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. THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW "PS AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. QCT 24 1937 ,7 LD 21-95w-7, 37 U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES 353 p/v-f UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY VC159808