 
 
 The Method In It 28 
 
 Triolet 29 
 
 The Boatswain s Story 30 
 
 Lines in a Dictionary 33 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE. 
 
 At Galveston 34 
 
 In Louisiana 35 
 
 Life 36 
 
 A Fatal Reform 37 
 
 On the Greenbriar 38 
 
 The North Side 40 
 
 The Planet Mars 41 
 
 Writin Jim 42 
 
 An Oasis ... 44 
 
 Peace 45 
 
 The Swallow and the Soul 47 
 
 Depot 48 
 
 Kansas Then and Now 49 
 
 O er Turf and Clod 50 
 
 When the Sunflowers Bloom 54 
 
 Strayed 57 
 
 The Touch of Art 58 
 
 The End of a Dream 59 
 
 The Mirror 61 
 
 His Poem 62 
 
 My Two Poets 63 
 
 After the Storm 64 
 
 From Afar 65 
 
 The Woodman s Dream 68 
 
 Infinity 69 
 
 Persimmons 70 
 
 A Worn Out Woman Rests 72 
 
 The Angler 74 
 
 The Collarless Dog 76 
 
 Concernin Some Folks 78 
 
 The Book-Keeper 82 
 
 Revisited 83 
 
 A Weary Philosopher 86 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE. 
 
 An Answer to Little Boy Blue 88 
 
 Paderewski 89 
 
 Le Roi Est Mort 90 
 
 Unbidden 91 
 
 What the Winds Said 92 
 
 That Red Haired Girl 93 
 
 A Christmas Waif 94 
 
 The First Christmas Eve 97 
 
 The Mystical Sea 99 
 
 The Three Caravels 101 
 
 Two of Us 105 
 
 To a Mountain Summit 106 
 
 Half-way 107 
 
 Pastels 109 
 
 Fate s Alchemy no 
 
 Beyond in 
 
 Weevily Wheat 112 
 
 A Ghost 114 
 
 A Genius 116 
 
 Parish School 1 18 
 
 The Wild Sunflower 120 
 
 Wishing for Stars 122 
 
 That Mystery 124 
 
 Deacon Peter s Jasper 126 
 
 First Snow-Fall 130 
 
 The Rhyme of the Spanish Needle 131 
 
 Fragment 133 
 
 It Happened Thus 134 
 
 Gabriel 137 
 
 WILLIAN ALLEN WHITE. 
 
 A Wilier Crick Incident 153 
 
 A Little Dreamboy 156 
 
 Some Secular Queries 158 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE. 
 
 The Gradgeratun o Joe 161 
 
 That Ye be not Judged 164 
 
 A Rhyme of the Dream-Maker Man 166 
 
 Where "A Lovely Time W T as Had" 169 
 
 Jes Like Him 172 
 
 To Chloe at Springtide 175 
 
 The Music which hath Charms 178 
 
 A Print Shop Incident 181 
 
 Some Shop Talk 184 
 
 Kings Ex 186 
 
 A Wail in B Minor 188 
 
 A Group of Humble Cradle Songs 190 
 
 A Wilier Crick Lullaby. 
 
 A Jim Street Lullaby. 
 
 Sister Mary s Lullaby. 
 
 Their Poor Daddy 195 
 
 A Rickety Rhyme, &c 197 
 
 The Formal Announcement 200 
 
 The New Wrinkle on Mr. Bill 202 
 
 Mr. Bill s Insomnia 203 
 
 Bud and the Hatchet Myth 204 
 
 Father s Little Joke 206 
 
 The Maiden and the Prince 209 
 
 How it Happened 211 
 
 Womanhood 212 
 
 Comfort Scorned of Devils 213 
 
 After While 214 
 
 A Valentine 215 
 
 A Song for Mistress Sylvia 217 
 
 The Exodus of Elder Twiggs 219 
 
 Terpsicore on \Viller Creek 223 
 
 If you go Away 225 
 
 Out in the Dark 227 
 

THE NUMBER OF BOOKS IN THIS 
 
 EDITION is LIMITED TO FIVE HUNDRED 
 
 OF WHICH THIS IS 
 
 No...:. 
 
 Acknowledgements are due Messrs. Harper & Bros., editors of 
 Ladies Home Journal, Worthington s Magazine, Truth, Kansas 
 City Star and others for reprint here of a number of these rhymes. 
 
ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE. 
 
THE ORGANIST. 
 
 HE was born in cultured Boston, in 
 
 that fair and famous town, 
 J&, And her father was a financier of 
 i venture and renown ; 
 
 She acquired an education of the old New Eng 
 land kind, 
 
 Hoarding stores of classic wisdom in a compre 
 hensive mind ; 
 But her music, Oh, her music, twas her soul s 
 
 transcendent glory ! 
 
 And she finished with a flourish in the big con 
 servatory ; 
 Finished with a theme from Mozart mid the 
 
 plaudits of the throng 
 
 That arose and filled her being like a symphony 
 of song. 
 
THE ORGANIST. 
 
 Ah, these earthly joys are transient and depart 
 on noiseless wings, 
 
 And our wealth s the most uncertain of all insub 
 stantial things : 
 
 Thus one morning when the market stumbled 
 down a steep incline 
 
 All the father s fortune crumbled in a Colorado 
 mine ; 
 
 And although he tried to rally on a little deal in 
 wheat, 
 
 Still the luck kept hard against him till it cleaned 
 him out complete. 
 
 Gone their fortune, friends and fireside gone 
 
 the grand piano, too 
 
 They must seek some humble shelter and begin 
 the world anew ; 
 
 And the old man, full of sorrow, said 
 
 he could nt bear to stay 
 In the place that saw his ruin, so 
 
 they sadly crept away ; 
 But they left behind the mother, 
 
 she the happiest of all, 
 She had died amid their plenty just 
 a year before the fall. 
 
THE ORGANIST. 5 
 
 And they came out to the prairies and they hum 
 bly settled down 
 
 On a little stony forty bout a mile or so from town ; 
 
 Where the father, half discouraged, struggled 
 hard to make a stand, 
 
 But they only grew the poorer on that stony bit 
 of land ; 
 
 While the daughter, spirit-broken, plodding hope 
 lessly along, 
 
 Half forgot her classic learning and the sym 
 phony of song ; 
 
 Half forgot her Latin verses, learning how 
 to cook and 
 scrub ; 
 
 got the 
 
 C-_ themes of Mozart 
 r~ in the music of the 
 tub. 
 
 Only, now and then at eve 
 ning, when the sun was going down, 
 And the green upon the meadow faded softly 
 into brown, 
 
6 THE ORGANIST. 
 
 She would slip across the upland to a lonely 
 
 clump of birch 
 Where she knew there was an organ in a little 
 
 country church. 
 
 There amid the shades of evening she would sit 
 
 alone and play, 
 While her soul from earthly travail seemed to 
 
 lift and soar away. 
 Twas the single hour of triumph in the weary 
 
 round she trod ; 
 Twas the resonant outpouring of the spirit to 
 
 its God. 
 
THE ORGANIST. 7 
 
 I I 
 
 By and by the old man tottered and was helpless 
 in his chair ; 
 
 And the heart-sick daughter married in a sort of 
 wild despair ; 
 
 Took a man who owned a section and a half of 
 fertile clay, 
 
 And for this she swore to love him, and to honor, 
 and obey ; 
 
 Took a man whose education was confined to 
 cows and corn ; 
 
 Took a man whose sweetest music was the rasp 
 ing dinner horn ; 
 
 Who on Sunday sang Old Hundred in an ancient 
 nasal way, 
 
 Knowing less of time than turnips -less of har 
 mony than hay. 
 
 One more night she crossed the upland and pour 
 ed out her heart to God, 
 
 Then forever barred its portals and was mated 
 with a clod. 
 
 But the neighbors called him "dea 
 con," for he led the hymn 
 and prayer, 
 
THE ORGANIST. 
 
 And on Sunday walked to " meetin " with 
 
 a self-complacent air ; 
 And the woman walked beside him, humbly 
 
 heeding his command, 
 
 He the owner of a section and a half of fer 
 tile land ; 
 And she hearkened to the preacher, cringing at 
 
 his nasal twang, 
 And she played the little organ when the 
 
 congregation sang. 
 But she came no more at evening to pour 
 
 out her soul alone ; 
 She had bartered soul for substance, and 
 
 her heart was turned to stone. 
 
 Thus the years went creeping onward, and 
 
 the babies came along, 
 Each with voice attuned to mingle in a 
 
 swelling choric song ; 
 While the mother, bowed and broken, 
 
 toiling early, toiling late, 
 Long ago has ceased from troubling and resigned 
 
 herself to fate ; 
 
 Long ago has she forgotten all her 
 precious classic lore 
 
THE ORGANIST. 
 
 Q 
 
 And the magic themes of Mozart wake her spirit 
 
 never more ; 
 Long ago has ceased from sighing at the father s 
 
 empty chair 
 And the old man, neath the clover, slumbers on 
 
 and does not care. 
 
 Still she hearkens to the deacon heeding all he 
 
 has to say ; 
 Still performs her wifely duties in an uncom 
 
 plaining way ; 
 Still each Sunday plays the organ, down amid the 
 
 clump of birch, 
 For the singing of Old Hundred in that little 
 
 country church. 
 
 UKI7BRSIT7 
 
IO A DREAM OF THE SEA. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE SEA. 
 
 1-, FARMER lad in his prairie home 
 
 Lay dreaming of the sea ! 
 He ne er had seen it, but well he knew 
 Its pictured image and heavenly hue ; 
 And he dreamed he swept o er its waters blue, 
 With the winds a-blowing free, 
 With the winds so fresh and free. 
 
 He woke ! and he said "The day will come 
 When that shall be truth to me ;" 
 
 But as years swept by him he always found 
 
 That his feet were clogged and his hands were 
 bound, 
 
 Till at last he lay in a narrow mound, 
 Afar from the sobbing sea, 
 The sorrowing, sobbing sea. 
 
A DREAM OF THE SEA. II 
 
 Oh, many there are on the plains to-night, 
 That dream of a voyage to be ; 
 
 And have said in their souls "The day will come 
 
 When my bark shall sweep through the drifts 
 of foam !" 
 
 But their eyes grow dim and their lips grow dumb, 
 Afar from the tossing sea, 
 The turbulent, tossing sea. 
 
12 FIRST BRIGHT DAYS. 
 
 FIRST BRIGHT DAYS. 
 
 WHEN the skies are getting bluer and the fields 
 
 are getting green, 
 When the bud upon the maple is beginning to be 
 
 seen 
 Where the willows sweep the water there s a flash 
 
 of silver light, 
 For the bud is on the maple and the fish begin 
 
 to bite. 
 
 Then the world is getting ready for the blossom 
 
 of the spring ; 
 The sun is creeping northward and the wild duck 
 
 following, 
 And every day is clipping off a piece from every 
 
 night, 
 
THE LIVES OF MEN. 13 
 
 When the bud is on the maple and the fish begin 
 to bite. 
 
 Oh, days when first the sun breaks through and 
 
 warms the heart to peace ! 
 Oh, days when men grow young again and half 
 
 their troubles cease ! 
 Oh, days when every germ of hope is pushing to 
 
 the light. 
 And the bud is on the maple and the fish begin 
 
 to bite ! 
 
 THE LIVES OF MEN. 
 
 Tis strange about the lives of men ; 
 They live, and love, and die, and then, 
 What then ? Ah, don t I wish I knew ! 
 But really cannot tell, can you ? 
 
14 THE GATES AJAR. 
 
 THE GATES AJAR. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 I HAVE seen a Kansas sunset like a vision in a 
 
 dream, 
 When a halo was about me, and a glory on the 
 
 stream ; 
 When the birds had ceased their music and the 
 
 summer day was done ; 
 And prismatic exhalations came adrifting from 
 
 the sun ; 
 And those gold and purple vapors, and the holy 
 
 stillness there, 
 
 Lay upon the peaceful valley like a silent, eve 
 ning prayer ; 
 And I ve gazed upon that atmospheric splendor 
 
 of the west 
 Till it seemed to me a gateway to the regions of 
 
 the blest. 
 
THE GATES AJAR. 15 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 I HAVE seen a Kansas sunrise like the waking of 
 
 a dream, 
 When every dewy blade of grass caught up the 
 
 golden gleam ; 
 When every bird renewed the song it sang the 
 
 night before, 
 And all- the silent, slumbering world returned to 
 
 life once more ; 
 When every burst of radiance called up a throng 
 
 of life, 
 And all the living, waking world with melody 
 
 was rife. 
 And, as the flood of light and song came floating 
 
 down the plain, 
 It seemed to me those golden gates were open 
 
 wide again. 
 
I 6 MIS SMITH. 
 
 MIS SMITH. 
 
 ALL day she hurried to get through 
 The same as lots of wimmiri do ; 
 Sometimes at night her husban said, 
 " Ma, ain t you goin to come to bed?" 
 And then she d kinder give a hitch, 
 And pause half-way between a stitch, 
 And sorter sigh, and say that she 
 Was ready as she d ever be, 
 
 She reckoned. 
 
 And so the years went one by one, 
 
 An somehow she was never done ; 
 
 An when the angel said, as how 
 
 " Mis Smith, its time you rested now," 
 
 She sorter raised her eyes to look 
 
 A second, as a stitch she took ; 
 
 " All right, I m comin now," says she, 
 
 " I m ready as I ll ever be, 
 
 I reckon." 
 
SOMETIMES. 17 
 
 SOMETIMES. 
 
 SOMETIMES I have dreams of a far-off time 
 
 When the busy world shall a moment cease 
 Its headlong rush, for some bit of rhyme, 
 Some newly awakened chord, or chime, 
 That I may touch in that far-off time 
 While groping among the keys. 
 
 Sometimes I think that I yet may sing 
 A song that never was sung before ; 
 
 That I yet may touch some quivering string 
 
 Till its slumbering soul shall awake and fling 
 
 A song into mine, that I shall sing 
 And men will echo forevermore. 
 
I 8 THE ISLAND OF LITERATURE. 
 
 THE ISLAND OF LITERATURE. 
 
 HE who seeks immortal fame 
 Seeks to mummify his name 
 In the isle of literature, 
 Disappointment must endure 
 
 And abide : 
 
 Very hard that isle to enter 
 Harder still to reach the center 
 
 Gainst the tide. 
 
 From that magic isle of dreams 
 There are sundry crystal streams 
 Flowing outward to the sea 
 Whence a route, it seems to me, 
 
 Might be had : 
 
 But the dragons guarding each, 
 And the quick-sands of the beach, 
 
 Make it bad. 
 
THE ISLAND OF LITERATURE. IQ 
 
 Budding genius dreams a dream 
 Of that island, and a stream 
 Flowing fast and flowing free, 
 From the center to the sea : 
 
 And he sails, 
 
 Thinking he will sail right in 
 Thinking he is sure to win, 
 
 But he fails. 
 
 Then he skims around the edges, 
 In the marshes and the sedges ; 
 But he finds no entrance fair 
 To that island lying there 
 
 All so calm ; 
 
 Still he watches and he waits, 
 Like a beggar at the gates, 
 
 For an aim. 
 
 But the days are bleak and dismal, 
 And the nights appear abysmal : 
 So, with unrequited yearning, 
 Sadly, sorrowfully turning, 
 
 Off he goes : 
 
 While the tear-drops gently trickle, 
 Till they form a big icicle 
 
 On his nose. 
 
2O THE WAKING. 
 
 Some day he may come again 
 Some far distant day, and then, 
 When the best of life is gone. 
 And the night comes creeping on, 
 
 He may find, 
 
 In the island of his dream, 
 That fair and undiscovered stream 
 
 Left behind. 
 
 THE WAKING. 
 
 OH, love of life s morn, when the fresh dew of 
 
 truth 
 And innocence lies on the tendrils of youth ! 
 
 As fair as a snowflake untarnished by earth, 
 As pure as a babe on the day of its birth. 
 
 As fair as a lily just burst into bloom, 
 
 As sweet as a breath of that lily s perfume. 
 
 Bright star of the dawn ! Thou forever shalt be 
 The rarest of all my lost jewels, to me. 
 
THE FISHERMAN. 21 
 
 THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 HE left us one evening in late July, 
 
 When the sun was sinking to rest, 
 He stepped on board as he said "Good-by !" 
 
 And his boat sailed down to the west. 
 
 And we watched it slowly go out of sight, 
 Where the red was beginning to burn, 
 
 And somehow we felt in our hearts that night 
 That his boat would never return. 
 
 But no one spoke of the half-formed dread 
 
 That lay in each troubled breast ; 
 And we watched each day till the sky burned red 
 
 For the boat that sailed down to the west. 
 
 Day after day we paced the sand, 
 
 Still watching ; but all in vain ; 
 And I think he sailed to a better land, 
 
 For he never came back again. 
 
22 THE WAVE AND THE STAR. 
 
 THE WAVE AND THE STAR. 
 
 FAR on the ocean a billow was born, 
 [& A waif of the wind and the sea. 
 
 A star up in heaven shone brightly 
 at morn, 
 A spark of eternity. 
 
 And the beautiful star loved the wave, from afar, 
 
 And paled in its mute despair ; 
 But the wave on its bosom caught up. the star, 
 
 And died as it held it there. 
 
THE DANCING BEAR. 23 
 
 THE DANCING BEAR. 
 
 OH, it s fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee, 
 The dancing bear ran away with me ; 
 For the organ grinder he came to town 
 With a jolly old bear in a coat of brown, 
 And the funny old chap joined hands with me, 
 While I cut a caper and so did he. 
 Then twas fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee, 
 I looked at him, and he winked at me, 
 And I whispered a word in his shaggy ear, 
 And I said, "I will go with you, my dear." 
 
 Then the dancing bear he smiled and said, 
 
 Well, he didn t say much, but he nodded his head, 
 
 As the organ-grinder began to play, 
 
 "Over the hills and far away." 
 
 With a fiddle-de-dum and a fiddle-de-dee ; 
 
 X^SSA** 
 
 ITJSIVERSITY) 
 
24 THE DANCING BEAR. 
 
 Oh, I looked at him and he winked at me, 
 And rny heart was light and the day was fair, 
 And away I went with the dancing bear. 
 
 Oh, it s fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee, 
 
 The dancing bear came back with me ; 
 
 For the sugar-plum trees were stripped and bare, 
 
 And we couldn t find cookies anywhere. 
 
 And the solemn old fellow he sighed and said, 
 
 Well, he didn t say much, but he shook his head, 
 
 While I looked at him and he blinked at me 
 
 Till I shed a tear and so did he; 
 
 And both of us thought of our supper that lay 
 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 Then the dancing bear he took my hand, 
 
 And we hurried away through the twilight land ; 
 
 And twas fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee 
 
 When the dancing bear came back with me. 
 
MY THREE FRIENDS. 25 
 
 MY THREE FRIENDS. 
 
 ON the sunlit island of Long-ago 
 
 In the valley of Used-to-be, 
 There were three good friends that I used to know 
 
 Who have wandered away from me. 
 
 One was buried when life was young 
 
 His grave is far from me ; 
 And one I lost by a slandering tongue, 
 
 And one crossed over the sea. 
 
 And now as I sit in my room alone, 
 
 They live in my memory ; 
 And I wonder if any that I have known 
 
 Do ever remember me. 
 
 But one passed over the river of death, 
 
 And one crossed over the sea, 
 And one I lost by a venemous breath 
 
 And all have forgotten me. 
 
26 CHRYSANTHEMUM. 
 
 CHRYSANTHEMUM. 
 
 ACROSS a waste of moorland, bleak and bare, 
 A lonely bird is flying, calling low 
 The last of all the feathered host to go, 
 
 And loth to leave still lingers, calling, there. 
 
 Within my silent garden-passes, where 
 
 The flowers are withered that in summer blow, 
 I walk with murmuring ghosts, that to and fro 
 
 Sway gently in the chill November air ; 
 
 When, lo ! I mark a little way apart 
 
 The sovereign glory of this waning year 
 
 That now, alone, unheralded hath come, 
 In gorgeous robes alas, my fickle heart 
 
 Forgets the dead, and laughs that she is here, 
 The royal queen of fall, Chrysanthemum. 
 
RESURGAM. 27 
 
 RESURGAM. 
 
 THE year is waning fast, the biting wind 
 
 Is prating through the branches brown and 
 
 sere ; 
 Complaining. echos voice that fall is here, 
 
 And drowsy summer dreaming far behind. 
 
 There s death on every hand, and yet I find 
 
 A mournful pomp along these darkened ways, 
 So prodigal of bloom in summer days, 
 
 When vine and flower in glory intertwined. 
 
 Dear wife, along these charnel paths we pass, 
 Two silent mourners for the dying year ; 
 
 Draw close thy cloak, the wind is chill ; Alas, 
 
 How fast the winter comes ; how reft of cheer 
 
 Will be those lagging days ; and yet we know 
 
 Our flowers will only sleep, beneath the snow. 
 
28 THE METHOD IN IT. 
 
 THE METHOD IN IT. 
 
 WE were playin a quiet game of draw, 
 
 Muggins an me an Looney Ben ; 
 Queerest old chap you ever saw ; 
 
 (Accident once, an fits since then.) 
 
 Straight enough, though, when his head was right, 
 But skeery, you bet, when his spells come on ; 
 
 Though things were runnin on smooth that night, 
 As the hands were dealt and the cards were 
 drawn. 
 
 Lucky old Muggins had won a lot; 
 
 I was easy the loss was Ben s. 
 Mug had jest opened a big jack-pot, 
 
 And I had filled on a pair of tens. 
 
TRIOLET. 29 
 
 When all of a sudden Ben giv a yell 
 
 That lifted our hair and raised the sweat ; 
 
 Then just what happened I couldn t tell, 
 Per Ben had a fit, an we left, you bet ! 
 
 Deserted like cowards, an left poor Ben- 
 Flew through the window an took the sash 
 
 I reckon Ben smiled for a minit , an then 
 
 Walked out through the door an took the cash. 
 
 TRIOLET. 
 
 A pale, little flaxen tress 
 
 Tied up with a bit of thread ; 
 
 Not much to admire, I guess, 
 
 Such a pale, little flaxen tress, 
 
 Yet I kiss it, and bless, and caress, 
 
 For twas clipped from my baby s head, 
 
 This pale, little flaxen tress 
 Tied up with a bit of thread. 
 
30 THE BOATSWAIN S STORY. 
 
 THE BOATSWAIN S STORY. 
 
 "Can I swim? Oh, yes, and I swam right well 
 One night down here on this southern coast, 
 
 When the wind and the sea were a raging hell, 
 And the good ship Mary Lee was lost. 
 
 " I w r as on board that luckless ship 
 
 I, and about one hundred more. 
 She had just come in from a three years trip 
 
 To go down that night within sight of shore. 
 
 "We had beaten about with the wind all day, 
 Though the most of us knew twas a useless 
 fight; 
 
 And at last, when our rudder was swept away, 
 It carried hope with it and sank from sight. 
 
 "And we knew that the end was drawing nigh, 
 And we felt that the moment was close at hand, 
 
 When we d float away in the sea to die, 
 To be cast at morn on the yellow sand. 
 
BOATSWAIN S STORY. 31 
 
 "Some were in tears and some in prayer, 
 And some were singing an old-time psalm ; 
 
 And a few of the faces that I saw there 
 Were filled with a look of a peaceful calm. 
 
 "The captain s daughter a fair young thing 
 Of sixteen summers shed never a tear ; 
 
 But I saw her lips press the golden ring 
 On her fair left hand as the end drew near. 
 
 " And the strongest men were giving way, 
 
 With curses and prayers in the selfsame breath ; 
 
 While the frailest forms that were there that day 
 W T ere calm and brave in the face of death. 
 
 "And I ve often noticed in times like that, 
 
 That the weak are strong and the strong are 
 weak ; 
 
 And I think to my death I shall never forget 
 The look that night on the strong man s cheek. 
 
 " They were first to take to the boats when 
 launched, 
 
 And were swamped and lost in the first big sea. 
 I saw them a moment with faces blanched, 
 
 And then they drifted away from me. 
 
32 THE BOATSWAIN S STORY. 
 
 " At last we struck, as we knew we must, 
 
 And we knew it was death when we felt the 
 
 shock. 
 Now each to their God and their strength must 
 
 trust ! 
 The captain cried, She is on a rock ! 
 
 "And a moment more I was in the sea, 
 
 Fighting my way through the boiling brine. 
 
 I thought that no one was near to me, 
 
 When all of a sudden a hand clasped mine. 
 
 "A small, slim hand, and I felt its clasp, 
 And knew that its owner was not yet dead. 
 
 I took it in mine with a firmer grasp ; 
 We will live or die together, I said. 
 
 "Gods ! how I fought that night with the sea ! 
 
 But gaining the battle inch by inch ; 
 I thought each wave that swept over me 
 
 Must carry me down, but I did not flinch. 
 
 "And I held on tight to that little hand, 
 That now lay passive and still in mine, 
 
 Till at last, thank God, I could touch the sand, 
 And drew up my charge from the seething brine. 
 
LINES IN A DICTIONARY. 33 
 
 " I drew it up high on the shelving beach, 
 But I could not speak for the breakers roar. 
 
 I staggered up out of the water s reach, 
 
 Then my brain grew numb and I knew no more. 
 
 "When life returned it was broad, bright day, 
 And the sun was shining above my head. 
 
 Close at my side my companion lay. 
 
 Twas the captain s daughter, and she was 
 dead !" 
 
 LINES IN A DICTIONARY. 
 
 A FEAST of words collected here doth lie, 
 
 A wondrous feast of twenty-six rare courses ; 
 
 A modest taste of each is all that I 
 
 May hope to take, yet Nature s ardent forces, 
 
 With every morsel, hungrier than before, 
 
 Unsatisfied call lustily for more. 
 
34 AT GALVESTON. 
 
 AT GALVESTON. 
 
 A LONG, low stretch of sandy beach, 
 Where foamy waves that hurry in, 
 Keep up a never ceasing din ; 
 
 And water far as eye can reach. 
 
 White sailboats that go flitting by, 
 
 And white winged sea-gulls, whose frail forms 
 Brave fearlessly the fiercest storms, 
 
 Go circling through the summer sky ; 
 
 Where fleecy clouds like drifts of snow 
 Float softly on a sea of blue, 
 Whose tender color, melting through, 
 Lends lustre to the sea below. 
 
 Such is the restful vision here 
 
 By this fair city in the sea, 
 
 On this low isle that seems to me 
 Must one day melt and disappear. 
 
IN LOUISIANA. 35 
 
 IN LOUISIANA. 
 
 THE long, gray moss that softly swings 
 In solemn grandeur from the trees, 
 Like mournful funeral draperies 
 
 A brown-winged bird that never sings. 
 
 A shallow, stagnant, inland sea, 
 
 Where rank swamp grasses wave, and where 
 
 A deadliness lurks in the air 
 A sere leaf falling silently. 
 
 The death-like calm on every hand, 
 That one might deem it sin to break, 
 So pure, so perfect these things make 
 
 The mournful beauty of this land. 
 
36 LIFE. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 "A LETTER," he gayly said, 
 
 And he handed it to his wife. 
 It told her, that lying dead, 
 
 Was a friend of her early life. 
 
 A ring at the entry door 
 
 Calls for an explanation ; 
 He returns to his wife once more 
 
 With a wedding invitation. 
 
 A call at the telephone, 
 
 And a voice says, " Give me joy," 
 And continues in blissful tone, 
 
 "My Mary has got a boy." 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 And so life scampers past, 
 
 I wonder for which tis worst, 
 
 The one that marries or breathes its last, 
 Or the one that breathes its first. 
 
A FATAL REFORM. 37 
 
 A FATAL REFORM. 
 
 SAMMY WILKINS was a pilot on a lower river 
 
 steamer, 
 When his flues was charged with lightnin , was a 
 
 howlin ringtail screamer. 
 Fond of fair and frail companions giv n to 
 
 dealin from the bottom, 
 An he kep a soakin pizen till eventually he 
 
 got em. 
 
 Well, he went to hear the preacher, an resolved 
 
 to give up drinkin , 
 Likewise wimmen, cards, and cussin it had 
 
 sorter set him thinkin , 
 That same night he sailed to glory in a heap of 
 
 wild confusion 
 Sammy s bark had gone to pieces on the rock of 
 
 resolution. 
 
38 ON THE GREENBRIAR. 
 
 ON THE GREENBRIAR. 
 
 "WHEN the gay little calendar spells July," 
 And the sun is directly overhead 
 
 When quivering motes in the sunbeams fly, 
 And your collar is limp and your face is red 
 
 When your blood and your brains are all astew, 
 And you re trying to cool them with ices and 
 things, 
 
 Till at last you hardly know what to do, 
 But rush away to the coast and springs, 
 
 Then come with me and I ll show you a spot 
 Where the mountains are high and the woods 
 are dim ; 
 
 Where peace is found, and man is not, 
 Where all day long by the river s brim 
 
ON THE GREENBRIAR. 39 
 
 We will lie and dream or drift away 
 In a gay little boat with painted oars ; 
 
 Watching the clouds, or the trout at play, 
 Or the shadows along the shores. 
 
 Or the mountains clad in their ranks of pine, 
 
 Away up there a mile and a half 
 Above the battle and skirmish line, 
 
 While the thought of the heat just makes us 
 laugh. 
 
 Oh, friends, we are always drifting away 
 In a painted boat on memory s stream ; 
 
 And the twilight shadows grow long and gray, 
 As we lie and drift, as we drift and dream. 
 
 Oh, friend, that river is broad and fair, 
 
 And the shadows are soft and the shores are 
 dim ; 
 
 And the sunlight is flecking the ripples there, 
 And the lilies are white along the brim. 
 
 But, friend, there are graves along the shore 
 
 Of that river so broad and fair, 
 And we softly pass them with muffled oar 
 
 For the hopes of our youth lie buried there. 
 
40 THE NORTH SIDE. 
 
 Pshaw ! What am I saying? We ll start to-day 
 For a month in the mountains to rest and 
 dream. 
 
 Forgive me, old friend, for drifting away 
 A moment or two on memory s stream. 
 
 THE NORTH SIDE. 
 
 LONG years ago, one bitter night, 
 
 A storm broke on the fold ; 
 It touched my breast with its chilling blight 
 
 And left it seared and cold. 
 
 Some mellow days the sun comes out 
 And sooths the old time smart ; 
 
 But patches of snow still cling about 
 The north side of my heart. 
 
THE PLANET MARS. 4! 
 
 THE PLANET MARS. 
 
 TOGETHER we sat in the summer night, 
 
 (An August night with a wealth of stars) 
 And we marked where it gleamed so redly bright, 
 The Planet Mars. 
 
 We spoke of the cruel wrongs of earth, 
 
 Of the host of evils that greed unbars ; 
 And then we spoke of another birth 
 In the Planet Mars. 
 
 And we wondered if each would know the name 
 
 Of the other, up there, amid the stars, 
 And we said we hoped they would be the same 
 In the Planet Mars. 
 
 And so we talked through the summer night, 
 
 Of life and of love amid the stars ; 
 And how our wrongs would be all made right 
 In the Planet Mars. 
 
42 WRITIN JIM. 
 
 WRITIN JIM, 
 
 HE was what you call a poet, a writin sort o 
 chap, 
 
 Created so by natur an a-nussled in her lap. 
 
 He was diff runt from us fellers an I ve heard 
 his folks complain, 
 
 As Jim s whole make-up, somehow, run abnormal 
 ly to brain. 
 
 Not much of ejjication, leastways the printed 
 
 kind ; 
 But a boy with more of larnin it was mighty 
 
 hard to find. 
 He knew most every language that the birds and 
 
 flowers could speak, 
 But he didn t know no Latin an he didn t know 
 
 no Greek. 
 
WRITIN JIM. 43 
 
 Well, after while, he sorter got ter writin for the 
 
 press, 
 An he found it tough percedin with them editors 
 
 I guess ; 
 Per his spellen was unsartin an his writin 
 
 kinder queer, 
 An them high-flung Eastern fellers they perused 
 
 it with a sneer, 
 An his path was mighty thorny an the win was 
 
 bleak an strong, 
 But he kep a-cuttin briars an mowin right 
 
 along. 
 
 Till, by an bye, them fellers, they begun to find 
 
 him out, 
 An to view their past decisions with a grain er 
 
 two of doubt ; 
 An to wonder if their jedgments, they had thought 
 
 so mighty keen, 
 Hadn t missed, beneath the rough, "a gem of 
 
 purest ray serene." 
 
 So they wrote to Jim an told him that he d bet 
 ter come to town, 
 That they d like to get acquainted an Jim he 
 
44 AN OASIS. 
 
 / 
 
 hustled down ; 
 An now, there in the city, they are makin heaps 
 
 of him, 
 An we up here air mighty proud, to-day, of 
 
 writin Jim. 
 
 AN OASIS. 
 
 WHENE ER I strive in vain to weep 
 
 O er blighted hopes, or vanished years, 
 
 Ah, then, what would I give to steep 
 My soul in tears. 
 
 For though such tears would flow from me 
 As bitter as the springs of Marah, 
 
 A sweet oasis it would be 
 In life s Sahara. 
 
PEACE. 45 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 THEY have buried me here beneath the sod, 
 And heaped a grave up over my head. 
 
 The preacher commended my soul to God, 
 And they said that I was dead. 
 
 They did not know that lying so still 
 
 I could hear all the better the words they said 
 
 They did not know that I felt a thrill 
 
 Of pleasure at knowing that I was dead ! 
 
 For resting so peacefully here I know 
 That the struggle is over and I am free ; 
 
 And I need not care now for the debts that I owe 
 Or the debts that are owing to me. 
 
46 PEACE. 
 
 And a sense of rest has entered my breast 
 
 That to me is sweet and new ; 
 For the final strife that ended my life 
 
 Has ended its trials, too. 
 
 Truly, the bed they made me is small, 
 
 But I find it amply wide; 
 For I never have tossed about at all 
 
 Since the blessed day I died. 
 
 Sweetly, so sweetly I rest and dream 
 
 With all the old aching gone out of my head. 
 
 How strange it is that it used to seem 
 Sad to hear that a friend was dead. 
 
 For a wonderful rest has entered my breast, 
 That is perfect and sweet and new ; 
 
 And the final strife that ended my life 
 Has lifted its burdens, too. 
 
THE SWALLOW AND THE SOUL. 47 
 
 THE SWALLOW AND THE SOUL. 
 (From the Anglo Saxon.} 
 
 As THE swallow that darts through the room of 
 
 light 
 
 From the winter without to the warmth within, 
 And straight on through, out into the night, 
 From the warmth and the glow to the gloom 
 again. 
 
 So the soul flits in at the door of birth, 
 
 To bask for a moment in life s sweet bloom ; 
 
 Speeds, like an arrow, across the earth, 
 
 Then out once more to the night and gloom. 
 
48 DEPOT. 
 
 DEPOT. 
 
 THE girl in sunny Kansas born, 
 
 Whose charms our hearts shall keep, O, 
 Surveys all foreign airs with scorn 
 
 And says it is "the depo." 
 
 The Boston girl, in wonder mild 
 
 That any one should say so, 
 Reproves the blooming prairie child, 
 
 And murmurs " tis the daypo." 
 
 Chicago s jaunty little miss, 
 
 With accent on the "O" 
 And lips we vainly long to kiss, 
 
 Pronounces it 
 
 While Baltimore s enchanting girl, 
 With dainty grace and step, O, 
 
 Gives her bewitching lip a curl 
 And sweetly says "the deppo." 
 
KANSAS, THEN AND NOW. 49 
 
 Oh, unaffected Kansas born 
 
 Our hearts you re sure to keep, O, 
 
 Because all foreign airs you scorn, 
 And stick to saying "depo." 
 
 KANSAS, THEN AND NOW. 
 
 DRENCHED with impetuous martyr blood she 
 
 stands, 
 
 A nation s pride the weeping cynosure 
 Of all the world. Deflowered by ruthless hands, 
 Defamed, dishonored, reft of all that s pure, 
 To rise a spotless monument, at last, 
 For .all the future and to all the past. 
 
 VBRSIT7 
 
50 O ER TURF AND CLOD. 
 
 O ER TURF AND CLOD. 
 
 A SUMMER morn in Tennessee 
 
 Was dawning calm and still, 
 As a gallant horseman rapidly 
 
 Rode down the Jackson hill. 
 Twas Captain Gray, and in his breast 
 
 The colonel s order lay, 
 To ride roughshod o er turf and clod 
 
 To meet the foe that day. 
 
 And now he swiftly spurs along 
 
 Upon his bright bay steed, 
 And all the while with every mile 
 
 He urges greater speed. 
 With early dawn the message came 
 
 That sped him on his way, 
 O er turf and clod to ride roughshod 
 
 To fight the foe to-day. 
 
O ER TURF AND CLOD. 51 
 
 Yet, faster, faster over field 
 
 And through the wood he flies, 
 The early farmer, in alarm, 
 
 Beholds with wond ring eyes. 
 Some call to him, but all in vain, 
 
 He will not stop or stay 
 Who rides roughshod o er turf and clod 
 
 To meet the foe to-day. 
 
 A streamlet sparkles in his path, 
 
 He pauses on the brink 
 To give his panting charger breath, 
 
 And let the creature drink. 
 A moment, then away again, 
 
 Impatient of delay 
 O er turf and clod he flies roughshod 
 
 To fight the foe to-day. 
 
 A little hamlet lies before, 
 
 He sweeps through like the wind. 
 The men turn out and wave, and shout, 
 
 As fast they fall behind ; 
 While on and on the two have gone. 
 
 The captain and his bay, 
 O er turf and clod they fly roughshod 
 
 To meet the foe to-day. 
 
52 O ER TURF AND CLOD. 
 
 The moments fly, the hours speed by, 
 
 But never rest takes he ; 
 The battlefield will soon be nigh. 
 
 And after victory 
 On nature s breast the two can rest, 
 
 God help you, Captain Gray, 
 To ride roughshod o er turf and clod 
 
 To victory to-day. 
 
 And now the roll of musketry 
 
 Comes to him from afar ; 
 The cannon s boom, the rattling drum, 
 
 And all the sounds of war 
 While faster, faster spurs he on 
 
 To join the glorious fray ; 
 O er turf and clod he flies roughshod 
 
 To reach the field to-day. 
 
 The race is finished in the fight 
 
 The death-shots thickly fly, 
 And brave men fall on left and right, 
 
 Who conquer but to die. 
 The victory near, he knows no fear, 
 
 And revels in the fray 
 Who rode roughshod o er turf and clod 
 
 To reach the field to-day. 
 
O ER TURF AND CLOD. 53 
 
 ******** 
 
 The battle raged the livelong day, 
 
 At night the foe had fled ; 
 But lo ! the captain and his bay 
 
 Were lying with the dead. 
 The tale is told by comrades old, 
 
 And I have heard them say 
 How, o er turf and clod to the throne of God, 
 
 The captain rode that day. 
 
54 WHEN THE SUNFLOWERS BLOOM. 
 
 WHEN THE SUNFLOWERS 
 BLOOM. 
 
 VE bin off on a journey, I jes got home to 
 day ; 
 I traveled east an north, an south, an 
 
 every other way ; 
 I ve seen a heap o country, an cities on the 
 
 boom, 
 
 But I want to be in Kansas when the 
 
 Sun- 
 Flowers 
 
 Bloom. 
 
WHEN THE SUNFLOWERS BLOOM. 55 
 
 Oh, it s nice among the mount ns, but I sorter 
 
 felt shet in ; 
 Twould be nice upon the seashore ef it wasn t 
 
 fer the din ; 
 While the prairies air so quiet, an there s always 
 
 lots o room ; 
 
 Oh, it s nicer still in Kansas when the 
 
 Sun- 
 Flowers 
 
 Bloom. 
 
 You may talk about yer lilies, yer vi lets and yer 
 
 roses, 
 Yer asters, an yer jassymins an all the other 
 
 posies ; 
 I ll allow they all air beauties an full er sweet 
 
 perfume, 
 
 But there s none of em a patchin to the 
 
 Sun- 
 Flower s 
 
 Bloom. 
 
56 WHEN THE SUNFLOWERS BLOOM. 
 
 When all the sky above is jest ez blue ez blue 
 
 can be, 
 
 An the prairies air a-wavin like a yallar drift- 
 in sea, 
 Oh, tis here my soul goes sailin an my heart is 
 
 on the boom ; 
 
 In the golden fields of Kansas when the 
 
 Sun- 
 Flowers 
 
 Bloom. 
 
STRAYED. 57 
 
 STRAYED. 
 
 I WONDER, sometimes, as I sit alone, 
 
 When the cares of the busy day are over, 
 
 And the books are closed, and the clerks are gone, 
 What has become of that careless rover 
 
 That I knew so well some years ago 
 
 As a devil-may-care, wild sort of a fellow, 
 
 With a face like mine, only younger you know, 
 Not quite so wrinkled, nor half so yellow. 
 
 He vanished one glorious day in June, 
 
 The happiest day in all my life ; " 
 We never missed him till he was gone, 
 
 And a woman stood by that I called "my wife." 
 
 And I soon forgot I had ever known 
 
 Such a devil-may-care, wild sort of a rover, 
 
 Save now and then as I sit alone 
 
 When the cares of the busy day are over. 
 
58 THE TOUCH OF ART. 
 
 Then, someiimes, I wonder where he can be, 
 For we never have seen him about since then, 
 
 But he looked altogether so much like me 
 That I m glad he never came back again. 
 
 THE TOUCH OF ART. 
 
 SOMETIMES the day is dark and all goes wrong, 
 And clouds hang dull and heavy o er the land, 
 And lonesome longings lie about the heart. 
 
 Then, by and by, they shape themselves to song 
 And chords awakened by the master hand 
 Soothe other souls to peace and this is art. 
 
THE END OF A DREAM. 59 
 
 THE END OF A DREAM. 
 
 THE sun was just as bright, perhaps, 
 
 That afternoon in May, 
 And the meadows just as green, I think, 
 
 As they are there to-day ; 
 And the sky and sea were just as blue, 
 
 And yet it seemed to me 
 A cloud was over all the land, 
 
 A storm o er all the sea. 
 
 For we had met there on the shore 
 
 We two, had met to part 
 And the cloud was in my aching brain, 
 
 The storm within my heart ; 
 And I knew before we met there 
 
 That I could but hear the worst, 
 Yet when I looked into her face 
 
 I thought my heart would burst. 
 
60 THE END OF A DREAM. 
 
 She was so pale, so beautiful, 
 
 She spoke so sad^and sweet, 
 Her voice came like the murmur 
 
 Of the w 7 aters at our feet ; 
 While the gentle breeze played softly 
 
 With her loosely-prisoned hair; 
 I took her pure, white hand in mine, 
 
 Twas cold, and trembled there. 
 
 But when I asked if she were cold, 
 
 She only shook her head. 
 "The day is fair, and I am warm 
 
 Except at heart," she said. 
 And as she told me of the wrong 
 
 That severed her from me, 
 I begged her to seek out a home 
 
 With me beyond the sea. 
 
 But she gently, firmly answered, 
 
 That her duty was to stay 
 That a parent had commanded 
 
 And she could not disobey ; 
 And she told me as we parted, 
 
 That we must not meet again 
 The past could only bring regret, 
 
 The present only pain. 
 
THE MIRROR. 6 1 
 
 And then we kissed and said good-by, 
 
 Just as we used to do. 
 I saw a tear was in her eye, 
 
 And one was in mine, too. 
 The pleasant dream is ended now, 
 
 As all dreams end at last. 
 I know not if my life is worse, 
 
 Or better, for the past ! 
 
 THE MIRROR. 
 
 WITHIN the glass 
 Our shadows pass, 
 
 Like phantoms one by one, 
 But in the glass 
 Our lips may kiss 
 
 No image save their own. 
 
62 HIS POEM. 
 
 HIS POEM. 
 
 HE was a knightly youth of long ago 
 
 Who sallied forth to battle with the world 
 And win a laurel wreath and gaily twirled 
 
 His untried lance, and shield that glistened so. 
 
 Unwary youth ! Alas, how could he know 
 
 What barriers before him might be hurled : 
 And one by one his vanities were furled 
 
 Till hope lay dead within his breast ; and lo, 
 
 His heart grew faint and faltered in the strife. 
 For him would ne er be woven laurel crown. 
 He gave it up, he could no longer cope ; 
 
 And only wrote the poem of his life 
 
 In one bright tear, that trickled softly down 
 Among the ashes of a blighted hope. 
 
MY TWO POETS. 63 
 
 MY TWO POETS. 
 
 A PORTRAIT hangs above me as I write 
 A poet s face, done by a poet s hand ; 
 
 And both have been my masters, one, my friend ; 
 And I have loved them both ; and, oh ! to-night 
 
 I love thenf still, and think perhaps they know, 
 For they are dust and ashes long ago. 
 
 Yes, I have thought the shades of these dear two 
 Must feel the yearning of my hungry heart ; 
 The stretching of my arms to the unseen ; 
 My gaze into the darkness ; and have been, 
 Of my unsated life, the better part. 
 And I have called as if they really knew 
 
 Oh, precious thought ! And am I all to blame ? 
 And yet and yet no answer ever came. 
 
64 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 A STORM swept over the land last night 
 A rush of wind and sweep of rain 
 
 And ruin and w r reck have marked its flight, 
 But now, at morn, there is peace again. 
 
 Here is a tree laid flat to the grass, 
 And here is another twisted and torn ; 
 
 But the birds break forth in a song as I pass, 
 And my lungs are filled with the breath of morn. 
 
 A storm swept over my heart one night 
 A rush of anger a flood of wrath ; 
 
 And its furious flight was marked with blight, 
 And wrecks lay thick in its path. 
 
 But now, at morn, when the sun in the East 
 Is mirrored by every blade of grass, 
 
 The winds are stilled, and the floods have ceased, 
 And a song breaks forth as I pass. 
 
FROM AFAR. 
 
 FROM AFAR. 
 
 O-NIGHT a spirit leadeth me 
 Beyond the land, above the sea 
 Amid the mists where memory 
 Must pause and grope and seek advice. 
 Beyond the shore, beyond the wave, 
 Where memory lingers by the grave 
 Of babyhood, and lilies bloom 
 In fadeless glory round the tomb ; 
 So pure, so fair, 
 They blossom there, 
 While faint, sweet echoes fill the air, 
 Like tinkling chimes from paradise. 
 
 Dear mother, as the day wears on, 
 
 My heart turns backward toward the dawn, 
 
 The fairest hours, the soonest gone, 
 
 And through an atmosphere of dreams 
 Thy cradle songs 1 seem to hear, 
 
66 FROM AFAR. 
 
 Thy magic tales still charm my ear, 
 And from those rhymes 
 And dream-lit times 
 
 A flood of inspiration streams. 
 
 Dear father as I wander back 
 To-night, along the winding track 
 Where I have passed 
 Until, at last, 
 
 I turn to view the toilsome way, 
 In many a dim, uncertain place, 
 When faint and faltering in the race, 
 I can but mark, 
 Amid the dark, 
 
 Thy reassuring ray, 
 Thy calm advice, thy quiet grace 
 That led me to the day. 
 
 Oh, parents, little did I guess 
 In youth your tender watchfulness ; 
 , The days of care, 
 The hours of prayer, 
 
 The sacrifices made ; 
 But now, as falls the winter s snow 
 Upon your heads, ah, well I know 
 
KROM AFAR. 67 
 
 How great the debt of love I owe- 
 How little I have paid. 
 
 And, as the spirit leadeth me 
 Beyond the shore, beyond the sea, 
 Amid the mists afar and dim, 
 To recollection s utmost rim, 
 To where the deathless lilies wave 
 By babyhood s enchanted grave, 
 
 And night and morning meet, 
 I gather from those blossoms rare 
 A fadeless wreath, and from the air 
 Those tinkling, tender chimes that seem 
 Like music mingling with a dream ; 
 
 And from those chimes 
 
 And dream-lit times 
 
 I weave this simple wreath of rhymes 
 And lay it at your feet. 
 
68 THE WOODMAN S DREAM. 
 
 THE WOODMAN S DREAM. 
 
 ON the bank of a flowing river, 
 Far up mid the mountains green, 
 
 A woodman sighed for the prairies wide, 
 And the cities he ne er had seen. 
 
 Said the woodman, "I m weary of mountains 
 
 I am sick of the river s flow ; 
 But lo, I have been so long shut in, 
 
 That I know not where to go." 
 
 On the banks of that murmuring river 
 
 He dreamed a wonderful dream ; 
 And an angel came, in an aureate flame, 
 
 And stood by. the flowing stream. 
 
 And the woodman said, " Oh, angel, 
 
 I am old and the tide runs low, 
 But I want to go forth to the great, wide earth, 
 
 Oh, show me the way to go. 
 
INFINITY. 69 
 
 " I want to behold the cities 
 
 And the glories of other lands;" 
 But the angel was gone, and he woke at dawn 
 
 In a city not made with hands. 
 
 INFINITY. 
 
 BIG fish have little fish 
 
 On which to make their dinners, 
 And little fish have lesser fish 
 
 And so the thing continners. 
 
 Just turn the thing around about 
 Twill work the other way, sir, 
 
 For big fish find bigger fish 
 To catch em every day, sir. 
 
70 PERSIMMONS. 
 
 PERSIMMONS. 
 
 OH, it makes no diff rence whether 
 
 We have dark or sunny weather, 
 Or whether the season s a dry one er a wet, 
 
 You can bet your bottom dollar 
 
 That the trees along the holler 
 Will be full of big persimmons, for they ve never 
 failed us yet. 
 
 Oh, the corn an oats an wheat crop, 
 Turnips, taters an the beet crop, 
 Are now an then a fizzle, an it makes us swear 
 
 an sweat ; . 
 
 But there s one thing we can bank on 
 That we ve never drawed a blank on 
 It s the simmon crop in Kansas that has never 
 failed us yet. 
 
PERSIMMONS. 71 
 
 When the leaves are fallin , fallin , 
 An departin birds are callin , 
 Callin sof ly to each other, " It is time for us to 
 
 get;" 
 
 When the year s expirin ember 
 Flings its light along November, 
 We will gather in our simmon crop that never 
 failed us yet. 
 
72 A WORN OUT WOMAN RESTS. 
 
 A WORN OUT WOMAN RESTS. 
 
 POOR, tired hands that toiled so hard for me, 
 
 At rest before me, now, I see them lying. 
 They toiled so hard, and yet we could not see 
 That she was dying. 
 
 Poor, rough, red hands that drudged the live- 
 
 long day, 
 
 Still busy when the midnight oil was burning. 
 Oft toiling on until she saw the gray 
 Of day returning. 
 
 If I could sit and hold those tired hands, 
 
 And feel the warm life-blood within them beat 
 ing, 
 
 And gaze with her across the twilight lands, 
 Some whispered words repeating. 
 
A WORN OUT WOMAN RESTS. 73 
 
 I think to-night that I would love her so, 
 
 And I could tell my love to her so truly, 
 That, e en though tired, she would not wish to go 
 And leave me thus unduly. 
 
 Poor, tired heart, that had so weary grown, 
 
 That death came all unheeded o er it creeping. 
 How still it is to sit here all alone 
 While she is sleeping ! 
 
 Dear, patient heart that deemed the heavy care 
 Of drudging household toil its highest duty : 
 That laid aside its precious yearnings there 
 Along with beauty. 
 
 Dear heart and hands, so pulseless still and cold, 
 (How peacefully and dreamlessly she s sleep 
 ing !) 
 
 The spotless shroud of rest about them fold 
 And leave me weeping. 
 
74 THK ANGLER. 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 THE sun looks down on many a stream, 
 The stream beholds but one bright sun, 
 
 And in a fair reflected beam 
 It sparkles till the day is done. 
 
 I know beneath that limpid tide, 
 
 In those cool depths, far out of sight, 
 
 Uncounted trout and bass abide 
 I know, and yet they never bite. 
 
 I know this is as fair a spot 
 
 As ever human heart could wish, 
 
 And yet the other side, I wot, 
 Looks like a better place to fish. 
 
THE ANGLER. 75 
 
 I ve said that failure is a crime, 
 
 A culpable, excuseless thing, 
 And yet 1 know that I must climb 
 
 The hill path with an empty string. 
 
 I know that truth s a jewel bright, 
 
 I know it and I heave a sigh, 
 To think that I ll go home to-night 
 
 And tell a great, unholy lie. 
 
76 THE COLLARLESS DOG. 
 
 THE COLLARLESS DOG. 
 
 IN the mire and the slush, in the grovelling rush 
 
 Of the dirtiest street in the city, 
 
 A miserable waif, uncared for, unsafe, 
 
 Unknown to protection or pity, 
 
 I am seeking for bread, to get beatings instead 
 
 Or morsels unfit for a hog 
 
 I am leading a life of contemptible strife, 
 
 For I m only a collarless dog. 
 
 I skulk, and I hide on the opposite side 
 
 Of the street, and I shiver and start 
 
 When I see in the distance that bane of existence, 
 
 The merciless dog-catcher s cart. 
 
 No shelter, no home, and I ceaselessly roam, 
 
 The street gamins kick me and flog, 
 
 No pity they know for a being so low 
 
 As a miserable collarless dog. 
 
THE COLLARLESS DOG. 77 
 
 Philanthropists, hark to my pitiful bark 
 
 As you daintily trip on your way ; 
 
 Do you think you ll discover, the city all over, 
 
 A being more wretched to-day? 
 
 They only throw stones ! as if skin covered bones 
 
 Had feelings no more than a log ; 
 
 And little I care, I am used to hard fare 
 
 For I m only a collarless dog. 
 
 Full well do I know that I some day shall go 
 
 By the route that my brothers have passed ; 
 
 For the dog-catcher s cart, and his merciless art 
 
 Will win in the struggle at last. 
 
 Then, away to the pound, no more to be found 
 
 In humanity s bustle and clog, 
 
 And a plunge in the river will wind up forever 
 
 The woes of a collarless dog. 
 
78 CONCERNIN SOME FOLKS. 
 
 CONCERNIN SOME FOLKS. 
 
 SOME folks is allers grumblin , no matter what 
 
 they ve got, 
 A-fmding fault with what they have, an wantin 
 
 what they ve not. 
 An you d think, to hear em-kickin an a-cussin of 
 
 their luck, 
 That the world s a bad investment an the Lord s 
 
 a-gettin stuck ; 
 An it riles me up to hear em a-complainin all 
 
 the time, 
 With their measly misconception of the works o 
 
 the Sublime, 
 
 An it sets me to reflectin on the merits of the case, 
 An a-drawin of conclusions appertainin to the 
 
 race ; 
 
CONCERN IN SOME FOLKS.- 79 
 
 Till I ve sorter got to thinkin that it s sinful to 
 
 complain, 
 That there s jest as much of pleasure as there ever 
 
 was of pain ; 
 That there ain t no more to cuss about than what 
 
 there is to bless, 
 
 An things are pretty ekally divided up, I guess ; 
 For when you strike a balance twixt the shadder 
 
 an the sun, 
 The two will allers ekallize when all is said an 
 
 done ; 
 An the world is balanced even, er it wouldn t 
 
 spin aroun , 
 An the hills ll fill the hollers when the thing is 
 
 leveled down. 
 There s another old-time doctrine, an I ve found 
 
 it mighty true, 
 
 That you never get a thing without a-losin some- 
 thin too ; 
 That there never was a gain without a correspon- 
 
 din loss ; 
 That you re not agoin to wear a crown unless you 
 
 bear a cross. 
 An when you see a pint in life, the where you d 
 
 like to get, 
 
 UTU7BRSIT7 
 
8o CONCERNIN SOME FOLKS. 
 
 You may make it soon er later, but you ll pay fur 
 it, I bet. 
 
 A man may get the larnin of the sciences an sich, 
 
 An another deal in futures an may strike it sud 
 den rich, 
 
 But the first has lost the peace of mind that once 
 he used to feel, 
 
 An the last has lost the relish of the hard-earned, 
 honest meal. 
 
 An when you see a feller that has got things ex 
 tra nice, 
 
 You can gambol than fur all he s got he s paid 
 the market price. 
 
 An if your life was figured out, I ll tell you what, 
 my friend, 
 
 You d find it balanced just the same as his n at 
 the end. 
 
 Then quit your fool complainin an a-studyin 
 how to shirk, 
 
 For the time you spend in cussin you can better 
 spend in work. 
 
 Things do take on a billions look, at times, I must 
 admit, 
 
 But a kickin an complainin won t help the thing 
 a bit. 
 
CONCERNIN SOME FOLKS. 81 
 
 An the clouds that come a driftin by 11 vanish 
 
 one by one, 
 An a-peerin from behind em is the glory of the 
 
 sun. 
 There s as much of sun as shadder in every drap 
 
 o dew, 
 There s as much of day as darkness when you 
 
 take the year all through ; 
 There s as much of sun as shadder in every human 
 
 heart, 
 An of day an night in every life you ll find an 
 
 ekal part. 
 
 An should there be a residue a-stan in either way, 
 The Lord ll make it ekal on the other side, some 
 
 day. 
 
82 THE BOOK-KEEPER. 
 
 THE BOOK-KEEPER. 
 
 ALL day he toiled with book an pen 
 The same as lots of other men. 
 Sometimes at night the clerks would say, 
 " Bill Smith, you goin home to-day ? " 
 An Bill ud lift his tired face, 
 An make a mark to keep his place, 
 An sorter sigh, an say that he 
 Was ready as he d ever be, 
 He reckoned. 
 
 An years went by, an seasons flew 
 An somehow Bill was never through. 
 An when, one day, the Angel came 
 An gently whispered William s name, 
 Bill sorter raised his eyes to look, 
 A minnit, from his balance book. 
 "All, right ; I m comin now," says he, 
 " I m ready as I ll ever be, 
 " I reckon." 
 
REVISITED. 83 
 
 REVISITED. 
 
 NOPE, I never was an advercate fer clearin up 
 
 the Ian , 
 An I never was in favor of these medders made 
 
 by han ; 
 If them folks at live back yander air so bent on 
 
 raisin hay, 
 They hed better sell an come out West is all 
 
 I ve got to say; 
 An they d better move to Kansas, where there s 
 
 miles of verdant sod, 
 Than to waste the r time a-tryin to improve the 
 
 works o God. 
 
84 REVISITED. 
 
 Why, las fall I went to Hampshire, just to see 
 
 the brook ag in 
 Where I use to fish in boyhood s days twas 
 
 night when I got in 
 An I hadn t seen oP Hampshire s hills fer forty 
 
 years er more, 
 So I riz at day nex mornin and surveyed the 
 
 lan scape o er ; 
 An I looked across the valley jes as fur as I c u d 
 
 see, 
 An I saw the grass a-waviri 1 ivher the timber use" 1 
 
 to be. 
 
 An when I went down to the brook the water 
 
 wasn t there, 
 An the music of its meller voice hed vanished 
 
 in the air ; 
 For they ve cut off all the ellums, jes to put the 
 
 Ian in hay, 
 An the sun hes burnt the water tell it s all b iled 
 
 away ; 
 An when I saw the pore ol brook, I set down by 
 
 its side, 
 
 An I guess I could nt help it, fer I jes broke 
 down an cried. 
 
REVISITED. 85 
 
 Nope, I never was an advercate of clearin up 
 
 the Ian , 
 An I never was in favor of these medders made 
 
 by han ; 
 So I guess I ll stay in Kansas jes a-turnin up 
 
 the sod, 
 Where the sun-flowers air a-bloomin by the 
 
 medder-lands o God. 
 
86 A WEARY PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 A WEARY PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 HE sleeps. 
 Calmly he lies, 
 His tired eyes 
 
 Forever closed. 
 Such perfect rest 
 In that calm breast 
 
 Never reposed. 
 
 Worn with the strife, 
 And burdens of life, 
 
 Soundly he slumbers ; 
 Heedless that I, 
 Standing near by, 
 
 Murmur these numbers. 
 
A WEARY PHILOSOPHER. 87 
 
 Tireless he pondered 
 While the world wondered 
 
 At his seclusion. 
 Problems that vexed him, 
 Long years perplexed him, 
 
 Now find solution. 
 
 Calmly he left us, 
 That which bereft us, 
 
 Came without warning. 
 Dreaming they thought him, 
 While darkness had brought him 
 
 Another morning. 
 
88 AN ANSWER TO "LITTLE BOY BLUE." 
 
 AN ANSWER TO "LITTLE BOY BLUE." 
 
 [TO EUGENE FIELD.] 
 
 IF Little Boy Blue had played out in the dirt 
 
 With a top and a twisted string, 
 In cotton trousers and checkered shirt, 
 
 And swung on a grapevine swing ; 
 Then the little toy dog, so bright and new, 
 
 And the soldier so "passing fair" 
 Would never have yearned for the "Little Boy 
 Blue" 
 
 Who kissed them and put them there." 
 
 For a Little Boy Blue must get spattered with 
 mud 
 
 And wade in the branch, and swim ; 
 The splash in the water will quicken his blood, 
 
 And dirt is a boon to him ! 
 Oh, pent-up nurs ries and toys so new ! 
 
 Oh, graves ! and the dumb despair 
 Of the hearts that ache for a Little Boy Blue, 
 
 When we ve kissed him and laid him there ! 
 
PADEREWSKI. 89 
 
 PADEREWSKI. 
 
 I HEARKENED last night to his playing 
 
 This poet from over the sea, 
 And the grace of that marvelous music 
 
 Has ministered unto me. 
 
 Twas a cadence of angel voices 
 
 And it strengthened my spirit like wine, 
 As he poured out his soul in its message, 
 
 And blended it into mine. 
 
 I know very little of music, 
 
 And I care not for technical worth, 
 But I know that the sound of that singing 
 
 Has fitted me better for earth. 
 
go LE ROI EST MORT. 
 
 LE ROI EST MORT. 
 
 IT is the hour of the expiring Year. 
 
 His garnered days are gathered in the sheaf ; 
 
 The glory and the grandeur and the grief 
 Are ended now and only death is here. 
 Tread lightly, and let fall, perchance, a tear 
 
 For this poor king whose reign was all too brief : 
 
 Whose splendor has become a withered leaf 
 A flickering candle, and a waiting bier. 
 
 But hark ! the stroke is on the midnight hour ! 
 See ! he is clutching, gasping, he is gone ! 
 
 This infant at the door ! what doth he bring ? 
 Ring out ! Ring out ! from every town and tower. 
 Ring out the bells until the break of dawn, 
 And shout, "The king is dead ! Long live 
 the king." 
 
UNBIDDEN. 
 
 UNBIDDEN. 
 
 I GAVE up making verses long ago 
 I said, " For me it is a useless thing, 
 For fate hath clipped my roving fancy s wing, 
 
 And quenched the flame it can no longer glow." 
 
 Ah, foolish heart ! How little do we know 
 The captive bird will still, unbidden, sing, 
 And though upon my harp is snapped each 
 string, 
 
 As well to bid the river not to flow ; 
 
 For when fair Nature s beauties I behold, 
 
 Or dream upon the days that once have been, 
 
 The spark that I believed was dead and cold 
 Doth glow and burn and burst to flame again ; 
 
 And words that I can scarce believe my own 
 
 Leap to my lips I cannot keep them down. 
 
Q2 WHAT THE WINDS SAID. 
 
 WHAT THE WINDS SAID. 
 
 OH, a wind came whispering out of the west 
 
 And these are the words that it said to me, 
 " Of all life s treasures love is trie best," 
 Oh, a wind came whispering out of the west, 
 All up from a summer sea. 
 
 A wind came whispering out of the east 
 
 And these are the words that it murmured low. 
 "Of all life s treasures wealth is the least," 
 Oh, the winds came out of the west and the east 
 And they told the truth, I know. 
 
THAT RED-HAIRED GIRL. 93 
 
 THAT RED-HAIRED GIRL. 
 
 THAT red-haired girl, with azure eye 
 Just now I saw her tripping by ! 
 
 What makes me start and tremble so ? 
 
 Tis not that red-haired girl, I know ! 
 And yet, somehow, I heave a sigh. 
 
 For she is fair and tall, while I, 
 Alas, am dark, and thin, and dry ; 
 
 What stuff is this I ve writ ! but oh, 
 That red-haired girl ! 
 
 What odds to me, you say ? Oh, my, 
 
 How hard it is to tell a lie 
 
 When one beholds that throat of snow 
 And eyes grow dim, and pulses go ! 
 
 God bless my soul s delight ! Who ? Why, 
 That red-haired girl. 
 
94 A CHRISTMAS WAIF. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS WAIF. 
 
 I WILL sing you a song of the long ago, 
 
 A tale of a little child 
 
 Who came one night through the sleet and snow 
 To a Christmas feast in the long ago, 
 
 When the night was dark and wild. 
 
 Who crept away from its wretched home 
 
 To the lights across the way, 
 Where the warmth and bloom of the rich man s 
 
 room 
 Dispelled from his little breast the gloom 
 
 That had filled it all that day. 
 
 And he clambered up to the casement wide, 
 
 And drank in the vision fair, 
 
 Of the rich man s hearth and the rich man s pride, 
 And the happy children that side by side 
 
 Were treading the dances there. 
 
A CHRISTMAS WAIF. 95 
 
 \ 
 
 And he soon forgot the pitiless storm 
 
 As he hearked to that merry din ; 
 He felt not the blast on his shrinking form, 
 And his brain grew light, and his heart grew warm 
 
 From the light and the warmth within. 
 
 And softly over him slumber crept, 
 
 And softly the glow and the gleam 
 Faded out from the weary eyes that slept, 
 Transformed, as the storm unheeded swept, 
 Into a wonderful dream. 
 
 Where he floated away on a cloud of gold, 
 
 Over a silver sea, 
 
 To a magical island where hunger and cold 
 Can never be found and have never been told ; 
 Where summer eternal its glories unfold, 
 
 And sorrow will never be. 
 
 And down to the shore of that mystical isle 
 
 A beautiful angel came, 
 And she held out her hand, and she seemed to 
 
 smile 
 To welcome the waif to that wonderful isle, 
 
 And tenderly called his name. 
 
96 A CHRISTMAS WAIF. 
 
 Then gladly he followed, a-nd hand in hand, 
 
 Those blossoming fields they trod, 
 Till lo ! in the distance a cherubic band, 
 Surrounded the King of that glorious land, 
 And the angel whispered that held his hand, 
 "Thou, too, art a lamb of God." 
 
 * ***** 
 
 And Christmas morning came, cold and bright, 
 For the storm with the night had fled, . 
 
 And there in the casement, crowned with light. 
 
 And robed in a shroud of spotless white, 
 A little child lay dead. 
 
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE. 97 
 
 THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 ON Judah s plain one winter night 
 
 A message to some shepherds came ; 
 A star appeared, supremely bright, 
 
 And rested over Bethlehem, 
 While glory shone around. 
 Prostrate upon the ground 
 
 They fell, and then a voice, 
 From out the flood of radiance, said 
 " Fear not, for I have come to bid 
 
 Mankind rejoice." 
 
 And from the vaults of heaven high, 
 The shepherds heard this joyous cry, 
 
 " The child is born, 
 Haste thee and follow yonder star 
 That guideth onward from afar, 
 
 Nor wait for morn. 
 
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 " Within a manger thou shalt find 
 The infant ruler of mankind, 
 
 Jesus, thy king." 
 And then a fair celestial throng, 
 United in a joyous song 
 
 Of welcoming. 
 
 " Glory to God," the angels sang, 
 
 " Peace and good will," the heavens rang, 
 
 "To all the earth." 
 
 "The Lord has come, the king of kings 
 A heavenly host rejoicing sings 
 
 To greet His birth." 
 
 To teach mankind a better way, 
 To light them with a purer ray 
 
 The Savior came. 
 He came to be their patient guide, 
 For love of them He lived, and died 
 
 A death of shame. 
 
 Still through the night, 
 His holy light 
 
 Is guiding them. 
 Still beams the star 
 That rose afar 
 
 O er Bethlehem. 
 
THE MYSTICAL SEA. 99 
 
 THE MYSTICAL SEA. 
 
 Oh love, I am wandering back to-day 
 
 Through the valleys of memory ; 
 They lie betwixt mountains far away 
 The mountains of Hope and of Youth are they, 
 And I m dreaming again of that night, to-day, 
 
 By the mystical southern sea. 
 
 Oh, love, I loved you that far-off night ! 
 
 By the mystical southern sea. 
 The breeze was light and the stars were bright, 
 And the sea-gulls flashed in their circling flight, 
 As we sat alone on that far-off night, 
 
 When you whispered your love for me. 
 
IOO 
 
 THE MYSTICAL SEA. 
 
 Oh, I kissed your lips and I clasped your hands, 
 
 By that mystical southern sea, 
 While softly the waves were kissing the sands, 
 And ships went a-sailing to distant lands, 
 As I kissed your lips and I clasped your hands, 
 
 When you whispered your love to me. 
 
 Oh, love, a storm has swept the shore 
 
 Of that mystical southern sea ; 
 The waves still kiss as they kissed before ; 
 But the ships that sailed will return no more 
 And the youth and the love and the hopes of yore 
 
 Will never come back to me, 
 
 Ah, me, 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
THE THREE CARAVELS. IOI 
 
 THE THREE CARAVELS. 
 
 FULL far I ve searched, through many climes, 
 For pregnant theme and dulcet rhymes ; 
 To sing the day and suit the times 
 
 I ve sought the country over ; 
 Three ships that sail before the breeze 
 From Spanish main to Southern seas 
 To anchor in the Antilles, 
 
 Are all that I discover. 
 
 Three little ships that long ago 
 
 Forgot the billow and the blow, 
 
 By worm, and wind, and wave laid low 
 
 On ocean s briny bottom. 
 Who knows beneath what tropic sky, 
 And sapphire sea their ashes lie? 
 Who asks of wherefore, whence, and why, 
 
 Since Davy Jones has got em ? 
 
IO2 THE THREE CARAVELS. 
 
 Now, having sought for rhymes that ring 
 For thoughts that throb, and words that sing 
 My caravels are taking wing, 
 
 I ask that you shall heed em. 
 Gone ! did I say ? Aye, dead and gone, 
 No more their sails shall fleck the dawn, 
 But mark, their souls go sailing on ! 
 
 Tis LOVE and PEACE and FREEDOM. 
 
 And love sails first through all the world ! 
 A bark of gold with decks empearled 
 Its snowy canvas all unfurled 
 
 Its coffers jewel-laden. 
 The banner-ship of all mankind ! 
 Its pilot old, and deaf, and blind, 
 Yet braving reef, and wave, and wind, 
 
 For eager youth and maiden. 
 
 Fair ship, that finds on many seas 
 A welcome tide and wafting breeze, 
 Press on with sweet discoveries, 
 
 Thy priceless burden bearing ! 
 How fair she rides each foamy crest ! 
 Still sailing to the west the west ! 
 And finds at last in every breast 
 
 A little rest from faring. 
 
THE THREE CARAVELS. 103 
 
 But see ! Another vessel comes ! 
 With flying flags and throbbing drums ; 
 Above its bow the tempest hums 
 
 While cannons belch and thunder. 
 Tis Freedom ! and its turbid track 
 Is strewn with dead, and red, and rack, 
 Yet onward sweeps and turns not back 
 
 Though nations pause and wonder. 
 
 Avenging bark, sail on sail on ! 
 
 Till every throne is overthrown 
 
 Till men shall rise and claim their own 
 
 From tyrant and invader. 
 Till Freedom s blessed name shall roll 
 Through every clime to every soul 
 From heaven to earth from pole to pole 
 
 From Zenith unto Nadir ! 
 
 Lo ! wind and wave once more are stirred, 
 And hearts, grow faint with hope deferred, 
 Leap high, as, like a timid bird, 
 
 The bark of Peace is sighted. 
 A white-winged dove, oft beaten back- 
 That follows ever in the track 
 Of Freedom, and with turn and tack 
 
 Bears on to hearts united. 
 
104 THE THREE CARAVELS. 
 
 Sweet ship of Peace ! thy lines are cast 
 Where storm is done and strife is past 
 Where tyranny has breathed its last 
 
 And slave has burst his fetter ; 
 Thy freight is Progress ; and thy way 
 Is lighted by the living ray 
 Of heaven s smile, and day by day, 
 
 The \vorld shall know thee better. 
 
 Thus have I sought for .rhymes that ring, 
 For thoughts that tell, and themes that sing, 
 And lo ! my barks have taken wing, 
 
 I ask that you shall speed em. 
 Dead, did I say? Their ashes lie 
 Low neath a southern sea and sky, 
 But still their souls go sailing by- 
 Man s love, and peace, and freedom. 
 
 Sail on ! Sail on ! My vessels three, 
 Through all the centuries to be 
 Till hearts awake and tongues are free 
 
 Wherever word is spoken ! 
 Till Bigotry shall cease to blight 
 And Zeal at last shall wed with Right- 
 Till Love and Truth shall win the fight 
 
 And Peace shall reign unbroken ! 
 
TWO OF US. IO5 
 
 TWO OF US. 
 
 I GO from the hills at break of day 
 To my daily toil in the busy town ; 
 
 I meet another upon the way, 
 And he comes up as I go down. 
 
 He comes from the city to dig in the hills ; 
 
 I go from the hills to dig in town ; 
 He carries his mattock, I my books, 
 
 As he comes up and I go down. 
 
 We two are strangers, and yet we nod 
 And smile to each other upon the way ; 
 
 We two are toilers for daily bread, 
 
 Going forth to dig at the break of day. 
 
 At evening time when our work is done, 
 And silence falls on the busy town, 
 
 We meet again, and we say "good-night," 
 As I come up and he goes down. 
 
106 TO A MOUNTAIN SUMMIT. 
 
 I come from the city to rest in the hills ; 
 
 He goes from the hills to rest in town ; 
 Two weary toilers who say good-night 
 
 As one goes up and the other down. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN SUMMIT, USED AS A 
 PAPER WEIGHT.* 
 
 THOU who a million centuries hath been 
 
 An index of th illimitable God 
 
 With tip-toe on the everlasting hills 
 
 And finger touching the eternal blue 
 
 To what strange uses art condemned to-day ; 
 
 Reft from thy ancient friend, the far horizon, 
 To range beside a score of tinsel gems ; 
 Shut out from heaven, and all the smile of God- 
 To bask in mortal favor, and become 
 The tolerated trifle of a king ! 
 
 *The German Rmperor uses as a paper-weight on his writing- 
 desk the summit of one of the highest mountains of Africa. Dr. 
 Buchner, an African traveler of some fame, broke the piece of 
 rock from the highest point of Mount Kilimandjaro, which is on 
 German-African ground, and presented it to the Emperor. 
 
HALF-WAY. 107 
 
 HALF-WAY. 
 
 THE years that steal our youth away 
 Come drifting on come drifting on 
 
 Like snowflakes that endure a day 
 And then are gone. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Upon the hearth is blazing bright 
 An open fire I sit and dream, 
 
 And think how far into the night 
 And storm, its radiations stream. 
 
 And lo, within my heart, to-night, 
 
 The flame of youth flares up once more, 
 
 To shed a gleam of ruddy light 
 
 Through all the dark that lies before. 
 
I08 HALF-WAY. 
 
 And all the lost come back once more, 
 And all the dead things live again, 
 
 And footsteps echo on the floor, 
 And faces press against the pane. 
 
 And oh, I try so hard to catch 
 
 A whisper from the forms that pass, 
 
 To touch the hand that lifts the latch 
 The lips that tremble on the glass. 
 
 And seek to check the rising tears 
 
 For sweet dead joys, and loved ones gone, 
 
 For memories that like the years 
 Come drifting on come drifting on. 
 * * * * 
 
 My fire burns low, but through the gloom 
 Conies stealing in the gray of dawn. 
 
 The shadows skurry from the room 
 Till all are gone. 
 
 And morn is here the storm is past, 
 The room is filled with rosy day ; 
 
 But on my head is drifting fast 
 The snow that never melts away. 
 
PASTELS. ICQ 
 
 PASTELS. 
 
 A MORNING. 
 
 A WAVERING, misty sweep of greenish gray, 
 
 A sullen landscape and the flying clouds, 
 
 All gray and white, like parti-colored shrouds 
 
 A chill east wind, a sobbing drift of rain, 
 
 A heart that wakes to dull, returning pain 
 
 And so is ushered in another day. 
 
 AN EVENING. 
 
 A DARKENING waste of shadows, sombre brown 
 A line of lurid crimson far away 
 The waning edge of the departing day. 
 A row of poplars, black against the west : 
 A moaning wind, a heart that sighs for rest ; 
 And so another weary day goes down. 
 
no FATE S ALCHEMY. 
 
 FATE S ALCHEMY. 
 
 SHE was born to serve the muses, but she wedded 
 
 with a clown, 
 And the drudgery of living filled her life and 
 
 dragged her down. 
 
 She was hungry for life s treasures she had 
 
 dreams of fame and honor, 
 But they crumbled into ashes as her burdens 
 
 weighed upon her : 
 
 But she wrote one little poem with a touch di 
 vinely human ; 
 
 And it bore a holy message to the soul of one 
 lost woman. 
 
BEYOND. Ill 
 
 BEYOND. 
 
 I HAVE been told 
 
 There is a land of sweet tranqtiility, 
 Apart from life, and from life s sorrows free, 
 And often in my dreams I seem to see 
 
 It s fields of fadeless green : 
 A place where deathless roses bud and bloom 
 A land of light ; and yet a vail of gloom 
 Surrounds it and conceals it, while the tomb 
 
 Is but a gate, the earth and it between. 
 
 I only know 
 
 We reach its dusky portals soon or late, 
 And at the gloomy entrance trembling wait 
 Till we are summoned through that silent gate 
 
 Which none repass whence never word 
 
 can come. 
 
 Ah, anxiously I watch a dying friend 
 And follow with him to the very end, 
 Then, as I feel him drifting from me, bend 
 To catch a glimpse or whisper from beyond, 
 
 But all is dark and dumb. 
 
112 WEEVILY WHEAT. 
 
 "WEEVILY WHEAT." 
 
 SAY, Joe, do you remember the days we lived on 
 
 Rollin s prairie, 
 Content with our simple country ways and our 
 
 sweethearts Sue and Mary? 
 And those a kissin parties" we used to have, and 
 
 the game about the barley 
 And weevily wheat, with its queer old song about 
 
 the cake for Charlie? 
 
 " O, I ll have none of your weevily wheat, 
 And I ll have none of your barley, 
 
 O, I ll have none of your weevily wheat 
 To bake a cake for Charlie." 
 
WEEV1LY WHEAT. 113 
 
 And do you remember (I m sure you do) that glo 
 rious summer weather, 
 
 When you and I with Mary and Sue went pick 
 ing plums together? 
 
 And how at dusk as we loitered home through 
 fields of ripened barley, 
 
 We sang the song of "Weevily W T heat " and 
 baked the cake for Charley? 
 
 "O, Charlie he s a nice young man, 
 
 Charlie he s a dandy ; 
 And Charlie loves to kiss the girls 
 
 Whenever they come handy." 
 
 Alas, dear Joe, for you and me those happy days 
 
 are over, 
 For Mary s now beyond the sea and Sue beneath 
 
 the clover : 
 But sometimes when the days are dark and the 
 
 skein of life is snarly, 
 I think once more of " Weevily Wheat " and the 
 
 cake we baked for Charlie. 
 
 "Then I ll have none of your weevily wheat, 
 And I ll have none of your barley ; 
 
 O, I ll have none of your weevily wheat 
 To bake a cake for Charlie." 
 
A GHOST. 
 
 A GHOST. 
 
 O ER this undulating prairie, 
 
 Long ago, 
 Mighty waters marched with weary 
 
 Ebb and flow. 
 
 Stately ships, perhaps, did wander 
 
 Back and forth, 
 Mighty ice-flows drift and thunder 
 
 From the North. 
 
 Now, where rolled that restless ocean, 
 
 Long ago, 
 Tides of green, with ceaseless motion, 
 
 Meet and flow. 
 
 And this gentle, mystic murmur 
 
 Of the dawn 
 Is the voice of billows firmer 
 
 That are gone. 
 
A GHOST. 115 
 
 And the wraith of that old billow 
 
 Is the haze, 
 Floating softly through the mellow 
 
 Autumn days. 
 
 Amethystine, when the golden 
 
 Sun is low. 
 As the waves were in that olden 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 Mighty plain ! where greenly waving 
 
 Waters meet, 
 Thou art still an ocean, laving 
 
 At my feet ! 
 
Il6 A GENIUS. 
 
 A GENIUS. 
 
 BILL MACGAVERN was a "genius," in a quiet sort 
 
 of way ; 
 Some fine morning he d be famous (so his mother 
 
 used to say.) 
 He could fix a clock, and fiddle, and a lot of other 
 
 things, 
 And he made himself a "gitar," and could twang 
 
 upon the strings. 
 He could pick out " Annie Laurie," and the chords 
 
 of " Belle Mahone," 
 And would sit and sing at evening in a soothing 
 
 undertone, 
 With his dreamy gaze directed to a pale senescent 
 
 star, 
 While he milked the mournful music from his 
 
 primitive guitar. 
 
A GENIUS. 117 
 
 Well, the years went by, and somehow Bill re 
 mained about the same, 
 
 Though his mother died believing he was on the 
 road to fame. 
 
 Bill was full of dreams and notions, but achieve 
 ments seemed to lag ; 
 
 Bill was fond of Alice Holeman, but he married 
 Mantha Bragg. 
 
 Still he picks out "Annie Laurie," and the chords 
 of "Belle Mahone," 
 
 And he sings them to the babies in a soothing 
 undertone ; 
 
 And perhaps, sometimes, at evening, as he twangs 
 his old guitar, 
 
 William s vision is directed to a pale senescent 
 star. 
 
Il THE PARISH SCHOOL. 
 
 THE PARISH SCHOOL. 
 
 Two LITTLE nuns are teaching school 
 
 Near by on Cosy Street ; 
 I pass each morning, as a rule, 
 
 And now and then we meet. 
 
 The humble house is small and low ; 
 
 Its walls are rude and bare ; 
 And yet I loiter by, for, oh, 
 
 It seems so peaceful there ! 
 
 I never liked to go to school ; 
 
 I always rather play ; 
 I hated any kind of rule, 
 
 And sometimes ran away : 
 
THE PARISH SCHOOL. 
 
 But when I pass that little door, 
 And breathe that holy air, 
 
 I want to be a boy once more, 
 And learn my lessons there. 
 
 Oh, little nuns, with wimples white, 
 And hearts of purest gold, 
 
 My soul is troubled sore to-night, 
 My heart is growing cold. 
 
 Oh, little nuns of sable dress, 
 And souls of drifting snow, 
 
 Teach me the way of righteousness, 
 And I can learn, I know. 
 
120 THE WILD SUNFLOWER. 
 
 THE WILD SUNFLOWER. 
 
 AT early dawn, like soldiers in their places, 
 
 Rank upon rank the golden sunflowers stand ; 
 
 Gazing toward the east with eager faces, 
 
 Waiting until their god shall touch the land 
 
 To life and glory, longingly they wait 
 
 These voiceless watchers at the morning s gate. 
 
 Dawn s portals tremble silently apart ; 
 
 Far to the east, across the dewy plain, 
 A glory kindles, that in every heart 
 
 Finds answering warmth, and kindles there 
 
 again ; 
 
 While rapture beams from every radiant face 
 Now softly glowing with supernal grace. 
 
THE WILD SUNFLOWER. 121 
 
 And all day long this silent worship keeps ; 
 
 And as their god moves grandly down the west, 
 From every stem a lengthening shadow creeps 
 
 Toward the east ah, then they love him best, 
 And watch till every lingering ray is gone, 
 Then slowly turn to greet another dawn. 
 
122 WISHING FOR STARS. 
 
 WISHING FOR STARS. 
 
 [TO MY LITTLE FRIEND, CORINNE COSTON.] 
 
 "Oh, I wish at I had dess a bushel of gold 
 
 To buy all the stars in the sky, 
 For nen I d be good an my ma wouldn t scold 
 
 Cause I s tired of my play-fings an cry. 
 I d stwing em all up on a gweat, long stwing 
 Dess like little beadies, you know ; " 
 Oh, dear little Prue, 
 There are others, like you, 
 Who want all the stars in a row, 
 
 Little girl, 
 All the beautiful stars in a row. 
 
WISHING FOR STARS. 123 
 
 There are others, to-night, gazing up at the blue 
 
 And yearning for gold, with a sigh ; 
 They want to buy stars, and like you, little Prue, 
 
 Grow tired of their play-things and cry. 
 I, too, I confess, have a weakness for stars 
 And would like them all strung in a row, 
 For I gave all my toys 
 To some bad little boys 
 And they ve broken them, now, I know, 
 
 Little girl, 
 They ve broken my toys, I know. 
 
 Some night when I enter the valley of dreams 
 
 That lies in the kingdom of nod, 
 Where flitaways dance on the silvery beams 
 
 Sifting down from the lantern of God, 
 I will capture the daintiest fairy of all 
 And send her far up in the blue, 
 
 On her humming-bird wings, 
 With a lot of long strings 
 To gather the stars on for you, 
 
 Little girl, 
 To string all the stars for you. 
 
124 THAT MYSTERY. 
 
 THAT MYSTERY. 
 
 WHEN e er I try to reason out 
 The life that is and is to be, 
 
 The only thing I bring about 
 Is reason s cold philosophy. 
 
 The cradle stands upon the shore 
 
 Of that dark sea, whose restless wave 
 
 Lies close behind, and just before 
 Is tossing up against the grave. 
 
 We drift out from that dim unknown 
 Up to the shore of life, and then, 
 
 Ere long, we shape a bark, and soon 
 Drift out upon that sea again. 
 
THAT MYSTERY. 1 
 
 The world is but a tiny isle 
 
 Wherein to make a moment s stay 
 We pause and fret a little while 
 
 And then pursue our onward way. 
 
 We come, we go, who knoweth more ? 
 
 From what dim region were we borne? 
 And who shall say what other shore 
 
 Our bark may touch ere its return ? 
 
i 26 DEACON PETER S JASPER. 
 
 DEACON PETER S JASPER. 
 
 JASPER PETERS was a "shiftless sort of fellow" 
 
 people said, 
 Wouldn t work if he could help it and just laid 
 
 around and read ; 
 
 Always tinkering with sleight-of-hand and chem 
 icals and such, 
 And the neighbors " lowed " that Jasper wouldn t 
 
 " ever mount to much ; " 
 Though they did admit that he was "mighty 
 
 clever doin tricks," 
 And they wondered how he managed to make 
 
 fire and water mix : 
 Till one morning when the Deacon said that Jap. 
 
 had run away, 
 Then they sighed and kinder smiled and rather 
 
 hoped that he would stay. 
 
DEACON PETER S JASPER. 127 
 
 And they said twas "jes like Jasper" when they 
 
 learned at last that he 
 Was a sailor on a whaler in a far-off southern 
 
 sea. 
 
 Seven months the lapping waters lulled the 
 wanderer to sleep, 
 
 Then a storm swept o er the ocean and the temp 
 est rent the deep ; 
 
 And his shipmates and the gallant ship went 
 down to rise no more, 
 
 But our lucky hero drifted to a tropic island shore ; 
 
 Where a lot of dusky damsels found him tying 
 on the beach, 
 
 Freighted heavily with water and incapable of 
 speech ; 
 
 And they hastily conveyed him to their habita 
 tion where 
 
 They relieved him of his cargo and inflated him 
 with air ; 
 
 And they tenderly propelled him through a rack- 
 siege of croup, 
 
 And they bled him and they fed him and they 
 fattened him for soup ; 
 
128 DEACON PETER S JASPER. 
 
 And at length, when his condition was consid 
 ered quite the thing, 
 
 They conveyed him as a present to his majesty, 
 the king. 
 
 But Jap. rose before the elders of that sea-encir 
 cled land, 
 
 And he threw them into spasms with some feats 
 of sleight-of-hand ; 
 
 Till those semi-naked people swarmed about him 
 where he trod, 
 
 And went down before his magic and adored him 
 as a god ; 
 
 And at last in open council they avowed that it 
 was plain 
 
 That the sea had sent a ruler and that Jasper 
 was to reign ; 
 
 And removed his predecessor with a diplomatic 
 coup, 
 
 For they deftly smote his head off and converted 
 him to soup, 
 
 Thus assuring to our hero the essentials of suc 
 cess. 
 
 And, with greatness thrust upon him, Jap. was 
 bound to acquiesce \ 
 
DEACON PETER S JASPER. 129 
 
 And they chose him many consorts from the fair 
 est in the land, 
 
 And among them were the maidens that had 
 found him on the sand. 
 
 Thus the youth, for whose infirmities the neigh 
 bors used to groan, 
 
 Rules a race of rugged warriors and has rock 
 ers on his throne. 
 
I3O FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 THE sun that dim November day 
 Had failed to kiss the clouds away 
 From quiet Nature s furrowed face, 
 Where autumn tears had left their trace. 
 
 And, by and by, on fields of brown 
 The feathered flakes came floating down 
 From Heaven to this world of ours, 
 Like spirits of departed flowers. 
 
 And fast and faster through the night, 
 Till Morn arose on meadows white, 
 And o er the landscape lightly stepped 
 Where tired Nature, smiling, slept. 
 
THE RHYME OF THE SPANISH NEEDLE. 131 
 
 THE RHYME OF THE SPANISH 
 NEEDLE. 
 
 WHEN the sunflowers are a-dying on the hollow 
 and the hill, 
 
 And the golden-rod is budding, kind of waiting 
 like until 
 
 Frosty mornings have unfolded all its regimental 
 plumes, 
 
 There s a little inter-regnum when the Spanish- 
 needle blooms. 
 
 Now the nights are growing chilly and the morn 
 ings cool and calm, 
 
 And the days are sweet and sunny filled with 
 Nature s pungent balm ; 
 
 There s a rare intoxication in those aromatic 
 fumes 
 
 When the sunflower is a-dying and the Spanish- 
 needle blooms. 
 
132 THE RHYME OF THE SPANISH NEEDLE. 
 
 There s a mist upon the meadow in these dreamy 
 autumn days, 
 
 And the world is bathed at evening in an ame 
 thystine haze ; 
 
 There s a joy in mere existence that the raptured 
 soul consumes 
 
 When the golden-rod is budding and the Span 
 ish-needle blooms. 
 
 Oh, the fallow fields of autumn they are full of 
 drifting gold ! 
 
 And tis there I seek for treasure like a cavalier 
 of old ; 
 
 For the jewels of her sunsets, for her casket of 
 perfumes, 
 
 For the priceless joy of living when the Spanish- 
 needle blooms. 
 
FRAGMENT. 133 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 THE prayer is said, the hymn is sung, 
 The calm dead face from us is hid 
 
 The solemn knell is sadly rung, 
 The clods fall on the coffin lid. 
 
 It is an autumn afternoon 
 
 The blue-fringed gentian nods its head 
 Above the open grave that soon 
 
 Will rise between us and the dead. 
 
 I gaze upon the heap of ground 
 
 That hides my last, my dearest friend 
 
 This tearful throng, this silent mound, 
 Is this the end, is this the end ? 
 
134 1T HAPPENED THUS. 
 
 IT HAPPENED THUS. 
 
 HE was an artist; patiently he toiled 
 
 To gain the heights that glimmered from afar, 
 
 And with the years had won a partial fame. 
 
 She was an actress, young and very fair, 
 
 Wending her way along a quiet path, 
 
 Toward a height of which she, likewise, dreamed. 
 
 One day they met, I know not when nor how, 
 (They hardly knew, themselves, in after days) 
 They met to love, with that great, deathless love 
 That Earth conceives in an embrace with Heaven, 
 And brings to birth when e er the two fair parts 
 Of one great Soul shall touch upon her breast. 
 To love with them were life to part were death. 
 
IT HAPPENED THUS. 135 
 
 So, when a parent hand, impelled by pride 
 And mother-worship for an only child 
 A hand that sought to clasp a gilded crown 
 For that fair head was laid between their hearts, 
 The sun went out, and darkness settled down 
 On those two lives, as o er a sunless sea. 
 
 They met again. "My life is naught," he said, 
 "Nor yet is mine," she answered, "let us die." 
 How sweet to him that proffered boon of death ! 
 To die with her, the thought had been his own 
 By day and night ; and so the tryst was made. 
 
 That night, a voice beneath her window called, 
 "Art ready, Emilie ?" And her voice replied, 
 "Yes, Gustave, ready." Then a shot rang out, 
 And answering from above, another came 
 That seemed its echo in the silent night. 
 
 And then came hurrying feet and startled cries, 
 And lights were brought ; and one lay on the 
 
 ground 
 
 With face turned upward to the flaring lamps, 
 And prating crowd, and from his temple flowed 
 A crimson stream that swept his life away. 
 
136 IT HAPPENED THUS. 
 
 Above, they found the other ; robed in whit*e, 
 Upon her bed she lay as one asleep. 
 Pinned to her breast a spray of heliotrope, 
 But not a stain to mark the fatal wound. 
 
 And when they parted back the snowy robe 
 From her sweet loveliness, they found no blood ; 
 Only a tiny hole in that fair breast, 
 Through which the fretted soul had slipped away 
 To seek its mate beyond our narrow rim. 
 
GABRIEL. 137 
 
 GABRIEL. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS TALE. 
 
 TWAS early autumn. On the orchard slope 
 The golden fruit, and that of ruddy red 
 Hung thickly on the farmer s apple trees ; 
 And merry voices echoed all around 
 Of those who gathered in the ripened fruit. 
 The farmer s son, young Gabriel Worthington, 
 Worked with the rest, the gayest of them all. 
 He was a handsome youth, of barely twenty ; 
 Graceful and strong and fair to gaze upon, 
 And farmer Worthington a stern, proud man, 
 Of iron will, and temper violent- 
 Beheld his noble boy with silent pride. 
 He seldom praised him ; such was not his way, 
 But those who knew him well, were well aware 
 
138 GABRIEL. 
 
 That there was naught to him like Gabriel. 
 His only living boy, and when at birth 
 The life of the young mother had gone out 
 Upon the ebb-tide of an unknown sea, 
 The father s love had centered all in him. 
 
 And as young Gabriel grew, a romping child, 
 The father took him with him to his work ; 
 And on the hill-side where the orchard grew 
 He made his favorite play-ground. There in 
 
 autumn 
 
 He loved to play among the laden trees, 
 Tossing the golden apples here and there 
 In sportive mischief. 
 
 Rolling on the ground 
 Upon the clover and luxuriant grass. 
 But, sometimes, when the farmer chided him 
 For bruising apples, tossing them about, 
 Or for some other childish thoughtlessness, 
 His little face would flush with angry looks, 
 And angry fire dart from the childish eyes, 
 And angry words leap from the childish lips 
 Of this young rebel who inherited 
 His father s temper and his iron will. 
 His father seeing this and knowing well 
 
GABRIEL. 139 
 
 How useless it would be to try to break 
 That which he knew was bred into the bone, 
 Refrained from rousing up that latent fire, 
 Thinking that it might smoulder out and die. 
 
 And so he grew in years and went to school, 
 And was a handsome youth, and fair, and tall, 
 And forward in his studies ; and as well 
 Was skilled in every kind of boyish sport. 
 And farmer Worthington looked on with pride 
 And loved him all the more, but, being proud, 
 He could not show the depths of his affection. 
 And Gabriel loved his father and his home, 
 But. being like his father, did not tell 
 How much he loved ; and so the years went on. 
 The rest of us, a merry, romping crew, 
 The offspring of our father s second union, 
 Regarded him as nobler flesh and blood, 
 And worshipped him although we feared him ; he 
 Was always kind to us and made us toys, 
 And told us tales, and taught us childish games ; 
 And taught us lessons from the well-worn books 
 Which he had mastered. 
 
 Thus was he the king, 
 
 That with firm kindness ruled our little band, 
 And every word from him, to us, was law. 
 
140 GABRIEL. 
 
 And so the years went on, and he was sent 
 A little distance to a higher school, 
 And, graduating there, came home at last 
 More manly and more polished in his ways, 
 More handsome, and we loved him all the more. 
 And all the while a slumbering lion lay 
 Within his youthful breast, which not aroused 
 Was thought to have gone hence, or to have died 
 Of inanition in his childhood years. 
 And even he knew not that it was there. 
 But there were those who knew the father well, 
 And knew the son as well from boyhood up, 
 Who shook their heads, and said the time would 
 
 come 
 
 When Gabriel and his father, face to face, 
 Should stand in anger. 
 
 Little did they know 
 How soon the time would come, but much they 
 
 feared. 
 
 And now twas apple harvest, and the fruit 
 Was almost gathered, and the gatherers 
 Were making merry as they neared the end. 
 And Gabriel laughed and joked with all the rest, 
 And led the sport as he had led the work. 
 
GABRIEL. 141 
 
 Perhaps he grew a little careless, too, 
 As one is apt to do in midst of mirth, 
 For something happened that the father saw, 
 Something about the sorting of the fruit 
 That did not please him, and he rashly spoke 
 In sharp reproof to Gabriel, who replied 
 With words as sharp, that it was not his work. 
 To which the father answered, that his work 
 Should be to see that other s was done well. 
 Then Gabriel s quick retort was like the flash 
 Of fire, when flint strikes steel, and in his breast 
 A wave of anger rose, that rushing on 
 Swept all before it, and, with mighty roar. 
 The sleeping lion was aroused at last. 
 
 And furious words that could not be recalled, 
 Were uttered by the father and the son 
 In heat of anger, till, at last, the boy, 
 In livid passion, vowed that he would go, 
 And leave his father s roof forevermore. 
 At which the father, white with awful rage, 
 Bade him to quit his sight at once, and swore 
 He ne er would see his face in life again. 
 And Gabriel turned without another word 
 And left the spot ; and then for many days 
 
142 GABRIEL. 
 
 We of the younger brood in secret mourned, 
 Fearing to let our father see our grief; 
 While he was only silent, and more stern ; 
 Although at night we sometimes told each other 
 That he expected Gabriel might come back, 
 And that he yearned for him in silent grief. 
 
 But days ran into weeks, and weeks to months, 
 And months to years, and Gabriel did not come. 
 Until at last we seldom spoke his name, 
 And, child-like, half forgot him. 
 
 So it is 
 
 With one who dies, and passes from our ken ; 
 A little while we mourn for him, and then 
 His place is filled up by the crowding years. 
 But there was one, his father, unto whom 
 The years brought no forgetfulness, we saw 
 His hair grow grayer quickly, and we knew 
 That in his heart he mourned his absent boy, 
 And ever looked and longed for his return. 
 
 And, meantime, where was Gabriel ? He had 
 
 gone 
 
 Forth from the home he loved, in furious wrath, 
 And blind with fury scarce knew where he fled 
 
GABRIEL. 143 
 
 Till he was far from his paternal roof. 
 He never thought of turning back, not he ; 
 His father s pride and will were in he breast, 
 And on he hurried toward the distant town. 
 He had a little money in his purse, 
 And with it he would go into the world 
 And seek his fortune and return no more. 
 The mellow shadows of the autumn eve 
 Began to fall around him, and his wrath 
 Was wearing off, but, greater than his wrath, 
 His pride remained and drove him on and on. 
 
 So Gabriel went out into the world, 
 And for a while he drifted here and there, 
 Working as he could find the work to do, 
 Waiting till opportunity should afford 
 A place for him in life where he might win 
 Something beyond a meager livelihood. . 
 And when one morning, after many years, 
 He learned of an exploring expedition 
 Then forming to invade the arctic seas, 
 He never paused or hesitated once, 
 But sought the leaders of that gallant crew, 
 And volunteered his life and services. 
 And when they looked into his handsome face, 
 
144 GABRIEL. 
 
 And marked the grace and strength of his young 
 
 limbs, 
 
 And heard the daring echo in his voice, 
 They gladly numbered him among their band, 
 And promised him a place where he might win 
 With strength, and courage, and achieve pro 
 motion. 
 
 And Gabriel, glad that all went well at last, 
 Yet yearning always for the ones he loved, 
 Now thought once more upon his childhood s 
 
 home, 
 
 And longed to see the faces there again 
 Before he sailed away from them forever. 
 
 And thinking much, at last resolved to go 
 And look once more upon the old home place. 
 For it is Christmas-tide, and well he knows 
 That all the living ones will gather there, 
 And he can steal up to the house at eve 
 And watch the faces round the open fire 
 Unknown to them, unseen by any there. 
 
 So Gabriel goes ; and coming to the town 
 That lies the nearest to his father s farm, 
 Decides that he will walk the well-known road, 
 Wherein he sees some changes have been made, 
 
GABRIEL. 145 
 
 And, changed himself, he fears not recognition. 
 By nightfall he can reach the hill-side farm, 
 Then, hurrying back, can catch the morning train 
 And none will be the wiser for his call. 
 
 To-morrow will be Christmas day; how well 
 He loved this time in merry by-gone years, 
 And hung his stocking by the open fire 
 And found it always filled on Christmas morn. 
 He wonders if the children all are there 
 His little sisters must be women now 
 And o er him comes a swift and strong desire 
 To be with them, and in his home once more. 
 And in his heart is formed a half resolve 
 To cast aside all bitterness, and ask 
 Forgiveness of his father ; but his pride 
 Rises in strong rebellion, and the thought 
 Is banished from his breast, and then he feels 
 That he is but a stranger in this place, 
 At home, and yet in homeless solitude, 
 And sadness settles o er his lonely heart. 
 
 A monotone of clouds o ercasts the sky, 
 Thick, and unbroken, save where one light spot 
 Reveals the sun in dim obscurity. 
 
146 GABRIEL. 
 
 The atmosphere is damp and full of gloom, 
 As if oppressed by heavy weight of woe, 
 And snow-flakes seem about to form and fall. 
 The earth is bare, as yet the winter snows 
 Have held aloof ; but Gabriel is aware 
 From all the signs that now a storm is nigh; 
 And Christmas morn will find the roadway white, 
 And sleigh-bells jingling on the frosty air 
 Will tell the merry joys of Christmas-tide. 
 But little cares he for the coming storm ; 
 The nights are long, and well he knows the way 
 And only cares to reach the town by dawn. 
 The melancholy rustling of dry leaves, 
 The cast-off summer mantle of the forest, 
 That spreads in sombre glory o er the ground, 
 Now crackling neath the traveler s hurrying feet, 
 Is all the sound that breaks upon the air, 
 And filled with thoughts of home, and of the past, 
 In silent sadness Gabriel hurries on 
 And vanishes amid the gathering gloom. 
 
 Tis morning ! and the tardy winter s sun 
 Slow rises to illuminate the world. 
 All nature is enwrapped in ermine robes 
 That glisten in the sun in dazzling splendor, 
 
GABRIEL. 147 
 
 As if incrusted with the richest gems. 
 The trees are dressed as if by fairy hands, 
 And elfins seem to play at hide and seek 
 Between the boughs, that bending neath the 
 
 weight 
 
 Of their rich dress, soft touch the farmer s head ; 
 And as he gently jars the laden branches 
 A little avalanche comes tumbling down 
 Upon his coat, and hat, and decks them out 
 Till he appears a hoary winter s king. 
 
 He lightly brushes off the feathery stuff, 
 And bending forward, pushes through the drifts, 
 Plowing a pathway toward the stable door 
 Whence comes a coaxing whinney that denotes 
 His faithful horse awaits its morning meal. 
 Then, just before the slatted stable door, 
 He finds a drift much larger than the rest, 
 And wading through it stumbles o er a form 
 That lies unseen beneath the heaped up snow. 
 He stops to see what hidden obstacle 
 Has blocked his path, and, brushing off the snow, 
 The figure of a man reveals itself, 
 Frozen and stark with face turned to the ground. 
 The farmer wondering much who it can be, 
 
148 GABRIEL. 
 
 That seeks out such a place in such a night 
 When warmth and shelter are so close at hand, 
 Lays hold upon the rigid form and turns 
 The dead face upward to the morning light. 
 Then down upon his knees he trembling sinks, 
 And uttering one w r ild cry of "GABRIEL !" 
 He falls prostrate across the frozen man. 
 
 Yes, it was Gabriel ; he had wandered back 
 To view once more the place where he was born ; 
 To take a last, a long and lingering look 
 Before he sailed away forevermore. 
 Perhaps he stood outside the window-pane 
 Gazing so long at those dear ones within, 
 That he was chilled, and stiff, and when he went 
 His eyes were blinded, and his limbs benumbed : 
 And stumbling back into night and gloom 
 And blinding snow he lost his path, and then 
 Wandered about until at last o erpowered 
 By cold and misery, sank into a drift : 
 And being weary fell into a sleep 
 To wake no more on earth, and so he died. 
 And round him lightly fell the fleecy drifts 
 Forming a shroud of spotless purity. 
 And there he calmly lay as beautiful 
 
GABRIEL. 149 
 
 As when he left our fireside long ago 
 For death that changes all had swept aside 
 The changes of the passing years, and brought 
 Our wanderer back the boy that went away. 
 
 Down on the hillside, where in summer time 
 The orchard blossoms that is leafless now, 
 There, where in childhood he had always played, 
 Rolling beneath the trees, amid the fruit, 
 Tossing the golden apples here and there 
 In sportive mischief, there we carried him, 
 And laid him gently in a narrow grave 
 Dug in the stony earth at Christmas-tide. 
 There can the farmer see the new formed drift 
 That heaps above it, as he sits all day 
 Before the window facing toward the slope. 
 And all day long he sits and watches there, 
 And rarely speaks, but oft his lips will move 
 And shape themselves into the name 
 of Gabriel. 
 
WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE. 
 
A W1LLER CRICK INCIDENT. 153 
 
 A WILLER CRICK INCIDENT. 
 
 LONG ago before the hoppers an the drouth of 
 
 semty-four, 
 Long before we talked of boomin, long before 
 
 the first Grange store. 
 Long before they was a city on the banks of 
 
 Wilier Crick, 
 Come a woman doin washin an a little boy 
 
 named Dick : 
 
 Kinder weakly like an sick ; 
 Wasn t even common quick ; 
 An the folks said at his daddy used to be a 
 
 loonytic. 
 
154 A WILLER CRICK INCIDENT. 
 
 He was undersized an ugly an was tongue-tied 
 
 in his talk ; 
 He was awkward an near sighted an he couldn t 
 
 more n walk ; 
 An the other boys all teased him ; no one knowed 
 
 the reason why, 
 Cept to hear his mother pet him : "there, ma s 
 
 angul, there, don cry." 
 
 When they was nobody nigh 
 She would set by him an sigh ; 
 An she d comb his hair an kiss him : "Ma s boy 
 
 nil be well, bye m bye." 
 
 But instead of gettin stronger Dick grew thin 
 ner ev ry year ; 
 
 An although his legs got longer, his pore brain 
 ketched in the gear. 
 
 But he always loved the crick so, an twas there 
 at he u d play : 
 
 Killin lucky bugs an buildin dams at always 
 broke away. 
 
 But his mother used to pray ; 
 
 "God make Dickie strong, some day" 
 
 God u d make him strong an happy, her "pore 
 angul" she u d say. 
 
A WTLLER CRICK INCIDENT. 155 
 
 They was not a long percession when he died, 
 
 an all I mind 
 Was a little green farm wagon with two churs 
 
 set in behind. 
 But it held a lonely mother sobbin wildly for 
 
 her own ; 
 An the sorrow et in deeper for she knew she 
 
 greived alone. 
 
 Mid the sunflow rs lightly blown. 
 Where the sticker weeds are sown, 
 No one knows the hopes an heart-aches buried 
 
 neath that rough-cut stone. 
 
156 A LITTLE DREAM-BOY. 
 
 A LITTLE DREAM-BOY. 
 
 LITTLE Boy Blue come blow your horn, 
 And wake up a little man lying forlorn, 
 Asleep where his life wanders out of the morn. 
 
 Little Boy Blue blow a merry, sweet note, 
 Over the pool where the white lilies float 
 Fill out the sails of a little toy boat. 
 
 Blow on my dream of a little boy there, 
 Blow thro his little bark-whistle, and snare 
 Your breath in a tangle of curly brown hair. 
 
 Blow and O blow from your fairy land far, 
 Blow while my little boy wears a tin star, 
 And rides a stick-horse to a little boy s War. 
 
A LITTLE DREAM-BOY. 157 
 
 Blow for the brave man my dream-boy would be, 
 Blow back his tears when he wakes up to see 
 His knight errant gone and instead only me. 
 
 Little Boy Blue come blow your horn, 
 
 Blow for a little boy lying forlorn, 
 
 Asleep where his life wanders out of the morn. 
 
158 SOME SECULAR QUERIES. 
 
 SOME SECULAR QUERIES. 
 
 T the corner of my street, 
 
 There is one 
 Whom I almost daily meet 
 
 She s a nun. 
 
 And for many a long day 
 I have wanted nerve to say, 
 "May I walk along your way, 
 
 Little nun ? 
 
 "With you I d be glad to chat, 
 
 Little nun, 
 Bout the weather and all that 
 
 Just for fun. 
 
 And, should you remove your mask. 
 I d be pretty sure to ask 
 How you like your lonely task, 
 
 Little nun. 
 
SOME SECULAR QUERIES. 159 
 
 "I am curious to know, 
 Little nun, 
 
 t 
 
 What you think about the row 
 
 You ve begun. 
 Do you ever sit and muse 
 On the earthly joys you lose? 
 Do you ever have the blues, 
 
 Little nun ? 
 
 "I suspect that you are human, 
 
 Little nun ; 
 And my guess is, that, as woman, 
 
 You ve been won. 
 Does he ever haunt your dreams, 
 Till his old-time shadow seems 
 Near you in the noonday beams, 
 
 Little nun ? 
 
 "And you love him anyhow, 
 
 Little nun ? 
 Come, be honest with me now, 
 
 We ve begun. 
 
 Don t you tell me you have not 
 An unconsecrated spot 
 Do not say you have forgot, 
 
 Little nun. 
 
l6o SOME SECULAR QUERIES. 
 
 "For the Lord who made your mother, 
 
 Little nun, 
 Uses one plan and no other 
 
 To work on. 
 
 In the corner where you keep 
 Woman s fancies, don t you peep 
 When you think the Lord s asleep, 
 
 Little nun?" 
 
THE GRADGERRATUN o JOE. 161 
 
 THE GRADGERRATUN O JOE. 
 
 WAY down crost the medder an cow lot, 
 
 Thro paths made by cattle an sheep, 
 Where, cooled in the shade by the tall ellums 
 made, 
 
 The old crick has curled up to sleep ; 
 Down there where the wind sighun mingles 
 
 Ith prattelun waters at play, 
 An the coo coo coo of the turtle dove too, 
 
 Seeps in from the dim far away ; 
 Down there by the banks of the Wilier 
 
 In spring where the sweet-williams grow 
 Twas at this place at he, all the time use to be : 
 
 The home of our little boy Joe. 
 My Oh 
 
 How long ago. 
 
162 THE GRADGERRATUN o JOE. 
 
 Nope ; none a you couldn t a know d him. 
 
 Way back there in seventy-four, 
 When Idy an me concluded at we 
 
 U d edjicate Joe, rich or pore. 
 I mind how we skimped, scraped an worried, 
 
 An how our first Christmas was dim, 
 An how mother cried when we had to decide, 
 
 We couldn t send nothun to him. 
 An nobody else dreams the sorrow, 
 
 At Idy an me d undergo, 
 A livun that way all alone ever day 
 
 A yearnun an longun fer Joe. 
 High O 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 So Idy an me went together, 
 
 To hear little Joe gradgerrate ; 
 Little Joe did I say? meant big. anyway ; 
 
 He spoke on the subject of "Fate." 
 An "my, but the effort was splendid." 
 
 The folks said at set by my side, 
 But I never hyurd a sentence er word 
 
 An mother jest broke down an cried. 
 I hadn t the heart fer to ask her 
 
 What was the matter, you know ; 
 
THE GRADGKRRATUN o JOE. 163 
 
 Fer I felt she d a said ; " Our baby is dead, 
 I want back my own little Joe : 
 Our Joe 
 
 Of long ago." 
 
 So foller me down thro the cow lot 
 
 Thro paths worn by cattle an sheep, 
 To where in the shade, by the tall ellurns made, 
 
 The old crick is tucked in to sleep ; 
 Where sighs of the tired breeze whisper 
 
 To quiet the waters at play ; 
 An the dreamy coo coo of the turtle dove true, 
 
 Frightens care phantoms away ; 
 Fer I like to set hyur a thinkun , 
 
 An astun the waters at flow, 
 What s come o the dear little boy at played here 
 
 In the days o the long ago? 
 Our Joe ; 
 
 High ho. 
 
164 THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. 
 
 THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. 
 
 FROM a till the gold coin vanished ; 
 
 It was stolen ; and to-day 
 From the world the thief is banished 
 
 Thief s an ugly word to say. 
 You who never knew of sinning 
 
 Strong in manhood from your youth ; 
 You who from your life s beginning. 
 
 Never loosened hands with truth 
 Are you the judge? 
 
 Yonder walks an erring woman 
 Heartless, hopeless, in the mire ; 
 
 Painted, brazen, scarcely human 
 In her gaudy trade attire. 
 
 Passing her, you give no token 
 You of sinless, baby face 
 
THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. 165 
 
 You, to whom mere words unspoken 
 Are the chains of her disgrace 
 Are you the judge ? 
 
 He was "murdered," said the jury: 
 
 In the viscid, musty cell 
 Paces one whose fatal fury 
 
 Did the deed ; you said : " Tis well " 
 You who take life school-girl fashion. 
 
 You who never spat at Fate 
 You who never fondled Passion 
 
 You who never suckled Hate 
 
 Are you the judge? 
 
 They have broken vows like basting ; 
 
 They are underneath the ban ; 
 She, her wifehood s portion wasting 
 
 He, his world-chance as a man. 
 You whose heart has ne er caught anchor 
 
 Deeper than Life s drifting mold; 
 You who never felt the rancor 
 
 Of a duty-love grown cold 
 
 Are you the judge ? 
 
i66 
 
 A RYHME OF THE DREAM-MAKER MAN. 
 
 A RHYME 
 
 OF THE DREAM- 
 MAKER 
 
 MAN, 
 
 DOWN near the end of a wander 
 ing lane, 
 That runs round the cares of the 
 
 day, 
 Where Conscience and Memory meet 
 
 and explain 
 
 Their quaint little quarrels away, 
 A misty air-castle sits back in the dusk 
 Where brownies and hobgoblins 
 dwell, 
 
 And this is the home 
 Of a busy old gnome 
 
A RHYME OF THE DREAM-MAKER MAN. 167 
 
 Who is making up dream-things to sell, 
 
 My dear, 
 The daintiest dreams to sell. 
 
 He makes golden dreams out of wicked men s 
 
 sighs. 
 
 He weaves on the thread of a hope 
 The airiest fancy of pretty brown eyes, 
 
 And patterns his work with a trope. 
 The breath of a rose and the blush of a wish 
 Boiled down to the ghost of a bliss, 
 
 He wraps in a smile 
 * Every once in a while, 
 
 And calls it the dream of a kiss, 
 
 Dear heart, 
 The dream of an unborn kiss. 
 
 Last night when I walked through the portals of 
 
 sleep 
 
 And came to the weird little den, 
 I looked in the place where the elf-man should 
 
 keep 
 
 A dream that I buy now and then. 
 Tis only the sweet happy dream of a day 
 Yet one that I wish may come true 
 
1 68 A RHMYE OF THE DREAM-MAKER MAN. 
 
 But I learned from the elf 
 That you d been there yourself, 
 
 And he d given my dear dream to you. 
 Sweetheart, 
 
 He d given our dream to you. 
 
WHERE "A LOVELY TIME WAS HAD." 169 
 
 WHERE "A LOVELY TIME WAS HAD." 
 
 BILL HUCKS, the item-chaser on the Wilier Crick 
 
 Gayzctte, 
 Was the likeliestest hustler that old man McCray 
 
 could get. 
 
 As a writer up of runaways, an funerals, an shows, 
 Bill never had an equal nor a rival, goodness 
 
 knows. 
 
 So we sent him up a //?vite to a doins Susie give, 
 And he writ a piece about it that was fine, as 
 
 sure s you live. 
 But all I kin remember is, "We hardly need to 
 
 add, 
 The guests agreed at leaving that a lovely time 
 
 was had." 
 
I7O WHERE "A LOVELY TIME WAS HAD." 
 
 Oh, yes now come to think of it her maw 
 
 cooked up some cake 
 And pies and floatin island truck that Susie 
 
 helped to make, 
 And they was pickle-lilly, too, and beets and jell 
 
 and jam, 
 And slaw, and chicken-salad, and some sam- 
 
 wiches of ham. 
 And them Bill said was " viands," which, in writ- 
 
 in up, he owned, 
 " Made a tempting feast of good things, and the 
 
 table fairly groaned. 
 And when the wee sma hours were come, we 
 
 hardly need to add, 
 The guests agreed at leaving that a lovely time 
 
 was had." 
 
 Old Bill has gone from Wilier Crick ; the Gay- 
 zette is no more, 
 
 For Old McCray has stole away to find the Gold 
 en Shore. 
 
 And Susie has been married off for lo ! these 
 many years, 
 
 And some of them that come that night have 
 quit this vale of tears ; 
 
WHERE "A LOVELY TIME WAS HAD." IJI 
 
 But maw has in her scrapbook long with little 
 
 Laury s death, 
 And the pome about the baby and the accident 
 
 to Seth 
 The piece about the doins, and to-day it makes 
 
 us glad 
 To read at Susie s party "that a lovely time was 
 
 had." 
 
172 JES LIKE HIM. 
 
 JES LIKE HIM. 
 
 ONCT a man named Jimmy Sellers 
 
 Lived on Wilier crick ; 
 An fer all yer funny fellers, 
 
 He jes took the trick. 
 Kep a rester nt where the Hewins 
 
 Boardin house now is ; 
 An at ev ry show er doin s, 
 
 Seller s geenyus riz : 
 Blacked up onct an played the nigger 
 
 Nother time the star, 
 Some they lowed he was a bigger 
 
 Man en Booth by far. 
 So we never was exactun 
 
 Let Jim have his way ; 
 At his cuttun up an actun 
 
 Folks u d only say : 
 "Jes like him, 
 That dag on Jim." 
 
JES LIKE HIM. 173 
 
 Used to set an play the 
 
 Shady afternoons, 
 Till the strings u d fairly glitter 
 
 With his witchy tunes. 
 I kin almost see him playim 
 
 Ol Seebastypool : 
 Both eyes shet an him a swayun 
 
 Like a gash ding fool. 
 Y orto hyurd him sing "Lorena" 
 
 Er "Sweet Belle Mahome ;" 
 I tell you I never seen a 
 
 Feller at could come 
 Nearder to a angel singun 
 
 En Jim Sellers could ; 
 Ef yer eyes u d not be ringun 
 
 Wet, yer feeluns would 
 Jes like Jim 
 Dag on him. 
 
 One time when a show was playun 
 
 In the court-house hall, 
 Jim he set there without sayun 
 
 Anything at all. 
 When twas done one of them wimmun 
 
 Met Jim on the street ; 
 
174 J ES LIKE HIM - 
 
 An we hyrud him plead with brimmun 
 
 Eyes ; hyrud him entreat 
 Her to come back ; hyrud him tell her 
 
 How they d both ferget ; 
 An I never seen a feller 
 
 Seem so grieved, an yet, 
 When we d ever cod or joke him 
 
 Jim u d laff an say, 
 In a voice at most u d choke him : 
 " I was drunk that day" 
 
 Jes like him 
 That dag on Jim. 
 
TO CHLOE. 175 
 
 TO CHLOE AT SPRINGTIDE. 
 
 Now is the day approaching that the poet longs 
 
 to see ; 
 When "sunny hours" with "greenwood bowers" 
 
 and "fragrant flowers" there be ; 
 When rhymes come at his bidding, without using 
 
 "know" or "too," 
 When "lowing herds" and "loving words" and 
 
 "cooing birds" are due. 
 When "woods are sweet with perfume," when 
 
 "the languid breezes sigh," 
 W^hen "bonny lass" and "waving grass" and 
 
 "sheeny bass" are nigh. 
 
 This is the poet s season and the climax doth ap 
 pear, 
 
 When Chloe reads her essay to "kind friends 
 and teachers dear." 
 
176 TO CHLOE. 
 
 Yon lutist plinks the praises of the maidens as 
 
 they come ; 
 "To Duty" and "To Beauty" with her tutti 
 
 frutti gum. 
 This lyrist times his meter "to the sorceress 
 
 whose art" 
 With "her passion." "tiger fashion" claws a 
 
 gash in Hero s heart. 
 There are those who sing of Psyche and her mild 
 
 peculiar grace 
 In that flighty Grecian nighty, with that highty 
 
 tighty face. 
 But I m still true to Chloe in her graduating 
 
 gear 
 Who flushes o er the footlights with "kind friends 
 
 and teachers dear." 
 
 Long years ago I loved her and she told me "I 
 
 love you ;" 
 With the fleetest and completest, sweetest kiss I 
 
 ever knew ; 
 The mem ry of that tender look in those coy 
 
 hazel eyes, 
 When she d spoken, is a token of my broken 
 
 paradise. 
 
TO CHLOE. 177 
 
 A man is given one such chance to mingle with 
 the gods ; 
 
 If he takes it not, but shakes it, then he makes 
 it with the clods. 
 
 And so I twang a cheerful lyre, and dry the trem 
 bling tear, 
 
 And bet on other Chloes with "kind friends and 
 teachers dear." 
 
178 THE MUSIC WHICH "HATH CHARMS." 
 
 THE MUSIC WHICH "HATH CHARMS." 
 
 "Such songs have power to quiet, 
 The restless pulse of care." 
 
 BEFORE we moved from Wilier Crick our Idy used" 
 
 to play, 
 
 Her organ in the sittun room thro all the live 
 long day. 
 The pieces that she liked the most was "Trippun 
 
 Thro the Dells," 
 An "Siegel s. March," an "Shepherd Boy," an 
 
 "Monastery Bells." 
 She knowed the "Cornflow r Waltz" without a- 
 
 lookun at a note. 
 An sang "When You and I Were Young" out of 
 
 her head by rote. 
 Her pieces long ago had tears, an tunes a man 
 
 could hum, 
 
THE MUSIC WHICH "HATH CHARMS." 179 
 
 But her piany music now goes frizzle, whizzle, 
 
 bum ! 
 T was writ by furrin labor either "ustski," "off" 
 
 or " iski," 
 An a man I think she calls him Glazowhiski. 
 
 She used to play the second made it up y un 
 derstand 
 While I sawed on the fiddle " Ol Zip Coon " or 
 
 Bulyland." 
 We used to have a medley-piece that give her ma 
 
 a pain, 
 Of "Devil s Hornpipe," "Martin s Hymn" and 
 
 "Whoop Up Lizy Jane;" 
 An me an Ide u d play it jest to hyur ma grunt 
 
 around, 
 N en change to "Annie Laurie," till we d hyur 
 
 a snuffin sound ; 
 An n en we knowed at ma fergot, an banished 
 
 every care 
 But law ! them days is over you jest mighty 
 
 right they air ; 
 Now when her daddy asts about some piece she 
 
 plays so frisky- 
 It s " Why, pa, that s a thing from Glazowhiski." 
 
l8o THE MUSIC WHICH "HATH CHARMS." 
 
 That Glazowhiski feller or whatever is his 
 
 name 
 Has broke into the temple where they keep the 
 
 thing called fame ; 
 Him an the man called Motzart, an Baytoven, 
 
 an Goono, 
 
 An maybe half a dozen more that Idy raves on so. 
 But I m still fer " Lorena " or "They ll Be One 
 
 Vacant Chair" 
 The songs that cuddle up an kiss dry lips of 
 
 mem ries fair, 
 An make em smile again ; but then each feller 
 
 to his taste, 
 S l ef them haint dimons then I hanker after 
 
 paste. 
 But Idy she s fergot em ef I call for one it s 
 
 risky 
 
 It s "Listen to this thing from Glazo 
 whiski." 
 
A PRINT SHOP INCIDENT. l8l 
 
 A PRINT SHOP INCIDENT. 
 
 AN old typographical error- 
 One of the old-fashioned school 
 
 With the old-fashioned stagger, 
 
 The stoop-shouldered swagger, 
 Sat there on the rickety stool. 
 He d " hoofed it clean in from Salina," 
 He said, with a make-believe cheer ; 
 
 But there rasped in his throat 
 
 A corn-husky note, 
 Twas truly pathetic to hear. 
 
 So over we went to the Red-Light 
 To let the Rum Fiend do its worst ; 
 
 For an image of wood 
 
 Most assuredly could 
 Not withstand such an eloquent thirst. 
 
l82 A PRINT SHOP INCIDENT. 
 
 Some wandering Corsican minstrels 
 
 By the door played their plankety plinks ; 
 
 He heeded them not, 
 
 But sped to the spot 
 Where Cholly was doling the drinks. 
 
 Perhaps you have seen an ecstatic 
 Delirious bliss in the face 
 
 Of a man who s in love, 
 
 As he prances above 
 The low earthy joys of his race ; 
 Perhaps you ve seen pictures of halos 
 O er transported features of saints ; 
 
 Or looked when she smiled 
 
 In her sleep at a child 
 For whom heaven s own artist paints. 
 
 Well, if you ve seen such an expression 
 
 You ve an idea then, like as not, 
 How his face lighted up 
 As he dropped the tin cup 
 
 When the liquor got down to the spot. 
 
 He rolled his eyes wistfully doorward ; 
 
 With his hand wiped the liquor away, 
 And said in a low, 
 
A PRINT SHOP INCIDENT. 183 
 
 Quiet voice : " Let us go 
 Out an hear them ere eyetalics play." 
 
 The standard of morals was low then, 
 Before the descent of St. John ; 
 
 And a man got his rank 
 
 From the size of his tank, 
 And the number of drinks he had on. 
 And so when I dream of a heaven, 
 I think of a place where they say : 
 
 " That s the stuff ; ain t it though ? 
 
 Now come on an le s go 
 Out an hear them dang eyetalics play." 
 
184 SOME SHOP TALK. 
 
 SOME SHOP TALK. 
 
 WHEN the office is deserted in the evening, and 
 
 your cares 
 Have trooped off with the devil as he shuffles 
 
 down the stairs, 
 
 When you pace about your kingdom like a chain 
 ed and restless pup, 
 And walk back to view the galley rack to see how 
 
 much is up 
 Before you go to supper, put your tired brain to 
 
 soak, 
 
 And try to wash the kinks out with a quiet little 
 smoke. 
 
 For it s smoke, smoke, smoke, 
 Makes the world seem like a joke ; 
 With its whirling, 
 Curling, 
 
 Swirling, 
 
SOME SHOP TALK. 185 
 
 Where there s nothing that is sterling, 
 After all its strange unfurling 
 
 Only smoke, 
 
 Purling smoke. 
 
 Sit and laugh at "Old Subscriber" and the pa 
 pers marked "refused." 
 Take a puff at the Alliance that imagines it s 
 
 abused. 
 Smile in triumph at your banker and the man who 
 
 holds your note ; 
 
 O er your master, that old " plaster," gloat a tran 
 quil, haughty gloat. 
 And as evening shadows thicken pull your weed 
 
 until it beams ; 
 
 Suck sweet sunshine out of sadness in a cloud 
 of silver dreams. 
 
 Oh, it s dreams, dreams, dreams ; 
 Life is only what it seems ; 
 And like mazy, 
 
 Dim and lazy, 
 
 Shifting cloud-forms wierd and crazy, 
 Our distinctions are ; so hazy, 
 Motes and beams 
 Only dreams. 
 
186 KING S EX. 
 
 KING S EX. 
 
 "WHEN the wood is brought in an the chores re 
 all done, at the dusk, an the dyun day 
 
 Kisses the old world a smilin farewell, ere the 
 night has come in to pray, 
 
 The children romp out in the sunflower weeds, 
 in Simmons s vacant lot, 
 
 Maybe they re playin at hide-an -go-seek, er pull- 
 away jes like es not ; 
 
 Fer the games at they have never change very 
 much, ner they never git more complex 
 
 An I m glad in my heart at the children hold on 
 to the old fashioned sayin : < King s Ex. 
 
KING S EX. 187 
 
 Little boy, as you go crost the breakin of life, 
 
 when your voice shall grow rougher an deep ; 
 When the cares of the day make x you stumble an 
 
 trip, an pile on you when you re asleep ; 
 When you walk in the path where you ortent to 
 
 step, an feel yourself goun to fall ; 
 When no one s around fer to hold to a bit, an 
 
 yer own little strength is so small ; 
 Like a child all alone cryin out in the night, 
 
 when you ve got on yer dark blue specs, 
 You ll clasp yer hands then, as you cross fingers 
 
 now, an pray fer a sweet King s Ex. 
 
 Little girl, though they call you a torn-boy to 
 day, to-morrow they ll let out your dress ; 
 
 An with every flounce an each ruffle an braid, a 
 joy an a care comes, I guess. 
 
 Some day in the big unknown future, perhaps, 
 you ll taste the vile dregs in the glass 
 
 You drank from so wildly an blindly an mad, 
 your hand could not yield it to pass. 
 
 When you feel, in your bitterness, sorrow an 
 shame, the cruel stones thrown at your sex, 
 
 When men shall be deaf to your piteous cry 
 ask God for a little King s Ex. 
 
1 88 A WAIL IN B MINOR. 
 
 A WAIL IN B MINOR. 
 
 OH ! What has become of the ornery boy, 
 
 Who used to chew slip ry elm, "rosum" and 
 
 wheat ; 
 
 And say "jest a coddin " and "what d ye soy ;" 
 And wear rolled up trousers all out at the seat. 
 
 And where is the boy who had shows in the barn, 
 And "skinned a cat backards" and turned "sum 
 mersets " 
 
 The boy who had faith in a snake-feeder yarn, 
 And always smoked grape vine and corn ciggar- 
 
 ettes. 
 
 Where now is the small boy who spat on his bait, 
 And proudly stood down near the foot of the 
 class, 
 
A WAIL IN B MINOR. 
 
 189 
 
 And always "went barefooted " earl) 7 and late, 
 And washed his feet nights on the dew of the 
 grass. 
 
 Where is the boy who could swim on his back, 
 And dive and tread water and lay his hair, too ; 
 The boy who would jump off the spring-board 
 
 kerwhack, 
 And light on his stomach as I used to do. 
 
 O where and O where is the old-fashioned boy? 
 Has the old-fashioned boy with his 
 
 old-fashioned ways, 
 Been crowded aside by the Lord 
 
 Fauntleroy, 
 The cheap polished bric-a-brac full 
 
 of alloy, 
 Without the pure gold of the rolick- 
 
 ing joy 
 
 Of the old-fashioned boy in the 
 old-fashioned days? 
 
1 90 A GROUP OF HUMBLE CRADLE SONGS. 
 
 A GROUP OF HUMBLE CRADLE SONGS. 
 A WILLE R CRICK LULLABYE. 
 
 O LISSUN an hush-a-bye, while daddy sings, 
 
 Bylo, pa s littul man, do ; 
 An ma reds the table an clears up the things, 
 
 Bylo, pa s littul man, do. 
 I ll make up a song fer you out of my head, 
 About all the fairies what s livun er dead ; 
 An if you go bylo, I ll bet tull come true, 
 
 Bylo, pa s littul man, do. 
 
 Two littul boys onct went to bed in a loft, 
 
 Bylo, pa s little man, do ; 
 An both of em heerd purty music as soft, 
 
 As Bylo, pa s littul man, do ; 
 So one littul shaver jest shut his eyes tight, 
 
A GROUP OF HUMBLE CRADLE SONGS. iqi 
 
 An played with the fairies the hull live-long 
 
 night, 
 The other n who wouldn t heerd booggers go 
 
 " boo ! 
 Bylo, pa s littul man, do. 
 
 So run littul tyke with the fairies an play, 
 
 Bylo, pa s littul man, do 
 Wood-tag, er bean-bag, er oP pull-away, 
 
 Bylo, pa s littul man, do. 
 
 They ll take you way up to a world above this, 
 An let you slide down on the thread of a kiss, 
 With ma at the bottom a wakun up you 
 
 Bylo, pa s littul man, do. 
 
 A JIM STREET LULLABYE. 
 
 HuRSH-a-bye, sweetheart, 
 
 O, hursh an lay still, 
 Mommer ull stay with you, 
 
 Dear, come w ot will j 
 
 Mommer c u d not live without you my pet 
 Mommer is proud of you she don regret ; 
 Gawd ! how can some people want to ferget ; 
 
 Hursh-a-bye, sweet, and lay still dear. 
 
I Q2 A GROUP OF HUiMBLE CRADLE SONGS. 
 
 Hursh a-bye, sweet-heart, 
 
 O hursh an lay still ; 
 Lookie at them purties 
 
 There on the sill ! 
 
 Dearie, them s posies, an some day we ll go, 
 Back to the oP place whur wild posies grow 
 Jest us alone whur they ll nobody know 
 
 Hursh a-bye, sweet, an lay still dear. 
 
 Hursh a-bye sweet-heart, 
 
 O hursh, an lay still ; 
 Purtiest dreams 
 
 May your littul heart fill. 
 
 W y shouldn t they, like es not? and come true? 
 You hain t done nothin rich babies don do : 
 Me an the angels an Jesus loves you ! 
 
 Hursh a-bye, sweet, an lay still dear. 
 
 SISTER MARY S LULLABYE. 
 
 Zhere, zhere, ittul b o , sistuh 11 wock you to 
 s eep, 
 
 Hush-a-bye O, darlene, wock-a-bye, b o , 
 An tell you the stowy about the b ack sheep 
 
 Wock-a-bye my ittul b over. 
 
A GROUP OF HUMBLE CRADLE SONGS. 1 93 
 
 A boy onct said " b ack sheep, you dot any wool ?" 
 " Uh-huhm" said the lambie, "I dot free bags 
 
 full." 
 
 An where Murry went w y the lamb s sure to doe,. 
 They s mowe of zis stowy I dess I don know ; 
 But hush-a-bye O, darlene, wock-a-bye b o , 
 Wock-a-bye my ittul b over. 
 
 O, mama says buddy tomed stwaight down f om 
 
 Dod; 
 
 Hush-a-bye O, uh-huhm, wock-a-bye b o , 
 At doctuh mans bwunged him, now isn t zhat 
 
 odd 
 
 Wock-a-bye my ittul b over. 
 For papa says, "doctuhs is thiefs so zhey be." 
 An thiefs tain t det up into Heaven you see ! 
 I dess w en one do s up an dets sent below, 
 He s dot to bwing wif him a baby or so ; 
 Hush-a-bye O, uh-huhm, wock-a-bye b o . 
 Wock-a-bye, my ittul b over. 
 
 But sistuh loves b o anyhow if he s dood, 
 Hush-a-bye O, sweetie, wock-a-bye b o , 
 
 Better n tandy er infalid s food 
 Wock-a-bye sistuh s own b over. 
 
194 A GROUP OF HUMBLE CRADLE 
 
 An some day when buddy drows up to a man, 
 W y sistuh an him ull ist harness ol Fan, 
 An dwive off to Heaven the fuist zhing you know, 
 An bwing ever baby back what wants to doe. 
 Zhen hush-a-bye O, sweetie, wock-a-bye b o , 
 Wock-a-bye sistuh s own b over. 
 
THEIR POOR DADDY. 
 
 THEIR POOR DADDY. 
 
 IF daddy had plenty of money, my dear, 
 
 My ! what a good daddy he d be. 
 He d buy ev rything in the world purty near 
 
 To give sister Murry and me. 
 He d git us the crick fer to wade in, y jings, 
 And down by the ford where it ripples and sings, 
 He d strain out the sunshine and song, and make 
 
 things 
 
 To play with, fer Murry and me. 
 My, what a good daddy he d be, 
 And he d buy us the trees 
 If Murry would tease 
 If daddy had plenty of money. 
 
 If daddy had plenty of money, I bet, 
 He d be the best daddy on earth. 
 
196 THEIR POOR DADDY. 
 
 They wouldn t be anything we couldn t get, 
 
 No matter how much it was worth. 
 To play circus under he d git us the sky, 
 To make beads fer Murry, the stars upon high, 
 To have pillow fights with, the clouds that blow 
 
 by,- 
 
 No matter how much they was worth 
 He d be the best daddy on earth. 
 Why he d buy us the moon 
 Fer a toy balloon 
 If daddy had plenty of money. 
 
 If daddy hain t got any money, I guess, 
 
 He wouldn t sell Murry and me. 
 We re tow-headed skeezickses, that s what he 
 
 says, 
 
 And scalawags, that s what we be. 
 An n en when the Riddles ride by in their rig 
 Ithout any children, oF daddy feels big, 
 And tells ma he won t fer a farm and a pig 
 Swap off sister Murry and me 
 We re skeezickses, that s what we be. 
 But Murry, and me 
 Are his fortune, says he 
 If daddy hain t got any money. 
 
A RICKETY RHYME OF YE OLDEN TIME. 1 97 
 
 A RICKETY RHYME OF YE OLDEN 
 TIME. 
 
 WHYLOM ther ben a witteless Curl, 
 
 He wont in Olden Tymes ; 
 And eke ther ben a Giddie Girl, % 
 
 And he at hire hys Heort did hurl, 
 As Wyghtes have done thro alle the WorP, 
 
 So tellen Olden Rhymes. 
 
 Sche grette thys Curl with doun-cast eyes, 
 
 Lik Maydes of Olden Tymes ; 
 I nolde say whens sche get Hire Syghes, 
 
 Nor gif sche seemed hire Glad Surprise : 
 No boke canne say whenne woman lyes 
 
 Not even Olden Rhymes. 
 
ig8 A RICKETY RHYME OF YE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 He tok thys Sweteheort to ye Schowe 
 
 Ye Pley of Olden Tymes ; 
 They sate hem in ye Choyseste Rowe 
 
 For he hys super wolde forgoe 
 That he at Nyght myght seme to throw 
 
 On Dogge : so say ye Rhymes. 
 
 But whenne Trewe Love thys Curl did make 
 
 Thys Curl of Olden Tymes 
 Sche lysten softly whyl he spake, 
 (I gesse sche wot hys Purs ben brake), 
 Fr O ! sche gave him an Hard Schake, 
 
 So tellen Olden Rhymes. 
 
 So full of Sorewe ben hys Cuppe 
 
 Thys Curl of Olden Tymes 
 He tramp-ed alle ye Dayseys uppe 
 Benethe hire Casement, and ye Puppe 
 Coude not hys Serenayding stoppe ; 
 
 He made thes Cadent Rhymes : 
 
 "You came dere, last Nyght in a Raydiaunt 
 
 Dreme 
 
 And ye Day yt ys ful of your Perfume yet 
 Fragraunt with you, and so Swete doth yt seme, 
 
A RICKETY RHYME OF YE OLDEN TIME. IQQ 
 
 That God moste have sprinkled from yesterday s 
 
 Streme, 
 (Where our Lyves ran together unchoked by 
 
 Regret), 
 
 A Chalyce of Water that lay in ye Gleme 
 Of your eyes o er my Heort, and a myst from ye 
 
 Dreme 
 Fills alle ye Day with your Perfume yet." 
 
 Now whenne thys Wyght hys Whyskers grew 
 
 Thys Wyght of Olden Tyme 
 He get a Wyf as Wyse Men do, 
 
 And lyed about hys First Love Trewe 
 Which schowes he wot a Thing or Two : 
 So tellen Olden Rhymes, 
 Betymes, 
 
 So tellen Rymes. 
 
2OO THE FORMAL ANNOUNCEMENT. 
 
 THE FORMAL ANNOUNCEMENT. 
 
 THAT Mister Sims, who s corned out here 
 
 To see our Jen fer bout a year, 
 
 W y yesterday walked in the store 
 
 Whur he has never been before. 
 
 Yes-j/r an you d ist orto saw 
 
 The way he talked polite to pa. 
 
 An en they bqth looked, in the face, 
 
 Zif they d been vited to say grace, 
 
 N druther not; ist like the mens 
 
 We boarded durin conference. 
 
 At last pa ups an says it was 
 
 All right, what ever Jennie does. 
 
THE FORMAL ANNOUNCEMENT. 2OI 
 
 That night at supper pa says : "Jen 
 
 I seen that Sims to-day," an en 
 
 She doused the lasses on her mush 
 
 Jen did an says : "Now pa, you hush." 
 
 An pa an ma laffed fit to kill, 
 
 An ast Jen when she thinks she will. 
 
 So, when they sent me off to bed, 
 
 I heard oF Mister Simsy said : 
 
 "W y, Jen, you ll break your daddy s chair" 
 
 But Jen she whispers " I don care. 
 
 We got another ; but," says she. 
 
 " You needn t tell the fambilee." 
 
202 THE NEW WRINKLE ON MR. BILL. 
 
 THE NEW WRINKLE ON MR. BILL. 
 
 I LIKE it when they s company 
 
 Comes to visit us fer we 
 
 Gets to have the goodest things 
 
 1st like Sunday ; n en y jings, 
 
 Me an Wullie gets a chance 
 
 To wear our littul boughton pants 
 
 Uncle Hiram give us when 
 
 He was here onct ist like men. 
 
 Pa says, Wullie he s so dumb 
 
 Bout behavin , he can t come 
 
 To the table any more : 
 
 Cause ma most went th ue the floor, 
 
 Th other day, when Mrs. Gus 
 
 Vandegrif she et with us. 
 
 When we all got done with soup, 
 
 Wullie he sets up a hoop : 
 
 " Ma ! come take my bowl away ! 
 
 What you wunged that bell fer? Ay?" 
 
MR. BILL S INSOMNIA. 203 
 
 MR. BILL S INSOMNIA. 
 
 LITTUL Wullie he s my brother 
 
 He hain t got a lick a sense. 
 Pa says Wullie s like his mother 
 
 He is ist so very dense. 
 Th other mornin Wullie s piller- 
 
 Case it had some holes in it ; 
 An we thought at ma u d kill er 
 
 Self a laffin fore she quit. 
 Pa, he says " Geemy-my, Jenny, 
 
 Tell us what you re laffin bout." 
 Ma says " Wullie can t sleep any 
 
 Cause he says his dreams leak out." 
 
204 "BUD AND THE HATCHET MYTH. 
 
 "BUD" AND THE HATCHET MYTH, 
 
 ONCT was a boy an he couldn t lie ; 
 
 No sir, no matter how he try. 
 
 N en his dad w y he up an said : 
 
 " George git the wood fore you go to bed." 
 
 George didn t like it a bit adburn, 
 
 T bring in the wood when it wasn t his turn j 
 
 But allee samee he mosied out, 
 
 Picked up his ax, an he looked about 
 
 Wher was a churry tree at his dad 
 
 Bragged on what fine churries it had. 
 
 N en w y George lit in an chopped 
 
 Th ol tree down an never stopped 
 
 Till he cut it into sticks so small, 
 
 Piled way up ginst the kitchen wall. 
 
" BUD " AND THE HATCHET MYTH. 205 
 
 Well purty soon his dad corned in, 
 Looked at the wood, an said with a grin : 
 " George, who got all this nice wood ?" 
 George didn t lie cause he never could 
 But telled his dad jest the hones fac s : 
 " I done it sir, with my littul ax." 
 
206 FATHER S LITTLE JOKE. 
 
 FATHER S LITTLE JOKE. 
 
 FATHER used to rig the girls about us bein pore, 
 
 An go on lots about things what s a go n to hap 
 pen shore : 
 
 The hot winds an the hoppers an the chinch- 
 bugs in the wheat, 
 
 An holler-horn an ten cent corn ; you never 
 seen the beat 
 
 Of how he used to grunt around jest gasin like 
 you see 
 
 "We re goin to the pore-house Sue, lickety- 
 split," sezee. 
 
 Then, snappin of his galluses an backin to the 
 fire, 
 
 He d stretch an smile a little while and puff 
 his reekin briar ; 
 
FATHER S LITTLE JOKE. 207 
 
 An takin in the sittun room from every which- 
 
 a-way, 
 " This is good enough fer pore folks," is what 
 
 father d always say. 
 
 F rinstunce say some Sunday when the Rug- 
 
 gleses drove down ; 
 Unload a hull dern wagon full; jes like a small 
 
 sized town ; 
 An father d look at mother an he d ast her ef 
 
 she s got 
 That johnny-cake and side of bacon left es like 
 
 es not. 
 Then mother d tie her apern on an guess that 
 
 she d make out : 
 (T u d do you good ef you jest could see mother 
 
 flax about.) 
 Well they d be mashed potatoes, chicken, 
 
 turnips, squash an slaw, 
 Tomato stew an string-beans too, perserves an 
 
 pie an law, 
 Dead oodles of brown gravy ; an nen after 
 
 father d pray 
 "This is good enough fer pore folks," is what 
 
 father d always say. 
 
208 FATHER S LITTLE JOKE. 
 
 The night Jane come home cryin , when they give 
 
 her her divorce, 
 The girls an me an mother we made over her 
 
 a-course ; 
 But father stayed around the barn an mother 
 
 passed the plates, 
 When supper come an made up somethin bout 
 
 his fixin gates. 
 Then after supper father came an set around an 
 
 smoked, 
 An looked at Jane time an again, zif he d a-like 
 
 to joked 
 An churped her up, but dassent n yet wanted 
 
 her to know 
 How glad he was she d come to us, but could 
 
 n t jest say so. 
 At bed time father pinched Jane s cheeks his 
 
 dear old fashioned way 
 " Home s good enough fer pore folks," was all 
 
 father s voice could say. 
 
THE MAIDEN AND THE PRINCE. 2OQ 
 
 THE MAIDEN AND THE PRINCE. 
 
 THERE s a half-forgotten story or the echo of a 
 
 song, 
 That is tangled in the meshes of my mem ry, and 
 
 a throng 
 Of knights in jeweled armor pass in dignified 
 
 parade, 
 
 Across my fitful fancy, while, upon a palisade, 
 A wraith of regal radiance, illumes the legend 
 
 fair : 
 Of the maid behind the trellis and the prince 
 
 who kissed her hair. 
 
 There s a glitter and a glamour in the telling of 
 the tale, 
 
210 THE MAIDEN AND THE PRINCE. 
 
 And a golden thread of love is wrapt around the 
 
 rugged mail, 
 Till its silky strands seem stronger than the woof 
 
 of love we know, 
 As it shimmers in the sunshine on the hills of 
 
 long ago. 
 And so lovers of these latter days look back with 
 
 mute dispair 
 At the maid behind the trellis and the prince 
 
 who kissed her hair. 
 
 Yet the lily lady s lover was a roisterer who 
 
 fought 
 Many brutal bloody battles for the booty that 
 
 they brought ; 
 And his heart benumbed and callous, seared with 
 
 passion could not feel 
 The perfumed breath of Love through Hope s 
 
 enchanted chambers steal. 
 Twas the halo of some poet s love that lit the 
 
 fabled pair : 
 The maid behind the trellis, and the prince who 
 
 who kissed her hair. 
 
HOW IT HAPPENED. 211 
 
 HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 WHEN God was aglow with His work on the 
 world, 
 
 That stood on the structure of Faith, 
 He hewed out the Winter and lustily whirled 
 His hammer aloft, and with fancy unfurled 
 He dreamed out the Summer ; then as His lips 
 curled 
 
 In a smile (like a Heavenly wraith,) 
 His hands slowly fashioned the smile of His face, 
 
 And wrought there the beautious thing 
 Unknown to the Worker who bent o er the place 
 Where Winter should be full of joy at the grace 
 Of His dream ; but at last, God beholding the 
 trace 
 
 Of His smile on the world called it Spring. 
 
212 WOMANHOOD. 
 
 WOMANHOOD. 
 
 I KISSED her baby, and its hazel eyes 
 
 Beamed through my soul, where, in a dim re 
 cess, 
 
 There is a pictured face on which distress 
 Plays hide and seek with hope ; a tear-drop dries, 
 Warmed by her parting smile ; again she tries 
 
 To reach me with a zephyr-blown caress. 
 
 This, I in anguish had called "Faithlessness" 
 And pricked it on my heart with poisoned dyes. 
 
 The baby s lips were sweet with drowsy wine 
 Pressed out of dreams, by fragrant mem ry 
 
 stirred. 
 
 I drank my fill and yielded to its mood. 
 And when I woke the picture still was mine ; 
 (By baby lips the title had been blurred,) 
 And underneath was written, " Womanhood." 
 
"COMFORT SCORNED OF DEVILS." 213 
 
 "COMFORT SCORNED OF DEVILS." 
 
 O LET me keep the sorrow in my heart, 
 
 That God has sent, nor hope that it may go ; 
 
 O rather let me pray I may not know 
 The empty day when sorrow shall depart, 
 And leave me callous with no tears to start, 
 
 When mem ry trips upon my heart-strings, 
 though 
 
 My soul shall writhe with anguish, be it so : 
 Why, only quick hearts quiver neath a dart ! 
 
 For Joy or Love or Sorrow keeps the heart alive, 
 And moistens it with Hope, that parching heat 
 
 Of passion may not crust it as a glove. 
 Then let me live, O God, and ever strive 
 To hallow Sorrow ; O it is as sweet 
 To live for Sorrow as to live for Love. 
 
214 AFTER WHILE. 
 
 AFTER WHILE. 
 
 THERE was a day when anguish gashed my heart, 
 And fevered grief throbbed through my fren 
 zied brain, 
 
 And beat upon my soul a rhythmed strain, 
 That echoed in the songs that used to start 
 Whene er I touched the lute-strings of my art. 
 O, sad sweet songs that sorrow keyed to pain, 
 And timed to dripping heart-blood and the 
 
 rain 
 Of unshed tears, that you and I should part ! 
 
 That day is gone ; I cannot strike the chords 
 That sobbed of woe they vainly would con 
 ceal ; 
 Nor does my numbed heart quiver neath its 
 
 thongs. 
 
 To-day dry eyes scan only empty words, 
 A soul balmed in content can scarcely feel ; 
 Since comfort stemmed my wounds and still 
 ed the songs. 
 
A VALENTINE. 215 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 IN those old days, the days now dead and sleeping, 
 In those old days the dream-world still is keeping, 
 In those old days, the days of young life s gladness, 
 In those old days so full of first love s madness, 
 In those old days you recollect them do you? 
 In those old days I sang this love song to you : 
 
 The wind and the world may be cold to you dear, 
 
 Ho bonnie maiden with eyes so blue, 
 For winds are as cruel as worlds are drear, 
 Then come to me darling with never a fear, 
 Come, come, come, sweetheart, come to me here, 
 Ho bonnie cling to your true loiie. 
 
 And yet to-day heart throbs to heart no greeting ; 
 And yet to-day we only bow at meeting ; 
 And yet to-day in two graves love is moulding, 
 And yet to-day one past two hearts are holding ; 
 And yet to-day by all the past worth living ; 
 And yet O friend ! hear me and be forgiving. 
 
2l6 A VALENTINE. 
 
 South wind ! 
 Soft wind ! 
 Kiss the hills again, 
 Start the rills again, 
 Soft wind ! 
 South wind ! 
 
 Kiss and wake the sleeping spring, 
 Till she pulses everything. 
 As when autumn s here, 
 And the woods are sere 
 And the passion of the summer 1 s gone, 
 Do the pensive days, 
 Filled with April haze 
 Seem to turn the year back to its dawn, 
 So my friend may we 
 Strangers though we be 
 
 Now that all love s fires are drenched for aye, 
 Kindly spring recall, 
 And be friends far all 
 Friends through all the Indian summer day. 
 Soft ivind ! 
 South wind ! 
 Kiss the hills again, 
 Wake the spring and then 
 Waft the thorjis and ashes all away. 
 
A SONG FOR MISTRESS SYLVIA. 21 7 
 
 A SONG FOR MISTRESS SYLVIA. 
 
 WHO is Sylvia ? What is she, 
 That all our swains commend her ITwo Gentlemen of Verona 
 
 I fain would sing to Sylvia a halting rhyme or two, 
 
 With a high ho lawsy daisy, high ho hum, 
 For other bards have sung her praises since the 
 
 lyre was new, 
 Singing hey and lack-a-day until the bright 
 
 days come. 
 
 And when he sings to Sylvia, each singer whis 
 pers low, 
 
 A name he dare not weave into his melody, and so, 
 
 Fair Sylvia has charms from all the goddesses ago, 
 
 Sing a hey and lack-a-daisy with a high ho hum. 
 
 O every song to Sylvia by lover ever writ, 
 
 With a high ho lawsy daisy, high ho hum. 
 Is sweeter far than silence though it jars a little 
 bit, 
 
2l8 A SONG FOR MISTRESS SYLVIA. 
 
 Singing hey and lack-a-day until the bright 
 
 days come. 
 For having loved and told of it, and having tried 
 
 to sing, 
 What matters if the trembling note hath not a 
 
 golden ring ; 
 O joy hath breathed on some lorn heart to move 
 
 that rusty string, 
 With its hey and lack-a-daisy and its high ho 
 
 hum. 
 
 So I fain would sing to Sylvia a halting rhyme or 
 
 two, 
 
 With a high ho dearie, dearie high ho hum, 
 A-sighing words to Sylvia my heart would say to 
 
 you, 
 Singing hey and lack-a-day until the bright 
 
 days come. 
 This song is made for you, my love, whose name 
 
 is whispered low, 
 This heart and voice are trembling as this husky 
 
 tune doth flow ; 
 And her who knows she s Sylvia this world may 
 
 never know, 
 Singing hey ho dearie, dearie high ho hum. 
 
THE EXODUS OF ELDER TWIGGS. 2IQ 
 
 THE EXODUS OF ELDER TWIGGS. 
 
 I BEEN here in the city now since last Thanks 
 giving day, 
 
 A-savin steps for Nelly chorin like as you 
 might say ; 
 
 A-dubbin round fer David and a putterin about, 
 
 A-takin care of little Bill when him an her goes 
 out. 
 
 A-course I ve hed my pastimes an the things 
 that I admire, 
 
 Like watchin people movin safes an runnin to 
 a fire, 
 
 An talkin to the milkman singin "Buckle Up 
 My Shoe" 
 
 Fer little Bill to laff at like his mother used to do. 
 
220 THE EXODUS OF ELDER TWIGGS. 
 
 But en my other daughter s writ fer me to come 
 
 agin 
 So I guess I ll go to Julia when the spring sets in. 
 
 They hain t no settled weather much till after 
 
 March I know ; 
 I want to be on deck, though, as the sayin used 
 
 to go. 
 I want to be on hand the day the younguns rake 
 
 the yard, 
 An the night they have thur bonfire ; an when 
 
 Julia rends her lard 
 I want to cut the fat fer her, an if they kill a 
 
 shoat, 
 To get a little fresh spring meat, I want to have 
 
 a vote 
 
 In givin Budd the fixins an the tail to little Net ; 
 An someone s left the stone off of the pickle 
 
 pork I bet. 
 The brine must need a change by now to let it 
 
 spoil s a sin 
 So I guess I ll go to Julia when the spring sets in. 
 
 I want to be around the day they take the peach- 
 blows out, 
 
THE EXODUS OF ELDER TWIGGS. 221 
 
 An he p Budd sort em over an to find the long 
 est sprout. 
 I want to scrape a apple jest uncovered from the 
 
 ground 
 Per Julia s youngest baby, while the ol familiar 
 
 sound 
 Of stirrin up the buckwheat cakes the hour of 
 
 bed time tells, 
 An soothes the heart to rest jes like a chime of 
 
 home-made bells. 
 I want to see the children in thur nighties like a 
 
 swarm 
 Of little home-made angels bring thur pillows 
 
 down to warm. 
 I want to taste ol home-made joy and home-made 
 
 love of kin 
 So I guess I ll go to Julia when the spring sets in. 
 
 I think at when the weather limbers up and 
 
 easies down, 
 I d like it say some Sunday fer to jes sneak 
 
 through the town, 
 An rack out fer the timber, takin little Budd 
 
 along 
 An him an me smoke grapevine an pertend 
 
222 THE EXODUS OF ELDER TWIGGS. 
 
 they s nothin wrong ; 
 An stretch out in the sunshine on the gravel by 
 
 the crick 
 A-knowin meetin s goin on not carin , though, 
 
 a lick ; 
 A-gettin loads of red buds an sweet-will-yums 
 
 an (b gosh) 
 A mess of greens to boil fer Monday s dinner 
 
 when they wash ! 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 This boughten jam of joy is spread on city life 
 
 too thin ; 
 So I guess I ll go to Julia when the spring sets in. 
 
TERPSICORE ON WILLER CREEK. 223 
 
 TERPSICORE ON WILLER CREEK, 
 
 THE daughters of Terpsichore who sit at Pallas 
 
 feet, 
 
 And overlook the festival of dancing, 
 In point of style and makeup may be very hard 
 
 to beat 
 
 As supple, soft-eyed houris they re entrancing. 
 But a tanned cheeked deity, 
 Living in the Used-to-be. 
 
 Could beat these maids with cards and spades in 
 bloom ; 
 
 For she reigned on Wilier Crick, 
 And presided fair and chic, 
 O er the " rags " we used to give before the boom. 
 
224 TERPSICORE ON WILLER CREEK. 
 
 The "rags" we used to give before we platted 
 
 out the place, 
 
 Before we had the opry house to splurge in, 
 Were free and easy gatherings of home-made 
 
 country grace, 
 
 And everybody came without the urgin ; 
 Oh, the fiddle and the horn, 
 And the organ, wheezed and worn, 
 Made an itchy, twitchy, music in the gloom 
 Of the busy work-aday 
 So that sorrow stayed away 
 From the "rags" we used to give before the boom. 
 
 The caller-off and fiddler was a simple home 
 ly soul 
 
 Who had one waltz in all his repertory ; 
 His long suit was his "cowdrills" and the ever- 
 flowing bowl, 
 
 And the "Irish Washerwoman" was his glory. 
 But he tickled up our heels 
 With his old Virginia reels 
 Like an airy joyful fairy in the room ; 
 For then none of us were rich, 
 Nor were parvynew and sich 
 At the "rags" we used to give before the boom. 
 
IF YOU GO AWAY. 225 
 
 IF YOU GO AWAY. 
 
 ROUNDEL. 
 
 IF you go away, a wild Woe will weep o er the 
 
 place 
 Where you sit ; she will stretch her stark arms 
 
 out and sobbingly pray 
 That Death cool the slow-throbbing pain in her 
 
 empty embrace 
 
 If you go away. 
 
 Perhaps it is better to go ere you tire of the play 
 Ere the hulls of your hopes are torn open to leave 
 
 bitter trace 
 
 Of the worm when your hopes are first blush 
 ing and ere they decay. 
 
226 IF YOU GO AWAY. 
 
 I know it is hard to be still and look Death in 
 
 the face ; 
 With lips sweet and dewy from Life s morning 
 
 kisses to say : 
 I am ready. But God ! t will be harder to keep 
 
 in the race 
 
 If you go away. 
 
OUT IN THE DARK. 227 
 
 OUT IN THE DARK. 
 
 DEAR, I must go. 
 The old clock says it : nine ten hark ! 
 
 Of course the old clock can not know, 
 
 That every hour-beat is a blow 
 
 Upon my heart I love you so. 
 
 Some day we ll taunt the old clock though- 
 Dear I must go out in the dark. 
 
 Out in the dark, 
 
 Where, on the night wind sweet I throw 
 A kiss my love guides to its mark ; 
 And where each mellow heav nly spark 
 Joins in a love song that the lark 
 Translates at morn ; where dreams embark- 
 Out in the dark dear, I must go. 
 
228 OUT IN THE DARK. 
 
 Dear, I must go. 
 
 For God hath willed it, loved one, hark ! 
 And He alone can truly know 
 How crushed and bruised beneath His blow 
 Our hearts are, for we love love so 
 Some day we ll triumph o er Death though 
 
 Dear, I must go out in the dark. 
 
 Out in the dark, 
 
 Where hov ring near you I shall throw 
 My love about you, and you ll mark 
 My presence by the glowing spark 
 That mem ry breathes on ; th meadow lark 
 At dusk will call you to embark 
 Out in the dark. Dear, / must go. 
 
 L ENVOI. 
 Hold to my hand, dear heart, for oh, 
 
 I am so weak, yes, dear, blind stark : 
 And God I do not want to go 
 Out in the dark. 
 
THE END. 
 
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