THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES The Author 1896. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEP1S. MIRTHFUL AND OTHERWISE. Charles Noel Douglas. TO MILLIONS Or FRIENDS, SCATTERED BROADCAST O ER THIS MAJESTIC LAND, 1 DEDICATE THIS LITTLE VOLUME OP VERSE. Brooklyn, N. 7.: Charles Noel Douglas, 1299 Park Place. COPTEIGHT, 1906, BY J. 8. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY. ?s PREFACE. S T the urgent request of many friends, who have Taeen kind enough to take an interest in the verse I have, from time to time, contributed to vari ous magazines, I have gotten together a number of my published efforts, and herewith present them to the public. This little work is called a book of poems, but, as a mat ter of fact, it does not contain a single poem, for which I am thankful, as publishers inform, me that poetry does not sell. All I claim for this book is that it contains some verse which may, possibly, bring a smile to the faces of those who read it, if those readers are not hopeless dyspeptics, or confirmed hypochondriacs. If the mirth-seeker finds nothing laughable in the so- called humorous verse, perhaps in the section devoted to the more serious subjects he may discover sufficient excuse for indulging his risibilities to his heart s content. In any event, I hope the reader will mark the note of cheerfulness and optimism which runs through the book, in spite of the fact that every line in this volume has been written during ten years of shut-in life, six of which were passed in the wards of hospitals and institutions among scenes which cannot be recalled without a shudder. THE AUTHOB. 3 904176 AN APPRECIATION. WISH to tender my sincere thanks to those pub lishers who have so kindly permitted me to re produce, in this volume, verse that has appeared in their publications. I have to thank the New York Herald for permitting me to use the "Glorious Fourth and How We Got It," and "When the New Boy Came." The Christian Herald for "God Knows Best," "God Will Take Care of Me," "Sun days in the Old Church," "Preach Jesus to Me," "Cobbler Jim," etc. St. Nicholas for "Willie on Classic Fiction." Judge for "A Cautious Lover," and "When Casey Came Home Sober." The Designer for "Sidney Alexander and His Halidome," "Belinda Anne." The Delineator for "What Boys and Girls Are Made Of." The Woman s Home Companion for "Don t Forget That Gun," and "When Baby Writes a Letter." Recreation for "When Father Hangs a Picture on the Wall," "The Predicament of a Poet." The Ladies World for "Baby s First Sunday in Church." W. H. Gannet, Esq., of Comfort, for "Turkey and Pie," "The Art of Being Good," "Santa Glaus," "Wil lie s Opinion of Babies," "Squash," "The Confessions of a Dunce," "He Knew It Then," etc. The Currier Boyce Co., of The Woman s World and Homefolks, for "Mandy and Si," "Since Katie Went to Cooking-school," "God Knows," "When Pop Played Santa Glaus," "The Little Bird That s Always Telling Ma," "Butt Right In," "Careful Ma," "A Few Things to Be Thankful For," "Actor s Story," "So 6 AN APPRECIATION. Did I," "Hard-Luck Story," "A Novelty at Last," "Mat ter of Money." Spare Moments for "The Boy Who Talked and the Boy Who Did." The Sunday Telegraph for "The Actor s Prayer," "Summer Plans," "Tragedian s Lament," "Confessions of a Villain," "The Family The atric," etc. The Brown Book, of Boston, for "The Tragedy of an Apple." New Idea for "Dollie s Sick." The Class mate for "Passing of the Old Church," and Home Life, Chicago, for the greater portion of the biographical sketch. THE AUTHOE. A BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. February, 1897, after some years of failing health, I was stricken with an obscure nervous trouble, which rendered me almost entirely helpless, and put me on a bed of sickness, which I have never left. Sickness is an expensive matter, and it forced me event ually to sacrifice a home and surroundings of refinement for a ward in a hospital. After nine months of hospital life, as the doctors could do nothing for me, I was listed as a chronic case, and informed that I must vacate, or go to a public hospital, which is a polite term for the poor- house. My means were exhausted, and, with the excep tion of one or two faithful friends, everyone had forgotten me. I realized the plight I was in, and begged the hospital authorities to give me a few days grace. My request was granted, and then if ever a man prayed for help and guid ance I did. I did not pray in vain, and I never have. An inspiration came to me to write the words for a song. Coon songs were then all the<rage, and, as I had sung many dur ing my stage career, I decided I would write a coon song and, on borrowed paper and with a borrowed pen and ink, the words of my first lyric were dictated to a fellow-patient. I had not held a pen in months, and had almost forgotten how to write, but my amanuensis was patient and skilful, and eventually got my lines on paper. A borrowed envelope 7 g A BIOGRAPHICAL. SKETCH. and borrowed stamp took my little verses to a very cele brated actress. Two days of agonizing suspense passed, and then, to my intense delight and unspeakable joy, a let ter was brought me from the famous singer, and inside the envelope was a check for twenty dollars. That night I thought out another song "pome," and Weber and Fields, then in the zenith of their fame, sent me twenty dollars for it. Forty dollars now were mine. I felt richer than Rocke feller, and if happiness were wealth I certainly had the oil king beaten to a finish. With my forty dollars I moved to another hospital, and here I wrote iny first magazine poem "Sundays in the Old Church" which, after months of effort, I sold to the Christian Herald for twelve dollars. My next product, an eight-verse humorous "pome," went to Youth s Companion, and brought me twenty-five dollars. My initial successes were too much for me in my in tensely delicate condition, and soon after moving to the new hospital, I collapsed, and for three months hardly knew my own name. From this on it it was one long, grim, heart-breaking, soul-crushing fight, but I was not in the least discouraged. In the slang of the day, I was up against a tough proposition, but it is the same thing every other man has had to experience who has sought a living by the pen. One piece, I remember, in which I had sub lime faith a faith afterward justified by events I sent out twenty-nine times. It was a set of humorous verses entitled "The Tragedy of an Apple," and it nearly became the tragedy of a would-be versifier before I got through with it, for after it had been rejected twenty-eight times, for once my optimism left me and I think I broke down. At last I sent the verses off on their twenty-ninth mission, to the Brown Boole, of Boston, and a substantial check was the result. It had taken me two years to sell that poem but I sold it! A BIOGRAPHICAL, SKETCH. 9 I now moved to a home for incurables, where I spent three years, in an attic, under a tin roof, roasted in sum mer, frozen in winter. My companions were a blind man, a speechless and helpless paralytic, a lunatic, and a poor young man who had broken his back when seven years old and had spent all his life in institutions. Here I wrote some two hundred song lyrics and poems, the majority of which I marketed. Sometimes my funds were so low I would have to practically give my work away. Once cir cumstances were such that I sacrificed an entire book of juvenile verse for seven dollars. The seven dollars were sent me by check, the check I gave to a friend to cash, he never returned the work of two months went with him. My one hope and prayer had been that I might once more have a home of my own, where I could again sur round myself with those little things a man of refined and artistic tastes craves so much. At times I despaired of ever accomplishing my object, but I toiled on, hoped on, prayed on, and, finally, in September, 1902, after close on six years of unspeakable misery, I turned my back on the hos pitals forever, I trust, and moved into a home of my own. Can you imagine what that change meant to me? For three years I hadn t seen a vestige of nature. Spring came ; I saw not its verdant splendor; Fall rolled on, but the gorgeous tints of autumn were not for me. I could only tell the seasons from the heat or cold. At night the blind man was in the habit of wandering around, and losing his bed. He invariably passed his hand all over my face, my nose which is of generous proportions being the landmark by which he located his lost sleeping-place The demented gentleman used to keep me in a constant state of suspense, and, at times, almost in a state of terror, for often no nurse appeared for an hour or more, and then the maniac would come and inform me that I was trespassing 10 A BIOGRAPHICAL. SKETCH. on his property, and if I didn t vacate at once he would be under the painful necessity of assisting me through the window. At such times the most delicate tact and alert mental gymnastics were necessary, or there would have been a tragedy. On these occasions I reminded him that he had sold me half his property the night before, and the gentleman opposite (the old blind man) had witnessed the sale and had the deed in his possession. This immediately sent him scurrying to the blind man, who was quite pow erful and pugnacious, and, while the imaginary deed was being discussed by them, I was forgotten, and help came. Sometimes this ruse would not work, and then I always had an old newspaper handy, and the lunatic would often spend half an hour examining the signatures (?) and terms of the deed, and (thank heaven) he invariably re turned to tell me it was "all correct." I got a good deal of entertainment out of this poor soul, for usually he was in excellent humor, but I always had to do my work with one eye on my paper and one on him, for I never knew what wild scheme was hatching in his poor, distracted brain. You can imagine, I say, what my delight was to leave all these scenes of suffering, and have my bed in a win dow which gave me a splendid view of the world, of which I d seen nothing in six years. I shall never forget my ex citement as I watched the first automobile chug-chug past on the street below. But perhaps the most delightful and refreshing sight was a band of lovely children darling lit tle tots playing "Bing-a-ring, a-rosy" on the lawn of a house opposite me. Ah, me! how little we appreciate the small things of life until we lose them, and then, and not until then, do we realize what we ve lost. For a week I could do nothing but gaze out of my window, and laugh and sing, and thank God I was alive. It was glorious ! In A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. H March, 1903, my connection with Comfort began. This was an epoch in my life, as it brought me the abiding love of six millions of people. As "Uncle Charlie," in Comfort, and "Uncle George," in Homefolks, I have become an in stitution in nearly two millions of homes. I have also social departments in several other maga zines, and have the great privilege of talking monthly to and reaching sixteen millions of people. In connection with Comfort I have organized a league of young folks, everyone of whom is solemnly pledged to do "sunshine work" work that will make this world a better place to live in. I have organized similar leagues in other maga zines, and my mail in connection with this work ranges from one to two thousand letters per week the year round. Through these leagues I have been able to brighten the lives, and obtain substantial aid for hundreds of poor, help less sick and suffering "shut-ins" scattered all over this broad land. The love these unfortunates lavish on me is most touching and beautiful, though not one of these sus pect that my physical condition is no better than their own. I have written some seven hundred song lyrics, also "pomes" during my invalidism, and have had one song that was sung all around the world. I have also compiled a huge dictionary of quotations, in addition to my other work. This work, in which I have gathered the world s literary gems, consists of two volumes of one thousand pages each, and is entitled "Forty Thousand Sublime and Beau tiful Thoughts." It is probably the most complete work of quotations in existence, and, though I do not claim it is the best, it certainly contains twice as much matter as can be found in any other compilation of this kind. I have mentioned this quotation work to show that a man on a bed of sickness may still do good work and ac complish much that is useful, if he will develop, to the ut- 12 A BIOGRAPHICAL, SKETCH. most, any latent talent he may possess, and take advantage of every opportunity that may come his way. Personally, I had never written a line until circum stances forced me to make a supreme effort, and, as the result of that effort meant practically life or death to me, you can imagine that I threw my very soul into the task. To those millions of friends who know me through the pages of popular magazines, I dedicate this little book, and I trust that its pages will still further strengthen the ties of affection that already exist between us, and add to that loving appreciation which will ever be the inspira tion of my shut-in life Gratefully, THE AUTHOR. HUMOROUS POEMS. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. WHEN FATHER HANGS A PICTURE ON THE WALL. HEN Father hangs a picture on the wall there s lots of fun, An everyone aroun the house has got to move an run. The oP step-ladder s fixed in place, the hammer s nowhere s round, An when they start to look for nails, the nails ain t to he found. Pa shouts aloud his orders, an Ma says twas ever thus, When a man starts in to do some work there s bound to be a fuss. An Pa says women s useless things an always have to call A man if they should want to hang a picture on the wall. Pa gets a roll of picture wire, an then a measurin tape, An says he ll show the women how to put the house in shape. Off to the parlor then he goes and partly there disrobes, And bangs the ladder right against the shandyleer and globes, 15 16 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Then shouts for Ma, an gives her fits because she didn t fly To warn him when the ladder to the shandyleer was nigh. Then Baby mongst the broken glass unnoticed starts to crawl. Oh ! there s heaps of fun when Father hangs a picture on the wall. They bandage up the Baby, an they sweep up all the glass, An Pa says, at hangin pictures, nobody s in his class. There s artists in most every line, Pa lows, but you can bet That for real artistic hanging, no one s equalled him as yet. Then he holds a nail between his teeth, and Ma remarks she s glad, As now at least his tongue is stopped, an that just makes Pa mad, An down he lays the law to Ma, who goes out in the hall, An leaves Pa in his glory hangin pictures on the wall. Pa measures up the wall an squints and then starts in to back, So as to get a better view, and gives his head a crack; An oh ! the things that poor Pa said, I m glad no one was near When his bald head bumped up against that parlor shan dyleer. Then up the ol step-ladder, nail in mouth, he starts to climb An says he lows that picture s just as good as fixed this time, Then hits that nail a mighty whack, an "murder !" starts to bawl, For it s not the picture, but Pa s thumb s got nailed against the wall. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 17 The damaged thumb is bandaged up, the head is plastered, then Up that old ladder, "do or die," once more Pa sails agen; An then he goes for that ol nail, an hits it such a swipe An not only drives it through the wall, but through an ol gas pipe, An just as we all smell the gas, the ladder gives a crack An crash it goes an sends poor Pa a-sprawlin on his back. His ankle sprained, for Doctor Jones we send a hurry call To tell him Pa is sick with "picturitis on the wall." The Baby s cut with broken glass, an, as for poor ol dad, He s sprained a foot, an lost a thumb, his head s cut awful bad. The shandyleer is wrecked for life, the gas it s made Ma ill, An twill take Pa s savings for a year to pay the plumber s bill. The parlor looks as if a cyclone slept in it a week, Or a band of Texas steers had been there playin hide and seek; An ever since that day, Dad, he s been singin mighty small, An Ma, not Pa, henceforth will hang the pictures on the wall. 18 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. THE INTERRUPTED SERENADE. (By kind permission of Francis Wilson, Esq.) M under thy casement, my own lady love, Twang, twang, twang. The stars in their glory are shining above, Twang, twang, twang. OE, you are my angel, my idol, my queen, Excuse my guitar at music I m green, I bought it a bargain a dollar sixteen. Twang, twang, twang. Your eyes make the stars of the Heavens turn green, Twang, twang, twang. At least sweet they would, if those eyes could be seen, Twang, twang, twang. Oh, come to thy casement, fair lady, come quick ; I m weary of waiting, I m sad and heart sick, Excuse that last note someone threw a brick. Twang, twang, twang. The roses are sleeping; they dream, love, 01 you, Twang, twang, twang. The breeze murmurs softly ; it sighs for thee too, Twang, twang, twang. It moans at your casement, oh, open it now. Twill waft you my kisses, to print on your brow. There s Jones Maria did you hear her me-row? Twang, twang, twang. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 19 All, could I but hear the soft notes of your voice, Twang, twang, twang. All Nature would wake, and with me rejoice, Twang, twang, twang. Oh, come to your lattice, one word only speak. Tis early, too early, your slumbers to seek. My Gr string has "bust," my voice sprung a leak. Twang, twang, twang. Oh, list to my pleadings, my soul is on fire, Twang, twang, twang. I yearn for thee madly, my heart s dear desire, Twang, twang, twang. Ah, why do those eyelids in slumber now droop, And o er your white shoulders your fair tresses loop. There s Pop with a shotgun come out on the stoop. Twang, twang, twang. Oh, come to that window ; well, you take the cake, Twang, twang, twang. You snore like a cyclone, the dead you would wake. Twang, twang, twang. I m down in the mud, the bulldogs on top ; I m plugged full of buckshot; I guess I will stop. Tra la la, sweetness, I m off here s the Cop ! Twang, twang, twang. 0(3 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. DON T FORGET THAT GUN. A Little Boy s Letter to Santa Claus. EAR Sandy Claws, I guess it s time I wrote you just a line, To hope you re well, an tell you that I m feelin extry fine. An , oh! I m lookin forward to your comin roun this year, An I thought I d let you know just what to bring me, Sandy dear. I know you re awful good an kind to little boys like me, An that is just the reason I m a-writin to you, see ? An 3 fore I mention other things, an through the list I run, I ll be awful grateful, Sand} 7 , if you ll bring along a gun. It s one of them nice "twenty-twos," dear Sandy, that I need, The sort a feller uses when he s got a panther treed, Or is holdin up the Deadwood coach, an handy for to use In standin off a whoopin band of Rapahoes or Siouxs. They re handy, too, when Jones cat comes roun our yard to sing, Or Browns pigeons squat about an to the fence-rail cling. There ll be a most excitin time, an , oh ! such heaps of fun, If you ll only mind, dear Sandy, an bring along THAT gun. I need a pony next thing, dear Sandy, an if you Will bring him roun I ll show the boys some circus tricks that s new. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 21 He won t go in the stockin s I m hangin on the bed, But you can leave him in the barn, an that ll do instead ; An twill save you lots of trouble, for it makes a heap of mess A-luggin of a pony down a chimney-flue, I guess ; An bring a saddle, bridle, bit a nickel-plated one Likewise a ton of hay and feed, an DON T forget that GUN! I guess an autermobill will be the next upon the list (You needn t bring no kerosene, there s heaps that won t be missed). I don t know how you ll get it down the chimney or the flue, An my stockin s they won t hold it, but I guess my pants ll do, For in one leg alone last year you put a train of cars ; But if they won t do, an you won t tell, I ll go an borrow Pa s. There d be one leg for the pony, an in the other one You could stow the autermobill an have room left for the GUN. You can bring along some peanuts about a half a sack You needn t bring no apples, for Ma she s got a stack, An we re all fixed up for turkey, an there ain t no lack of pie, But drop a ton of candy an ice-cream as you go by. The sled s wore out, an so s the skates, so mind an put em down, An fetch a horn that makes a noise that s heard all over town; An that ain t half that s on my list in fact, I ain t begun. Oh ! make a note for oranges, an DON T FORGET THAT GUN! 22 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Pa says, dear Sandy, I should think, at this time of the year, Of other things besides just what you re going to bring me, dear. That I should bear in mind just what took place on Christ mas Day, Of "tidin s glad, good-will to men," an then goes on to say, That you re only nice an kind to little boys that s good, Who never tear their pants an clothes, but split the kin- dlin -wood, So, Sandy dear, remember me, an all them bad boys shun, An bring what Pa calls "peace on earth," an DON T FORGET THAT GUN!!! WILLIE ON CLASSIC FICTION. SUPPOSE that Aunt Jemima thought she d done a powerful lot, When she brought me this old novel by that feller Walter Scott, And another one by Dickens, or some funny name like that, An Pa says that I must read em, an has laid the law down flat, That my much-loved yellow story books forever I irmst quit. So here I m tackling Ivanhoe, and don t like the thing a bit, For, though I m at the second page, to my intense regret, No Indians peared upon the scene, and no one s killed as yet. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 23 Pa s told me quite a little bout the story Ivanhoe, An says the whole thing s simply grand but, oh ! it s dreadful slow, An that Kichard Cur de Lion, Pa says was great to fight, Put with Pawnee Jim and Buckskin Bill he wouldn t be a bite, An as for Mr. Robin Hood, an that ole six-foot bow, Why, with Buckskin Bill s Win-chest-er, he wouldn t have have a show. So, Mister Scott and Dickens, if Willie s heart you d win, Just re-write all your stories, and put lots of Indians in. Why, Johnny Jones, he tells me (and he s read an awful lot), That in some of these ol stories by Dickens and by Scott (An when young Johnny told me, oh ! I laughed until I shook) Why, he says that they make one murder do to last clean through the book. Of course, I didn t contradict, but, oh ! that can t be true, That for just one single murder folks would read a whole book through. So I m startin to investigate, an , oh ! how mad I get, For, here s page three, and, oh ! dear me ! nobody s killed as yet. Those funny days of chivalry, that Scott tells all about, Where knights would get long lances to pry each other out. Of them ole tin-can suits they wore, likewise a thick mail shirt Why, them cowards must have dressed like that for fear of getting hurt. 24 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Could Buckskin Bill just come in sight, and start in pump- in lead, An make his ole Wm-chest-er smoke, them knights would all drop dead. An while Bill he was pumpin death, he d smoke a cigar ette, Ah, that s the type of hero for a real live boy, you bet. Of course, in them ol bygone days, folks wasn t go-ahead, An didn t know the proper way of killing people dead. They didn t have no Maxim guns, an then, maybe agen, The Paches and Comanches weren t a showin fight just then. But, with modern new improvements, they kill folks off in style, An can knock a fly s hind leg off, an stand off twenty mile. So now it s just plain reason, boys in this progressive age Want gore galore, and quite a score of killin s to a page. So just take your classic fiction an lay it all aside, While I will sweep the western plains, an along with Wild Bill ride. An haul a gay ole Gatling way upon a crested butte,* An, lay low till the Redskins come, an then wade in an shoot. Then I ll wed an Indian Princess, a Sioux, or Chicksaw, An have an Indian pony and an Indian ma-in-law. An I ll write a book about it, and just look out for fun, For every Indian living will be killed in Chapter One ! *Pronounced bute; is a lone mountain. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 25 TUKKEY AN PIE. HANKSGIVIN DAY has come again an Pa says there is much For us to all be thankful for, an then he starts to touch Upon the various blessings that has happened through the year, An the way that Pa just gets it off, twould do you good to hear. He says the harvest has been good, the corn an extry yield, An smilin plenty s been the rule in pasture and in field ; An for these acts of Providence, the turkey s got to die, An wholesale slaughter will be waged on cranb ry sauce an pie. Pa says, of all the years he s known, the one that s drawin out Has been the one that most he s got to thankful be about; The summer-boarder crop this year has been the finest yet, An one young city feller Sister Sue s caught in her net. She s been what they calls "on the shelf" an never had no beaus, An just how glad she s off his hands, Pa says, there s no one knows ; An , to show that we are grateful to Providence, we ll try To fill ourselves up to the ears with turkey, sauce an pie. Pa says when he compares this year with other years he s known, This one, for real prosperity, just stands out all alone; 26 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Grasshoppers and such birds of prey in other years have come An chawed up everything in sight, an never left a crumb. But this year, Pa says, they se been good, so good, with joy we laugh, To think, instead of all the crop, this year they took but half; An , for this special favor, we think we all should try To swim around in cranb ry sauce an pulverize the pie. Pa says he thinks a great improvement steadily goes on An gives a feller hope an grist with which to build upon. He says, this year, that Fortune s been a-smilin extry kind An int rest on the mortgage now s but sixteen months be hind. An he thinks, with great exertion, if we all wade in an work, An never leave a thing undone, and nothin round us shirk, The organ for the parlor, on installments, we can buy, So we ll organize a fierce assault on turkey, sauce an pie. Pa says the tramps that s came around within the twelve months gone, Shows him a brighter era for humanity will dawn. For tramps that once would, for a crust, split up a cord of wood, Now help themselves and kick like steers unless the cook- in s good. An , as for them mosquiters ; well, that s a thing that we Have all got special reasons to extry thankful be, For they were but a puny crop, some less than two feet high, So breathe a blessing tween the chunks of turkey, sauce an pie. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 27 Pa says, some folks they make him tired the way they soon despair, An* loads that hreak some backs, to Pa are trifles light as air; An there, out in the field, he sings with joy the livelong day To think the skeeters, bugs an* things ain t carried him away, But left him here upon the farm, his back to labor bent, To pay the interest on loans at ninety-five per cent. An that Pa he can do the job s sufficient reason why We ve wrastled with the turkey an got hunkey with the pie. THE NEW BOY CAME." HEN the New Boy came to school we awaited eagerly That gentleman s arrival, and wondered if he d be A valuable addition to our youthful baseball nine, And did his trunk contain a cake or other gifts divine, And did he look a likely chap to bully or to lick, And would he on the football team perchance be called to kick, And help the school to victory in many a glorious game Were the questions we debated when the New Boy came. Now, Billy Benson said he d heard though he never men tioned where That the New Boy was quite big and strong and wouldn t take a "dare/* gg UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. That he d pitch a ball across a plate with most terrific curve, And, in stealing bases, never seemed to lack prodigious nerve. At jumping, he could clear with ease the highest kind of gate, And could swim a mile at least or more at simply record rate. Then run ten miles at "hare and hounds" and never fetch up lame, Which filled our souls with envy, ere the New Boy came. Then Aubrey Montmorency said he thought that Benson erred, And from little hints dropped here and there he knew or p raps inferred That the gentleman in question did not go in for sport, But studied like a demon, and seclusion he would court To sweat away at Virgil until he d nearly drop, Then scoop in all the prizes, and in his class be top. This made us all disgusted, and it seemed so beastly tame, And we looked quite tired and weary, ere the New Boy came. Then Master John MacDonald here ventured to remark, That he d private information, if we d swear to keep it dark, That the youth we were expecting was not studious but rich! Which excited us instanter to the highest kind of pitch ; His parents simply rolled in wealth and delighted to in dulge Their offspring s evr y fancy and here our eyes would bulge ! UNCLJ3 CHARLIE S POEMS. 29 And to school with less than fifty "bones" this Crcesus never came, Which drove us simply frantic, ere the New Boy came. At last up on the playground that youthful soul emerged, And a wild and curious eager crowd like Indians round him surged. But, oh ! what looks of horror, for there before us stood A little nine-year stripling, just removed from babyhood. A measly, puny weakling, a tear-drop in each eye ; Ah! in vain had some fond mother that morning kissed them dry; We were righteously indignant such a beastly, awful shame ; We were horribly disgusted when the New Boy came. Ah ! -boys, dear boys, appearances will very oft deceive ; Not always does the fairest flower the sweetest fragrance leave. The puniest of youngsters to robust strength will climb, And captain all your baseball nines if you ll hut give them time. For even mighty Nelson was delicate and frail, Yet gloriously he followed in Fame s lustrous blazing trail. So give the youngsters time to grow and with pride you ll yet acclaim The memorable occasion, when the New Boy came. 30 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. SIDNEY ALEXANDER AND HIS HALIDOME. WAS wondrous the impression that novels used to make On the plastic brain of boyhood, and the forms it used to take, And the influence it wielded upon the youthful mind Which between those magic coverlids a Paradise would find. If you d watch Sid Alexander, in a second you could tell What FICT-I-O-NAL wizard over him had cast his spell, And twas best for you to cut and run when o er some well- thumbed tome You heard him mutter awful words about his "halidome." We used to blame that Wizard of the North, Sir Walter Scott, For half the dreadful lickings and the bruises that we got. For Sir Walter had o er Sidney an influence immense; When neath his spell twas best for you to hide or climb a fence. For the battle-axe and lances and the swords that he would wield Would have sent the great Napoleon in terror from the field, For there never was an army neath the Heavens eternal dome Could face Sid Alexander and his awful halidome. In mediaeval castles he was living all the time, And over castellated walls and postern gates he d climb To rescue lovely maidens who were lying in distress, And for reward his lips upon their lily hands he d press. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 31 He d squires, pages, men-at-arms, you d hear his charger snort., And he spoke the knightly lingo of great King Arthur s Court. In dungeons deep he d victims chained, the wicked little gnome, And he benisoned and blessed em (?) by his knightly hali- dome. Twas then you had to watch him, for danger it was rife, For though he didn t really have a battle-axe or knife, Yet his looks were so bloodthirsty, as the air he cleaved and smote, Twas hard to think a shirt of mail was not beneath his coat. "Ah ! Caitiff dogs !" you d hear him cry, and swiftly wheel about To drive the hosts of Saladin in sanguinary rout. Then erstwhile -as a Troubadour he d sweetly sing of home And the ladye-love he cherished, by his knightly halidome. Twos grand to watch Sir Sidney when he bade his love adieu. You d have killed yourself a-laughing at the antics he went through. He d fix a sprig of lilac for her colors in his cap, Then vault upon his charger, and you d hear his visor snap. Then he d gallop like a whirlwind and he d shout his battle cry, Then homeward, wildly panting, like a meteor he d fly, And doff his cap and wave his hand, his sword to heaven thrown, As is fit for knightly lovers when they ve got a halidome. 32 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. We used t feel a great relief when Marryatt he d read, For then he d drop the murd rous and was nautical in stead. And the way he hitched his trousers and the slang that he let rip, Why, anyone would think he d spent his life aboard a ship. The sails that he d be setting and the anchors he d let go, The boarding parties he d repel, the French that he laid low, Oh ! Twas glorious to watch him steer his frigate o er the foam, And we had a welcome respite from his awful halidome. But if we heard blood-curling whoops and sharp staccato yells, We knew that Sidney then was in his wickedest of spells, And was reading of the "red men," as per Cooper or Mayne Eeid, And we rushed at once for safety with a most prodigious speed, For Sidney then a demon was, with knife and tomahawk; And twould freeze your blood to watch the way his enemies he d stalk. His face looked simply fiendish, a wicked, yellow chrome, And we prayed he d quit the Indian and resume his hali dome. Oh, Sidney Alexander, I wonder if the books That now you read still influence your actions and your looks. For if they do, be careful, and pray forever blot From your mature perusal works by Cooper and by Scott. For he whose temp rament is of the impressionable kind Should keep exciting literature forever from his mind. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 33 Bead Paley s "Evidences" or Gibbon s "Fall of Eome," And don t use naughty words about that dreadful hali- dome. "BUTT RIGHT IN." HEN the work s accummulating, As the work will, as a rule, An you re sort er hesitating An cantak rous as a mule, An you feel so all-fired lazy That your tasks you want to shirk An it fairly makes you crazy Cause you got to go to work; Don t hesitate and rail at fate, An start to wag your chin, But roll up sleeves that s what achieves And Butt Eight In! When at night you re out a-calling, On the girl that you adore, An your courage keeps a-falling As it never fell before, An she edges closer to you With a world of thrilling sighs, An her glances they go through you As the lovelight fills her eyes ; Don t run, you jay, that ain t no way A maiden s heart to win. Just whisper, "Sis, I want a kiss;" Then Butt Eight In! 34; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. When you re kind er speculating On the cost of married life, An the question you re debating Whether you can keep a wife, For your wages they are scanty So you think you ll throw down Sue, For you re too durned mean to ante Up the price of board for two, Don t fool aroun , you measly clown And count the cost; but shin To Sue or Kate, to church go straight, And Butt Eight In! Should a jug of old Kentucky Chance to wander round your way ; You ll say it s most unlucky I ain t touching none to-day; I ve had my farewell jag on, I ve took the temp rance vow ; I m on the water wagon, Carrie Nation s got me now ; Don t let it pass, you durned jackass, To miss it would be sin, Throw back your head, "Here s how !" nuff said, Just Butt Eight In! When you see a feller critter A-stagg ring long life s road ; An he stops so he can get er Better grip upon his load; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 35 Then beneath his burden crushing With an anguished moan he falls ; Swift by the crowd goes rushing While for help he vainly calls ; You see his need, don t let him plead, A crown in Heaven you ll win If you will bear his load of care, So Butt Eight In! You fellers what are dreaming Your precious hours away ; You idle souls who re scheming To keep the wolf at bay ; You churlish clods who ever Are hoarding up the pelf ; You selfish hulks who never Had e er a thought but self ; Don t waste in dreams, or idle schemes, Your days, but work begin, God only heeds a life of deeds So Butt Eight In! 36 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. MANDY AND SI IN EUROPE. E VE been across to Europe s shore, has Mandy Jane and me, To view its ancient cities, an its aristocracy. We ve wandered over England, Scotland, Por tugal and France; At Italy and Germany we likewise took a glance. We hopped around in Switzerland, in Austria and when A squint we d took and had a look, we butted home agen, An though we both sized Europe up, including Greece and Spain, I ll say this much, no place can touch old Pumpkin Cor ners, Maine. We sailed from home, and went to Rome a queer old sort of town. The Coliseum s roof is off, the walls are tumbling down. The whole place wanted fixing up and putting in repair ; They ought to got the roof put on before we landed there. The Pope was sick, so Mandy quick a note wrote to him thus: "Dear Pope, some day if you should stray down East, come board with us." We tried to scan the Vatican, but, though I ain t no scholar, The cans we got in Maine, great Scott ! beat the Vatican all holler." Then off we went to Athens, bent on seeing Greece, but, say, More grease will rise when Mandy fries than Greece has got to-day. UNCLE CwARLJE S POEMS. 37 Them Grecian pillers they were fine, but Mandy said, "What hams ! If we d them marble pillers hum, we d dress them up in shams." Then Venice we inspected next; twas grand to gaze upon, But the streets were full of water guess they had a freshet on. Then the hungry souls of Hungary we peeked at from the train, But the hungriest guys the world supplies are in Pumpkin Corners, Maine. Then we went to Nice, but twasn t nice; then off to Ger many, And Kaiser Wilhelm greeted us and axed us both to tea. "My bologny s swell," said William. "Well," said I, "it s quite a feast, But for cheese that walks and sausage that talks, you got to go down East." "Our Princes, Counts they never work," said William, "understand You ve got no aristocracy in your benighted land." "The man who shirks and never works," said I, "gives me a pain ; We calls them bums from where I comes, down Pumpkin Corners, Maine." To Paris next, and there we dined table de hot; twas nice, The soup it was de hot ; the table, that was cold as ice. Meals a la carte, folks think they re smart, but here I d like to state We don t eat vittels from a cart ; we eat ours from a plate. That Ark de Triomphe, that s a fraud them French have got a gall A mass of stones, that s what it was ; no animals at all. 38 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS They talk of wine and make a shine in France about cham pagne. My faith I tack to the apple jack at Pumpkin Corners, Maine. We skipped across to England, and on Shakespeare called, but, say, Bill wasn t home to see us, as he d gone out for the day. Then we struck the Tower of London next, that place was simply great; We d have seen em chop a king s head off, but got there just too late. To Westminster s famed Abbey then ; you ll be surprised to larn It cuts no ice and ain t so nice as old Eph Simpson s barn. The folks, you know, are too dead slow, but here I d best explain For a dead slow place you got to chase to Pumpkin Cor ners, Maine. That Forum, too; at that we drew the line right there in Rome. "They stand for rum" said Mandy; "come, we re prohi bition home." That leaning tower of Pisa scour the earth there s not its mate. If we d that leaning tower down East, we d make it stand up straight. Venus de Medici ; well, she s a statue I suppose. I do declare she stood right there without a stitch of clothes. My coat I draped about her shape, and up and told her plain, "We d give you ten days in the pen in Pumpkin Corners, Maine !" UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 39 Well, here I am, gay as a clam, back in the Pine Tree State. I ve crossed the tide and now decide that Europe s second rate. To travel through a week or two, I guess it has no peer, But to make a pile well, I should smile you want to stay right here. Outclassed, outstripped, we ve got em whipped, till they can t draw a breath. No need to blow ; we head the show ; we ve got em skinned to death. Them Monarchs they don t go to-day I hope I make this plain. It s pork and beans, not Kings and Queens, in Pumpkin Corners, Maine. THE GLOEIOUS FOURTH, AND HOW WE GOT IT. A Dramatic Sketch. Characters King George, Washington, The American Boy, the Goddess of Liberty. (Washington and King George enter arm in arm from, center.) WASHINGTON. OST noble liege and mighty King, The colonies to you now cling With fond allegiance, and we pray To live beneath your royal sway. No better monarch, Sire, than you E er reigned o er people tried and true. We re ever loyal, I give my word, To you, illustrious George the Third, 40 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. KING GEORGE. Thanks, thanks, most noble Washington. I m glad the people s hearts I ve won I m glad contentment now doth reign From Florida to pine-clad Maine; I m glad the people are not bent On change and want new government. WASHINGTON. New government, oh, no, great Sire ! No government do we require But yours, and we allegiance give And crave neath Britain s flag to live In happiness for ever more, With you, great King, to lord it o er Old England and New England, too. KING GEORGE (sadly). Thanks, thanks, but, ah, twill never do. WASHINGTON. What ails my liege, your cheeks turn pale. Your words in deep emotion fail; Some burden s on your noble heart ! KING GEORGE. The colonies and I must part! WASHINGTON (deeply agitated). Must part ! Oh, King, what do you mean ? We, who are happy and serene, While we have you, our King, to love ^And Britain s flag to wave above; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 41 Why must we part ? I lose my breath ; Great King, you ve scared me half to death. Speak ! speak ! my liege, that I may glean Some ray of hope. What do you mean ? KING GEOKGE. Ah, Washington, my noble friend, Tis sad to think my reign must end Upon this continent, but so The fates have willed, and I must go ! WASHINGTON. You break my heart, see how I grieve? What secret have you up your sleeve? Some awful weight preys on your mind. Explain, oh, Sire ! don t be unkind ! Tell me, great King, what does this mean ? We Avant no other King or Queen But you and she, your royal spouse. KING GEORGE. To swift revolt you must arouse The colonies at once. WASHINGTON. And why Must we revolt, who re loyal, and die? Why must grim bloodshed s gory stain Besmirch fair valley, hill and plain ? WTiy must we fight? (The American boy rushes on center. He is a typical twentieth-century boy, full of life, dash and vigor.) 42 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. AMERICAN BOY. I ll tell you why : If you don t we ll have no Fourth of July. I am the great American boy, That sprite of palpitating joy; And I demand mind, no excuse One day a year to turn things loose ; One day to let the fireworks off ; One day to make the old cat cough, And watch her o er the fence top sail With strings of crackers at her tail ; I want a day to shriek and shout And blow myself clean inside out; I want a day to work off steam And hear the American eagle scream ; A day to let old Europe know That our band wagon heads the show ; A day of grand hilarious mirth, When Uncle Sam owns all the earth; A day when Europe looks amazed And all creation sits back dazed; A day when small boys rule the world And brave Old Glory swings unfurled Defiance breathing to the spheres, And I, bereft of nose and ears, Sing Yankee Doodle, Doodle Doo ! Now then, you fellows biff ! set to ! Get up and fight don t waste my time With fire crackers, twelve a dime, And Roman candles, six for ten; I m out for sport ; now fight like men ; Go pound each other till you re sore, Or stand disgraced for evermore. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 43 WASHINGTON. Where are you from, sweet youth so coy ? } AMEEICAN BOY. I am the twentieth-century boy, And down the years I ve come, poste haste, To tell you both you ll be disgraced Forever in our boyish eyes If you don t fight; so, if you re wise, Great Washington, King George you ll take And mince-meat of that monarch make. And if you don t, take this from me : There will be no Washington, D. C. ; No statues soaring to your name ; No songs triumphant to proclaim You father of your country grand, The idol of your native, land ; No pictures hanging everywhere Of you crossing o er the Delaware, Upstanding thus, hand stuck in coat, With patriotic boys to gloat Upon your grand, heroic manner, While small lips hum "Star Spangled -Banner I" These awful things will happen if You don t give old King George a biff. I ll have no chance to lose an eye And walk around three fingers shy, And Chinese Union Firework Packers Will strike if they can t sell their crackers. Come, boys; come, boys, from everywhere. (Boys rush on, and encircle the stage.) 44 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Oh, join me in this fervent prayer To this, our hero Washington, To give us just one day of fun ! One day of wild, hilarious mirth, The greatest day for boys on earth. Great Washington, quick, make reply, Do we get our Fourth of July ? (Washington, in deep distress, gazes at the floor, sighs deeply, as King George takes his arm.) KING GEORGE. You see, my friend, what they require. ^ WASHINGTON. Oh, yes, I see it, noble Sire. But, oh, it grieves my inmost soul To think that martial drums must roll, And midst the cannon s deadly roars You re headlong pitched from off these shores, And just because these horrid boys Want some excuse to make a noise. KING GEORGE. I know, old friend, it does seem tough. AMERICAN BOY. It s time to fight; you ve talked enough. WASHINGTON. I will not fight. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 45 AMERICAN BOY. Then stand disgraced. Your name from school books be erased. New York a Washington Arch won t boast, No Sousa s Band play "Washington Post," And that story of the hatchet, see, Where you cut down the cherry-tree, We won t believe you told your pa. We ll swear you told a fib. Ha ! Ha ! (Boys all laugh derisively.) WASHINGTON (indignantly). You ll tell the world I told a lie? AMERICAN BOYS. Yes ! unless we get the "Fourth" of July. WASHINGTON. I will not be intimidated. KING GEORGE. Now, boys, you ve got him animated ; Leave him to me, I ll make him fight. I ve got a scheme, just watch him bite, He ll get so mad, he ll fairly choke, And then off goes my kingly yoke. I ll put a tax on Lipton s tea (All groan.) All Yankees now my slaves shall be. I ll grant you not the least concession, But grind you down with fierce oppression. 46 UNCLE CHARLJE S POEMS. Boston shall have no pork and beans, No literary bell-boys or auto machines. (Groans.) Tammany Hall shall be demolished, Cranberry sauce at once abolished And turkey, too, as I m a sinner, Shall never grace Thanksgiving dinner. (Groans.) Pumpkin pie, and, I repeat it, No one in America shall eat it. Boys shan t whistle, girls shan t hum, No baby s allowed to chew its thumb. (Groans.) And tho the nation s blood may boil, I ll smash the trusts and Standard Oil. No American girl shall wed a lord ; All tramps must wash and pay their board. (Loud cries of "Shame!" from the boys.) I ll abolish, though my great throne quakes, Popcorn, candy and buckwheat cakes. And, to cap it all, you wretched creatures, I ll abolish Jersey s fierce mos keeters. WASHINGTON (fighting mad). You shan t! KING GEORGE. I shan t ? I say I will ! WASHINGTON. Then be prepared for Bunker Hill. Pumpkin pie, that you can stop. Pork and beans from menus drop. Buckwheat cakes and biscuits, they Can be abolished right away. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 47 Turkeys, cranb ries, you can banish, Thumbs from babies mouths can vanish, But I ll spoil all your kingly features If you monkey with New Jersey s skeeters. Those noble birds of freedom, they, Unchained upon bald heads must play, For, if you stopped their funny capers, There d be no jokes in Sunday papers. They re our greatest, grandest institution, The bulwark of our constitution. To banish beans, great King, s all right, But touch the skeeters and I fight. (Boys cheer lustily as Washington takes off his coat for action.) KING GEORGE. Thank Heaven, I ve made him mad at last ! WASHINGTON. Go, nail "Old Glory" to the maat And know ye all that now I sever Old England from the "new" forever. KING GEORGE (in fighting attire). Quit parleying and come to blows. (Boys cheer as Washington taps King George on the nose. ) WASHINGTON. There s one jiu jitsu on the nose ! KING GEORGB. My cause is lost, I m licked, I m done ! 48 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. WASHINGTON. America s free; hurrah, I ve won! (Goddess of Liberty, from Liberty Island, enters center.) GODDESS OF LIBERTY. Immortal George, forever glorious, I crown you in your hour victorious ; Twas not for liberty you fought, And splendid deeds of valor wrought; But for a nobler purpose you Have fought and bled BOYS Hurrah ! Hurroo ! GODDESS OF LIBERTY. You knew that boyhood one day needed For joyous mirth ; their cry you heeded ! You ve been a boy and took compassion On them and brought the "Fourth" in fashion. KING GEORGE. In my steamer trunk I ll put my crown, And hustle back to London town ; Farewell to all, so glad you re appy, I m going ome to be a chappie; I ll send a wireless from Southampton, And tell the Times how I ve been tramped on. WASHINGTON. (Shakes King George s hand.) Ta ! Ta ! George; so sorry to lose you. TINGLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 49 BOYS. We wanted the "Fourth." WASHINGTON-KING GEOEGE. We couldn t refuse you. WASHINGTON. Proclaim this fact from tower and steeple, I only fought to please young people ; King George s head, I had to crack it Just so the "kids" could raise a racket ; And incidentally, know all creatures, I fought to save the Jersey skeeters ; So, know ye all, South, East, West, North, Just how you got the glorious "Fourth." You ve got these facts all in your noodles, ALL. We have ! GODDESS OF LIBERTY. Then let s sing "Yankee Doodle, Doodles." (All sing "Yankee Doodle" as Liberty takes Washing ton s hand. King George, with trunk, exits left. Cheers and curtain.) 50 UNCLE CHARLES S POEMS. THE CAT AND THE CANARY HE Canary bird sat in his cage and sang, When a Thomas Cat happened along. "Good-morning, my dear," said the gentleman cat, "A remarkably beautiful song ! Your shakes and your trills my little heart fills With a very exuberant jay." "You flatter yours truly," said birdy, unduly; "You are awfully kind, dear boy !" Tweet, tweet, tra-la-la-la ! Awfully kind, dear Tommy, you are. Me-ow, me-ow ; caterawaul, caterawaul ; You re a glorious singer, that s all, that s all. "I m a bit of a singer, myself," said the cat, At least, my Maria thinks so. In a moonlight sonata, or backyard cantata, Oh, I make a respectable show. But it puzzles me quite, when rehearsing at night, That out of each window should pop Head after head, and my cheeks they blush red At the way I m requested to stop." Meow, meow ; cater-mer-row ! To the moon, from the roof, politely I bow, . But no one, alas, ever seems to admire The love-songs I sing to my darling Maria. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 51 "Now, suppose I should give you a lesson or two;" The Canary bird smilingly said. "I ll touch up your tones, and I ll calm down your groans, And I ll fix up the chords in your head. Then a world that derisively shouted you down, Whenever you sang on the fence, Would cry out for more, and demand an encore. And they d say it was simply immense." "Tra-la-la-la, tra-la-la-lee !" Said the Canary, "Pray, imitate me: Me-yow, me-yow, likewise meyew; Oh, we ll soon make an opera singer of you !" With his lesson well learned, off that night Thomas went, And he warbled as never before. His trills and his shakes, and his vocal earthquakes, With great patience the neighborhood bore, Till, wearied at last, there was wafted a blast That hurtled round poor Tommy s head. On buckshot bouquets, oh, he liked not to gaze, So off, like greased lightning, he fled. Bang, bang, bang ! went a gun, Off went Tom s ear, of tail now he d none. "Oh, lor 5 ! Oh, my !" Tom shrieked, with a hiss. "That dad-binged Canary, I ll fix him for this!" In the morn Tom appeared in a terrible plight, Underneath the Canary bird s cage. The Canary bird exploded, and said : "You re a sight !" While poor Thomas just trembled with rage. The little Canary he then gobbled up, And said : "This will teach you, you brat, It s very absurd, for a vain little bird, To play pranks on an old Thomas cat !" 52 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. "Tra-la-la-la, tra-la-la-lee !" Sang Tom, as he .struck a, grand high C. "No wonder my voice is birdlike and clear, That s the hundredth Canary I ve swallowed this vear !" SO DID I. HAT long, lank dude as sparks our Sue was to the house last night, An talk of having fun, well, say, I thought I d die outright. Laugh, well, I m a-laughing still, I guess I ll never quit ; I ve only got to think, an then I durned nigh have a fit. He came to supper, an we had, o course, a dandy spread. Sue trotted out her choc late cake, an Mom her fancy bread , An that long dude he stuffed hisself with cake, preserves an pie, An then drank sixteen cups o tea, an so did I. Jim Snaggs he eat, an eat, an eat ; my, how that dude did stuff, Till every plate was cleared, then Jim he guessed he d had enough. Most folks in love don t eat at all, but Jim ain t one of such, For he allowed love always made him eat just twice as much. Up from his chair Jim staggered, you could almost see him swell. He d eat so much, how he got up thaf s more than I can tell. I saw him beckon Sue, an she just answered with her eye, Then to the parlor off they sneaked, an so did I. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 53 They made for that old settee in the corner by the door, An I crawled in an hid behind, where oft I hid before. An then I heard him whisper : "Sue, just let me give you one !" An Sue, she said : "Jim, if you do, I ll get right up an run." An then she giggled f oolish-like ; you know how young folks spark A-fore the parlor lamp is lit, an things is kind er dark. Well, Jim he kissed her good an hard, an Sue, she said: "Oh, fie," Then jabbed her fist in Jim Snaggs neck, an so did I. I bobbed down quick, Jim didn t see, for love, you know, is blind ; An then with cord I started in Jim s swell coat-tails to bind. He d on his new Prince Albert, for Jim was quite a card, An , fore you knew a thing, I d got him tied up good an hard, An neath the settee then I crawled, an laid flat on the floor, With Sue s steel hatpin in my hand, six inches long, or more. Then, just as Jim was kissing Sue, I jabbed it in his thigh; He yelled an rolled in fourteen fits, an so did I. You should have seen the circus, when that pin got busy you Must know Jim hit the ceiling, an the settee went there, too, An round the room he dragged it, like a mule hitched to a truck, Till both his coat-tails they tore off, an Jim just cussed his luck 54: UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. An stamped an yelled till all the folks rushed headlong through the door An stumbled over Sue, who lay unconscious on the floor. Pop dashed right off for water; say, you should have seen him fly; He soused ten buckets in Sue s face, an so did I. At last they got Sue on a chair, poor gal, she couldn t stand, While Jim stood there an rubbed hisself, a coat-tail in each hand. An Sue no sooner saw him than she started in to grin, Then flopped down on the floor, an chucked another fit again. We soused her "to" with water, then an argument arose Just as to what old animal had bit Jim through his clothes. Sue guessed a snake, Ma said she thought twas lightning from the sky, But, last, they blamed it on the cat, an so did I. THE TEAGEDY OF AN APPLE. M returning Willie s photograph, I m sending hack his ring, And across the picture s written, "You re a base, deceitful thing," Oh ! I never would have thought it, in the light of what has been, He d have acted quite so selfish, so contemptible and mean, UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 55 But, alas ! it ever happens thus, for nearly every boy Thinks a girl is little better than a plaything or a toy ; But my feelings can t be trampled on, and all the world shall see That everything is over, now, twixt Willie Jones and me. My courage fails, and tears they come, when I recall the past With all its tender memories, too beautiful to last: How we shared our candy, apples, gum, and how he made a rule To wait around our gate, and see me to and fro to school. And, oh ! that blissful moment when he handed me a rose And asked if he (well, never mind) and how he bumped my nose And blushed as much as I did ah ! tis cruel I ve lived to see The day when all is over twixt Willie Jones and me. It was all about an apple he thought I wasn t nigh, And I saw him go behind a tree to eat it on the sly ; And his little guilty conscience made him gobble it so quick That I thought it would have choked him, or have made him deathly sick. I saw that rosy apple as he bit with a zest (It was one of those big juicy ones the kind I like the best), And my mouth, oh, how it watered as his lips together smack t ; Then I dashed behind the tree and caught the culprit in the act. At first he tried to face me out, but twasn t any use, For, trickling down from Willie s mouth, were tell-tale streams of juice, 56 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. And, oh ! the scent of apples just hung about his clothes, And drove me simply frantic as it played about my nose. I pressed him to confess his crime, he only fibbed the more, When, sticking from his pocket, I observed an apple core; And I snatched this proof of infamy forth from its hiding- place, And, with an air of triumph, then I shook it in his face. Twas only pride that gave me strength, as on the ground I threw The remnants of that apple and I guess he never knew Just what that action cost me, for it wasn t finished quite, And there was yet enough upon it for just one lovely bite. But I scorned it, and I threw it, with a haughty air, aside, And, just as I was doing it, upon his coat I spied Two long red hairs of Susan Payne s, confirming my worst fears, And, with this proof of perfidy, I Tjursted" into tears. There s a yawning gulf existing now, twixt William Jones and me, And when he s near, the temperature descends most rapidly, And an icy, frigid atmosphere o er both a silence throws, (Accentuated somewhat by my elevated nose). I forgive him for his fickleness, I ve dried the eyes once wet, But there are things Ave may forgive, but never can forget ; And though Willie, on his bended knee, for pardon he should crave, Still the memories of that apple I shall carry to my grave. I forgive him for his conduct with that freckled Susan Payne; I forgive his haughty manner and his icy, cold disdain ; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 57, I can overlook the meanness of the priggish little elf, (When passing cake he always took the biggest piece him self) ; I forgive the cruel injustice, the indifference and neglect, For, with the way he s been brought up, what else can you expect ? But I never will forgive him, for he broke my heart out right When he ate that whole big apple without giving me a bite. THE PREDICAMENTS OF A POET. IS lady s locks of Titian red inflamed the poet s soui, And soon with frenzy fine, and wrapt, his eye began to roll. He hied him home and seized his lyre, and gaily twanged and smote, And then a matchless sonnet to those ruddy locks he wrote. Then, with his poesy, to his love he straightway hurried back. But, oh ! ye Gods ! that Titian hair was now a raven black. Homeward in haste the poet hied, there was no time to lose; And soared Parnassan heights afresh, and wooed anew his muse. And, forthwith, then he grabbed his lyre and smote it many a smack; Then wrote his lays in frenzied praise of tresses raven black. 58 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Then, with his sonnet, sought his love; alas, poor hapless clown ! The fashions they had changed, and now his lady s locks were brown. The poet tarried not, nor wept, but hastened home full swift, And in the praise of nut-brown hair his voice right soon did lift, And, on the parchment, glowing words of eloquence express The poet s adoration of each silken, glossy tress. Then rushed unto his lady-love, in horror to behold That nut-brown hair that once was there was now peroxide gold. MORAL. While fashion sways the sex called fair, It would be wise, mayhap, In Writing sonnets to their hair, To keep all hues on tap. MAYBE! I GUESS! PERHAPS! HEY VE got a social at our church, there s going to be a time, An , oh, such things they promise if you ll only bring a dime. You can give the wheel of fortune some gentle little taps, An every boy s to get a prize maybe ! I guess ! perhaps ! Pa s awful short of cash just now, he went to Mr. Jones, And had a business talk with him concerning sundry loans. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 59 Pa told him if he d wait until he d gathered in the craps, He d pay him every cent he owed maybe ! I guess ! per haps! We ve got two beaus a-callin on our Liza an on Jane, The way they spoon an carry on would drive you most in sane. My old-maid aunt says, fore she d set aroun in fellers laps She d rather die a thousand times maybe ! I guess ! per haps! Pa got a circular in his mail, an advertisement, which Told how a man without work might soon get all-fired rich. Pa s sent the man a dollar to explain this snap of snaps, An says his fortune s good as made maybe ! I guess ! per haps! I ve got a dandy bird-gun and a bulldog, too, I ve got, An Jones cat we fixed last night, and for her made things hot. Between that dog, an gun an me, we tore that cat in scraps, But she ain t dead, she s eight lives left maybe ! I guess ! perhaps ! The chap that s courtin sister Jane is thin an dreadful old, But Ma, she says he s awful rich, got houses, land an gold. It ain t his wealth Jane s after, an this the climax caps, She s going to marry him for love maybe ! I guess ! per haps. Ma says, some day, a long ways off, if boys don t steal an cry, That lots of lovely things there is, awaits them by-aa -bye. 60 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. They ll all be angels if they re good, no more cross words nor slaps, And I m to have a harj) an wings maybe ! I guess ! per haps! SANDY CLAWS. ELL, Christmas, good old Christmas, it will soon be here ag en, And dear old Sandy Claws once more will creep out from his den, And, I think, for him to stay away all through the year is wrong, When he could call most every day, and leave toys right along. I ve often wondered where he lived, and just where Sandy stops, And, from his whiskers, I should judge it s near no barber*- shops ; And, they say, he works both night and day, just like a perfect slave, A-making toys for girls and boys, and don t have time to shave. Some folks say Sandy don t exist, and that it s all a sell ; I must confess there have been times I ve had my doubts as well, For when, last Christmas, we received our old friend, Mis ter Claws, Tho face and whiskers they were his, his voice and pants were Paw s ! He may have had an accident, and borrowed pants from Pa, But Dad he s only got one pair, and they was made by Ma, UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 61 And if Sandy ever got them on, and went from door to door, Them home-made pants that mother made would get him locked up, sure. It ain t alone them pants don t fit, but Ma can t measure straight, And, while one leg is three foot six, the t other s two foot eight, And, as goods just now are scarce and dear, the pants ain t all one piece; And they re patched just like a crazy-quilt, and two foot thick in grease. And there s another funny thing, Bill Smith, Tom Jones, and Brown, And all the other boys and girls that live for miles aroun , Say, when Sandy came to visit them and that just made me sore, My Pop s pants had disappeared and twas their Pop s pants he wore. So that s just got me guessing, to know what Sandy did, With Pop s old pants when he left us, and where he s got em hid, For there ain t no place to change em, cept in the open air, And, if Sandy Claws got doing that, you know how folks would stare. And yet in every house he went, to make young hearts re joice; He had on different pantyloons, likewise a different voice, And just what puzzles me is this, and to know I d give a dime, How he changed his pants at every house, a fid still got round on time. @2 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. It ain t as if lie only had a single call to make, But, as soon as Christmas morn arrives, and everyone s awake, In just about three hours, or less, of wild and boisterous mirth, Old Sandy Claws has made a call at every house on earth. You talk about chain lightning, and say how mighty swift twill go, But, compared to Sandy s getting round, that old chain lightning s slow. And how could he hand out his toys, in India, Spain and France, If he fooled round in snowdrifts while changing of his pants? And if he was to change em, as on his rounds he rolled, It seems to me the dear old man would catch his death of cold; And then, if Sandy was to die, farewell to Christmas joys, For what, in thunder, would we do for candy, sleds and One pair of pants on t other, he could put, so people state, But with tons of pants on either leg, twould surely make him late; And, I can tell you one thing, if he wore many pants like Pa s He wouldn t get three hundred feet, unless he took the cars. Well, pants or no pants I don t care, so long as Sandy comes All loaded down with whiskers, and sleds, and toys, and drums; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. (53 And, so long as he is right on time, and don t forget to stop, I don t care if Pop is Sandy Claws, or Sandy Claws is Pop ! And whether he comes through the door, or down the chim- bley flue, Don t cut the leastest figure, just so long as he gets through ; And his voice, and pants, and whiskers don t concern the girls and boys So long as Sandy s round on time, and hustles out the toys. "BEST TO KNOW NOTHIN AT ALL." NOWLEDGE is good for the hoys and the girls, At least so the teacher says ; An ignorance, sure, is a blighting thing, An hurts us in various ways. An teachers is right, an knowledge is fine Both for boys, an girls, an men, But a goodly-sized stock of ignorance Comes handy, too, now an then. It s nice to be smart, an answer up quick, When the minister comes to tea, An get the j ography questions all right, An bound the Carribean Sea. But if they should ask who stoned the black cat, Or stole them apples last Fall, Then Knowledge, you ll find, is a snare an a fraud, An it s best to know nothin at all. (54 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. If Pop says : "Boy, I will give you a dime If, without any pencil or slate, You can multiply eighty by sixty-six An then subtract twenty-eight." Then you want to look up to the ceiling hard, An see if the answer s there, While j our brains become an adding machine, An dimes float around in the air. It s a mighty fine thing if you re good on sums ; In fact, it s simply immense To be able to answer up quick and correct, An collar that ol ten cents. But if Pop inquires how the window got broke When you were out playing ball, Well, Knowledge, you ll find, ain t good for your health, An it s best to know nothin at all. If your Ma should tak,e you onto her lap, As Mas they will sometimes do, An the Sunday-school lesson gets down from the shelf, An the questions begin to run through, Then visions of apples begin to appear An dazzle a poor boy s eyes, An you wish you knew more than Solomon did, An were fifty, or more, times wise. Oh ! it s nice to know all bout Noa-n-th Ark, An get all the Ten Plagues right, An tell about Samson losing his hair, An them Philistines puttin to flight. But if Ma should ask who stole that mince pie She left on the tray in the hall, Then Knowledge, you ll find s the worst thing on earth, An it s best to know nothin at all. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 65 If sister s dude beau sits down on a tack, With the business end in the air, An* cobbler s wax, it gets stuck in a pile Bound the edge of the easy-chair, An the neighbor s puppy scoots down the street With a tin-can tied to his tail, An they can t draw water out of the well, Because there s no bucket or pail, An a jar of preserves is nearly gone, An another is empty quite, An every old clock in the house strikes wrong, An none of the lamps will light Should Pop, with a raw-hide, then upon you For exact information call : Well, Knowledge ain t what it s cracked up to be, An it s best to know nothin at all. A CAKEFUL MA. ma, she is a careful ma. When I go out to play, She ll say : "Now John, dear, have a care just where you go to-day; Now don t play ball, because a ball is dangerous, and you Might get a fatal blow, and then whatever should I do? And don t go near the water, for you re liable to drown, And look up at the housetops, as a cornice might blow down, For the wind is very high, John, so now, my dear, ta ! ta ! And mind the automobiles, dear !" Oh, I ve such a care ful ma ! My ma, she is a careful ma. I ve scarcely gone a yard Before she s shouting, "Johnnie" and a-shouting good and hard. 6(J UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. "I guess you d better stay at home/ she ll say, "for John, my pet, Jones dog went mad last week, and no one s caught it yet. There ! You ve stepped right in that puddle ; come in and change your shoes, For the influenza s raging, and I read in last night s News That boy of Smith s that got wet feet has took pneumonia ; You d better change your stockings, too." Oh, I ve such a careful ma ! My ma, she is a careful ma. She cuts up all my meat, But fish she never lets me touch, and, whiter than a sheet, She tells how, years and years ago, a boy in Delaware Got two fishbones lodged in his throat, and died right then and there. And as for knives and forks; well, they re a thing that s quite taboo; Ma says a fork is dangerous, and a little boy she knew, His knife it slipped and cut his lip, twas in Pennsylvania; So I use a spoon for pie at noon. Oh, I ve such a careful ma! My ma, she is a careful ma. She never lets me run, For fear I d stub my toe and fall, and when the golden sun Shines down, she keeps me in the house, for fear a. stroke 1 I ll get; And when it rains, I m locked indoors, for fear I might get wet. She never lets me read, for ma says reading hurts your eyes. She never lets me laugh, for ma don t think that laughing a wise, For if I laughed as loud, she says, as Uncle Jim and pa, I d take a fit, and die in it Oh, I ve such a careful ma ! UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 67 "OLD HOSS JIM." T just beats ev rything to fits, the way a feller feels, When first he claps his eyes upon them autermoby- eels, An strange, but some folks like the things, and think they re just divine But, speaking for myself, right here, I don t want none in mine. No auto car, I thank you, sir, will yank this chap around, A-kitin long the road like sin, a foot above the ground. An I ll bet, no benzine buggy ever built for mortal s whim Can hold its own a second with, or touch, our old hoss Jim ! It ain t that Jim s so beautiful, it ain t that Jim s so fast, For the speediest days of Jim, I guess, are over now and past. But when I look back thirty years, and rack my brain awhile, And think of old Jim s palmy days, them mobeels make me smile. Them days, when Jim was sleek and fat, and had a fiery eye, When I grabbed the reins, and held my breath, prepared to do or die And with ears laid low, and tail stuck out, a type of speed and power Jim dashed along the old pike-road at fifty yards an hour. I d like to see the pacer that could pass old Jimmy then, Ah ! many a one had tried it, but Jim he knew just when The t other hoss was coming, then Jimmy he would stop, And across the road he d spread himself, and in the middle flop gg UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. And the hoss that tried to pass him then, it had to climb or fly Or dig a tunnel under Jim, or there warn t no getting by. Then off to sleep old Jim would go, and into dreamland roam, While I hitched a rope around his neck, and hauled the victor home. Another thing about old Jim, if he didn t go> the clip, All that a feller needed was to just haul out his whip, An then you d soak it to him for about an hour or so An , to show Jim bore no malice, he would go ten times as slow Now, with them ol automoby-eels, if they don t go the pace, It s just a-wastin time to get the whip down from its place, You can pound and cuss a hoss until the atmosphere turns green, But tain t no use to lick a durned ol can of kerosene. An then them automoby-eels, they cost a sight of pelf, An they need a heap of groomin , too, while Jim he grooms himself. An they re chock full of bolts and things, how many I forget, While Jim, I will say that for him he s never lotted yet. An then they ve got rheumatic tires, and pumpin air s re quired ; Yes, ev ry blessed wheel needs tires, while Jim he s never tired. An Jim don t need no hay, nor oats, such things he never ate, He just chews up a fence-rail, and he thinks he s doin great. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 69 So, take your automoby-eels and throw em all aside, An your ol balloons an flyin ships that through the heaven s glide; Your Empire State expresses, your whizzin trolley cars. You can harness up the comets an the meteoric stars, You can grab a wirless cablegram an sit upon its tail, You can catch greased lightnin as it flies, or follow in its trail, But, with all your wheels, an beels, an things that o er our planet skim, When it comes to rapid transit, why, I pins my faith to Jim. \ A MATTER OF MONEY. AUD SMITH is quite the sweetest girl, I think, I ever met. What glorious sparkling eyes has Maud, what hair of glistening jet ! Brunettes I ve always much preferred to any type of blonde, Of blue-eyed girls with creamy cheeks I ne er was extra fond. How strange that Maud s so lovely, for Maudie s sister Sue I think is quite the homeliest girl I ve ever met, don t you? I ve laid my net for Maudie, and, by the way, I m told, She has a fortune, all her own, some fifty thousand "cold." Well, I ve clean gone back on Maudie, for I can plainly see Brunettes no longer have the charm that once they had for me. Blue eyes and golden hair, somehow, they always have the knack Of making girls look very plain whose hair is merely black. 70 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Then Sue s so interesting, while Maud is fax from that, And, after Sue, Maud always seems to fall a trifle flat. So Sue s the girl of girls, I guess, to fill the bill just now. Oh! by the wry, it s Sue, not Maud, that has that fifty thou . I find those Smith girls, after all, are nothing extra grand : Susie s feet are rather large, she s not a pretty hand ; She s rather shallow, too, I find; those baby faces pall; Somehow, I don t think, after this, I ll make another call. To tell the truth, they re homely, and, then, they re not my style. And Sue and Maud will sing and play ; and, oh, their play- ing s vile; And, anyway, just now at least, I m not on marriage bent. (Deuced frauds, those Smith girls are; they haven t got a cent!) "MAY-BE." EW YEAB S a-looming up again, and Dad s re solved that he, A different man entirely in the coming year, will be. He s turned a new leaf over, he s a-thinking deep and long, And Dad s a-resolutin and a-resolutin s strong. He says he knows in years gone by he s made some awful breaks. But man is only mortal, and we all make some mistakes. But in this year a-coming, in Dad a change you ll see He s made ninety resolutions, and he ll keep em all Meb-be ! UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 71 Dad thinks that drink s the greatest curse in this wide world to-day, And Dad s resolved he ll quit it, and he ll quit it right away. No more he ll to the drug-store go and tip the pill man off, And wink, and say he wants some drops to cure whooping- cough. Then, when he s got the cough cure (which is old Kentucky Rye), No more he ll make out he s a bird, and show Ma how to %. Pa says, saloon-men should be in the penitentiary; He ll never touch another drop in all his life Meb-be ! Another thing that Pop s resolved, a thing he s wild about, He says that swearing ain t genteel, he s going to cut it out. So when the hammer hits his thumb, or razor cuts Pop s cheek, He ll do his cussing inwardly, and say long words in Greek. He says it s mighty hard, no doubt, your language to ad just, And if he don t cuss sometimes, well he calculates he ll bust. Pop says he s cut the cuss words out of his vocab laree ! And when he sits down on a tack he ll only smile Meb-be ! Pop s made a resolution that he s going to be genteel, His table manners from henceforth will tony be, and real. Pop s knife won t go into his mouth, he says, that action s rude; Henceforth he ll be a ristocrat, and fork up all his food. 72 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. And when he gets his pie henceforth, twill just delight your soul, He ll eat it in one bite instead of swallering of it whole. A napkin, too, Pa s going to have spread out across his knee, No more he ll wipe his mouth upon the tablecloth Meb-be ! Another thing that Dad s resolved, and his resolve will hold; He says the truth it must prevail ; truth s better far than gold. So Dad no more will tell us how at Vicksburg in the war, He killed three hundred men stone dead, and captured ninety-four. No more he ll yarn about that fish he hauled in last July, That measured eighty-four feet long, and took six weeks to fry. And bout the "skeet" who ate the sheet, the bureau and settee, Pop s never going to lie again in all his life Meb-be! And so Dad he s resolving, and resolving day and night. He says he s lived the past all wrong, he ll live the future right. The golden rule he ll follow up, and pointers he will give To erring fellow-critters, on the proper way to live. No telling fibs, no monkeying with liquor that is red ; No cussing and no fussing, no grabbing pie or bread ; No cheating or contrariness, and good old Pop, you ll see, Will keep his resolutions for a half a day Meb-be ! UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 73 THE ART OF BEING GOOD. H, Christmas Day is coming, and twould do you good to see The wondrous transformation scene that s taken place in me. This change it always comes about this season of the year, When Sandy Claws and Yuletide joys are slowly drawing near. "Us then the boist rous manner of the youth begins to go, And an angel halo round my head and wings commence to grow; And folks start in to wonder why I ve dropped my noisy ways. Well, tain t because I like to, but because I find it pays. Oh, say, you ought to see me as I walk around the house, As meek, and mild, and humble, and as silent as a mouse; And Ma she ll say : "Oh, son dear, will you kindly close the door?" And I reply: "Of course, Ma, with the greatest pleasure, sure I" Then I close it, oh, so gently, while Ma looks on and smiles, (The bang it gets at other times is heard around for miles.) You ll wonder why I shut that door so gentle and so pat: On Christmas Day I ll get a sleigh and pair of skates for that! And when we re at the table, then an angel boy am I, No grabbing for the sugar-bowl, or scrambling for the pie. The red-hot soup I put aside, and give it time to cool ; I blow it till it decorates the ceiling, as a rule. 74 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Mamma she looks so proud of me, and, when I ask for cheese, I startle ev rybody by saying : "If you please !" Then Pa he says: "I guess we ll make a gentleman of Nat!" On Christmas morn I ll get a horn and train of cars for that! And when we go to meeting, I sing just like a bird, And find the place for Pa and Ma, and follow ev ry word ; While, as a usual thing, I m in the depths of dire disgrace, Get half the leaves torn out the book, and never know the place. But now I m like an angel, and when they pass the plate, I drop in it a whole red cent, and Pa says : "Sure as fate, We ll send our Nat as Mission ry to Siam or Kelat"; At Christmastime, I ll get a dime and phonograph for that! Oh, say, you ought to see me when my sister s beau and she Are in the parlor holding hands ; of course, I never see What s going on; but let em spoon, while scarce a month before, You d have found me neath the sofa hid, or squinting through the door. But now well, I just turn my head (wonders will never cease). I let them make their "goo-goo" eyes and spark in perfect peace. And when Jim kisses Sis; well, say, I m blinder than a bat; When Sandy s round, I ll get a pound of chocolate fudge for that! UNCL.S CHARLIE S POEMS. 75 Now, boys, take this advice from me it s natural you should ; And listen to a lecture on the art of being good. There s not much money in it, on ordinary days, But, when December looms in view, you ll find that good ness pays. For Sandy Claws is watching you, and so is Pa and Ma ; On your behavior all depends, just what you get, Ha ! Ha ! But when old Sandy s left the toys, and Christmas Day is o er, Quit the angel business, and become a pesky boy once more. "I DON T KNOW WHO HE WAS." OME boys and girls are bright and smart, but folks can see at once, That I m a little, backward child, a perfect little dunce. My Maw an teachers try so hard to get things in my head, But in a second I forget just ev ry word that s said. Maw said to-day I ought to try my little life to plan, And imitate George Washington I think that that s the man; And I d like to do what Mamma says, but I can t, you see, because I never heard of Washington, and I don t know who he was. Ma talked to-day of Lincoln, and, my! how her tongue did run, But I knew no more when she got through than when she first begun. 76 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. She mentioned something bout the slaves, but my poor brain s so slow. Whether he freed them, or they freed him, I m bothered If I know. He may have been an Englishman, a Eussian, or a Turk ; Perhaps he was some lazy boy that wouldn t go to work ; Oh, I d like to do what Mamma says, but I can t, you see, because I never heard of Lincoln, and I don t know who he was. Napoleon s another name my Maw holds up to me. She keeps a-mumbling o er that name, at breakfast, dinner, tea; I ve listened to her now for years, and listened to her good, But don t know if "Nap s" a boy or girl, or some new breakfast food. He might have been, for all I know, a woman or a man, Or, maybe, it s some patent stuff that comes packed in a can. Oh, I d like to do as Mamma says, but I can t, you see, because I never heard of Napoleon, and I don t know who he was. Ma talks of Julius Caesar, and she talks on by the hour, And, when she strikes that name, her voice has majesty and power. She shakes with fierce excitement, as she walks the parlor floor, But the only Cassar that I know is the dog that lives next door. If Caesar was a man, a cat, a dog, door, or kangaroo, My little head s too thick to learn, my brains they never knew. Oh, I d like to imitate him, but I can t, you see, because I never heard of "Sneezer," and I don t know who he was. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 77 Oh, knowledge is the thing I want; it s knowledge that I lack, But I can t learn while boys are chalking monkeys on my back! It s impossible to study hard, no matter how you try, When you have to sit most all the day on tacks ten inches high. And no wonder I m a dunce, and all my brains are in a wreck, When boys, all day, put bumblebees and "waspses" down my neck. So Washington and Lincoln I can t imitate, because I never heard their names a-fore, and I don t know who they was. THE LITTLE BIED THAT S ALWAYS TELLING MA. VE had a present from my pa, a dandy new air-gun, And now I m going out-of-doors to have no end of fun. The neighbors cats are safe from me, I ve got no quarrel with them; The rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, hares, to death I don t condemn. Wolves, Indians, mountain-lions, coyotes, bear and deer Can look into the muzzle of my gun and have no fear, But I have sworn fierce vengeance, and am on the trail; ha! ha! Of the horrid, spiteful little bird thaf s always telling Ma. 78 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. How happy would have been my life, how gay, and free from care, Had Nature made no little birds to navigate the air. What whippings I would have been spared, the lash that fiercely stung, Had one mean tell-tale bird had but the sense to hold its tongue. For, since I can remember (that s some eight long, troubled years), That horrid bird has spied on me, and, oh ! the bitter tears That tell-tale wretch has caused me; for, no matter what I do, That little bird has told my Ma before the day is through. If we had birds in all the rooms, in cellar, attic, too, I shouldn t wonder, then, if Ma of all my actions knew, But all we ve got s a parrot, and since the day Pa came Crash ! headlong down the parlor stairs, Poll s never been the same. She just sits in that cage of hers, repeating, word for word, The strange remarks Pa made the day his accident oc curred. So my Ma s chance of hearing tales from Polly s mighty small, For she s so busy swearing, she s no time to talk at all. If my Tom cat had told on me, I should not wonder, for, These many moons, twixt Tom and I there s been a state of war. But Tom has never said a word, nor has the goat, or dog ; The roosters, hens, the ducks, the geese, the horse, the mule or hog, UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 79 With all of these at various times I ve had fierce scenes of strife, But not a one has ever told on me in all my life. While feathered friends I ve left unharmed, to sing up in the tree, Have joined in a conspiracy to tell Ma tales on me. I once got in the cellar deep, where Ma keeps all her pies ; I grinned, and said : "Well, here at least no little birdie s eyes Can look and see what s going on, though birds they know a trick, I guess they can t peek through a wall that s close on three feet thick." And so I chuckled, and I ate till I was sick as death. Then dragged myself up to my bed, and fairly gasped for breath. Then Ma arrived with fierce rawhide, and, as I squealed with pain, I quick inferred that same old bird had told on me again. So wonder not that I am hot upon the trail of one Who s robbed poor me, from infancy, of oceans full of fun. And when that bird lies safe interred in Mother Earth, then I Can softly creep in cellar deep, and fill myself with pie. If cream and cake I chance to take, should ball through window go, I ll fear no wrath ; for, now henceforth, who did it, none will know. Oh, life will be sweet bliss to me, a Paradise, ha ! ha ! When I have lured to death the bird that s always telling Ma! 80 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. SINCE KATIE WENT TO COOKING-SCHOOL. NE dreadful day, to my dismay, Kate got it in her head The cook should go, the maid also; she d run the house, instead. She d lessons take, to roast and bake ; she d cook the meals, while I Paid ev ry bill, and made my will, and then prepared to die. A cooking course, without remorse she took, and then with glee Swift home returned, and all she d learned she tried on helpless me. Soups boiling hot for me she got, and wouldn t let them cool. 0, cruel fate that prompted Kate to go to cooking-school. Kate used to say, ten times a day, I was her only mash ; Now she mashes the potatoes, and she dotes upon the hash. And, when of soul I talk, she ll roll her eyes and say : "Of course ; You save that sole for me, and I will serve it with a sauce." I never saw so many sauces as that girl can fix ; If she d my heart, then a la carte she d serve it boiled at six. Her head s a kitchen range, and all deranged. Oh, what a fool I was to let my Katie pet go to the cooking-school ! But, oh ! the scenes, when she serves beans ; I greet them with a yell. I m a "has-been," so she calls me, and I ve been a brute as well. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 81 And the corned beef, it s so full of corns, I instantly insist She send for a corn doctor, or expert chiropodist. And, as for game, it is a shame, for help I have to bawl. I m pretty game, but Katie s "game" well, I can t stand at aU. Her tapioca; it would choke a goat, or kill a mule. Oh, wicked fate that tempted Kate to go to cooking-school. Kate s bread has bred dyspepsia. I m not a carpin oaf; But her yeast will raise a riot, but twill never raise a loaf. Her ketchup, it will fetch up a train of mem ries vile, And, when it s served, I ketch up my hat and run a mile. We ve cereals at all the meals it makes my poor heart bleed They re the kind of cereals you can t eat, and neither can you read. Her punch I have, to punch it it s sure death, as a rule. Oh, sad the day Kate strayed away to go to cooking-school. Kate s bully on the bouillon that soup I guess you know. Her ox-tail soup gives me the croup, it s made of tales of woe. Her salad-dressing keeps me guessing, makes me whoop and prance. The way her dressed tomatoes taste, they must be dressed in pants. Her shredded wheat the world will beat; for months that stuff I ve stood. She says it s shredded wheat, but I can swear it s shredded wood. Her consomme is cream of hay. Oh, what a luckless fool I was to let my Katie pet go to the cooking-school. Kate s custard pie, it will defy a buzz-saw ; it s a crime, And, when I get that pie, you bet it s cust-hard eVry time. 82 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Her kidney stews give me the blues. I take one bite and shriek ! I touch that stew, and when I m through I m stew-pid for a week. Her fricassees they fail to please; I ll touch them not again. Whene er I touch her fricassees I m frica-seized with pain. Her beef extract, my cranium cracked; it makes me tear my wool And cuss the fate that tempted Kate to go to cooking- school. WHEN POP PLAYED SANDY CLAWS. HERE are memories that haunt a fellow till his dying day, And scoff at Father Time s attempt to banish them away; There are thoughts that crush the heart and soul, and make the eyelids droop, And funny thoughts that make a man get up and fairly whoop. As Christmas is a-coming, somehow I tho t that you Would like to know of the events of Christmas, 92 ; And I m going to tell you bout it, and, most of all, because It was that particular Christmas that Pop played Sandy Claws. I was just a little nipper then, but I remember well How Pop had got a secret ; what it was he wouldn t tell, And he kept a-talking to himself, and wandered round the house Mysterious as a Tom cat when it s stalking down a mouse. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 83 We youngsters used to follow him, for boys, of course, they know When something strange is in the wind ; and so, one night, oh ! oh ! We crept up in the attic, an old store-room of Maw s, And .there saw Pop dressing up in clothes like Sandy Claws. Well, Christmas Day it came around, and happy boys were we, For fun we knew was in the air, and kids adore a spree. We waited at the chimney hours, for Sandy to come down And fetch a ton of candy, toys, and presents in from town. We asked the folks where Pop had gone, but no one seemed to know, And Sandy, where was he? folks guessed he d got stuck in the snow. Then dinnertime rolled round, and we all burst in tears, because We couldn t find a single trace of Pop or Sandy Claws. Maw she was simply furious the clock had just struck two; No sign of Pop, and dinner pretty nearly half-way through. She guessed that Pop was lost or killed, then started in to cry, And brother Bill, he showed his grief by grabbing half the pie. We polished off the dinner, and were munching at the fruit, When crash ! bang ! down the chimney came a half a ton. of soot, And then we heard an awful yell the voice resembled Paw s, And Bill said : "Bud, I ll bet that s Pop a-playing Sandy Claws." 84 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Aunt Jane rushed to the chimney; say, I thought that I should die, For half a brick flopped on her nose and bounced off in her eye. Then up the chimney Maw she peeked; her head, it shot back soon, Her face all covered thick with soot, and blacker than a coon. The yells grew worse ; we recognized the voice of Dad ; and, say, His language, it will haunt my ears until my dying day. "I ve got stuck in the chimney," said Pop ; "get ropes and saws/ Say, this is what a feller gets for playing Sandy Claws. We rushed out for a ladder, then, and Uncle Joe and Dick, They banged it gainst the chimney, and that loosened up a brick; And the brick, of course, fell down inside ; and, oh ! the words Pa said When that old brick connected with the bald spot on his head. Then down we let a rope to him, and tugged times out of mind, While, broom in hand, Maw went to work and boosted Pop behind ; They tugged, but all in vain, for Pop was trapped, and all because His pants were stuffed with straw, to make him fat like Sandy Claws. Well, Pop was stuck, and stuck for keeps ; we had to send to town, And get a wrecking-crew to come, and tear the chimney down. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 85 Then they hitched Pop to a derrick, and out they yanked him quick, And, when we saw the sight he was, we laughed till we were sick. We had to turn the hose on him, and wash off all the dirt. You ought er heard Pop s language when the hose began to squirt. "I ve lost an eye and arm," he said, "and pulverized my jaws." That was the last time, bet your life, that Pop played Sandy Claws! "WHEN BABY WRITES A LETTER." HEN" Baby writes a letter to her Daddy far away, The occasion s most important, for she has so much to say. She sits up to the table, as grown-up folks all do, And then a pile of paper all around her we must strew. With Grandma s golden spectacles safe perched upon her nose, She dips her pen into the ink, then straight to work she goes, And the onslaught fierce that follows would fill you with dismay When Baby writes a letter to her Daddy far away. "Baby sends her love to Daddy, and hopes that he is well," Is the sentence Baby first indites her methods I must tell For the sweet and simple message that expresses Bab/s love Is a dot and dash, and big ink-splash below and just above. 86 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. She perforates the paper with many tiny pricks, And plays a tattoo on her chair with sundry little kicks, And all the floor is scattered o er with fragments of the fray, To tell us Baby s writing to her Daddy far away. The letter is a long one, for scores of sheets are used, And every one bears witness to the way it s been abused. A page for every word she takes, she quite ignores the lines, While each one, as it s written, to oblivion she consigns ; Then proudly for an envelope Miss Baby now will call, And she fills it full of paper, with no writing on at all. The address is so illegible, I must regret to say, It s doubtful if twill ever reach dear Daddy far away. HELP WANTED. E went housekeeping, Maud and I, And vainly both of us did try A maid to find, but none came by, The desired girl. At last, after a search of years, Of offers golden copious tears, Upon the threshold there appears The hired girl; A maid from Erin s Emerald Isle, Of foot-thick brogue and yard-wide smile, Who slept all day and snored the while, The tired girl. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 87 At last, one silent, fateful night, An Irish maid took sudden flight, And on the sidewalk did alight The -fired girl. WILLIE S OPINION OF BABIES. ALWAYS thought that babies, they was kind of useless things, For none of them can use their legs, an none of them has wings. They re funny little helpless mites, can t neither walk nor %, An they ain t no use for nothin , except to bawl an cry. Pa says we all was babies once, but guess that can t be so, An if we was, then my ideals has got a fearful blow. For if Washington an Lafayette ate pap an used to cry, You ll please excuse poor Willie if he thinks it s time to die. When of Washington I think, an Napoleon the First, A-bein little babies all cuddled up an nurst, A-suckin of a bottle, an a,-rubbin of their nose, An a-trying might an main to fill their little mouths with toes, An eatin paddy goric, an kickin up a din, Because of close connections with some unsafe safety pin, Then my heart is just clean broken, an if some dark cor ner s nigh, I feel like crawlin in it an a-layin down to die. 88 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. It s just a horrid shame to go an burst a boy s ideals. It simply breaks a feller up, you don t know how it feels. To think of mighty Washington, who crossed the Delaware, The man who fought ten thousand foes, and never turned a hair ! The Father of his Country, a-sprawlin on the floor An yellin murder, cause of pains beneath his pinafore. Oh ! it drives me wild an frantic, an I feel I want to fly An take my torn an bleeding heart to some far land an die. I thought that mighty Washington was half a god like Jove, An had a fiery chariot, an fiery horses drove, An bounced down from the clouds at dawn, an put King George to flight: An , when the red-coats all was licked, went back agen at night. A sort of close relation to Olympus Jove, Esquire, Who roasted red-hot thunderbolts before his kitchen fire. But Washington was just a boy, ate cake an yelled for pie. So please excuse poor Willie if he crawls away to die. An thus I was a-musin an a-nursin brother Ben; I d push his carriage up the block an half-way home agen, When Jimmy Doolan came along, an Jim so cheeky got, There wasn t nothin else to do but thrash him on the spot ; An as I was a-doin it, my baby brother he Just cooed, an laughed, an stomped his feet, an went just wild with glee, An when I licked that Doolan boy, his little hands he claps, An made me think that Wash ton was a baby once per haps. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 89 One morning Aunt Jemima put Ben into bed with, me; He was suckin at his bottle, an I thought twould be a spree To pull the rubber from his mouth, an see what he would do; An so I did, an , in a jiff, into a rage he flew, An doubled up his little fists an pummeled me right there, An rolled his eyes, an snorted fierce, an pulled my nose an hair, An* gave me such a-hidin that for help I had to call. So Washington an Nap , I guess, were babies, after all. A FEW THINGS TO BE THANKFUL FOE. HEY EE a-fixing up the turkey, they re a-touching up the sass, They re cuttin up the pumpkin pie it s handier to pass; They ve got the ol plum puddin a-sizzlin in the pot, An the vegetables, Mandy says, will all be pipin hot. So, now, it is my privilege, an honor, for to go An tap a keg of cider in the cellar down below ; I m the only one who ll touch it, an I m going to tell you pat, Of all Thanksgiving blessings, I am thankful most for that. We ve got a crowd invited to the dinner; there s Bill Hubbs, You recollect ol Bill, of course, what married Widder Grubbs. An there s ol Joshua Tadpole, what sparked Jemima Gee, Without exaggerating he can eat enough for three; 90 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. An , when the good oF turkey shows itself upon the deck, Mandy takes good care to see oF Joshua gets the neck. .The doctor s stopped Josh eating said he d suffocate in fat So humbly ask a blessin , an* thank Providence for that. Nell Quackenbush is comin , too, of course you all know Nell, Her eyes axe like twin vi lets; she s the Hick ry Corners belle. An the most romantic thing on earth, no feller will deny, Is when Nell s pearly teeth shut down on half a pumpkin pie. Nell always sits right next to me, an* when I pass the Or cake and cream, she bows perlite, an gives my hand a squeeze. Mandy, she wears glasses, an is blind er than a bat ; She don t see half that s goin on let s thankful be for that! The minister s a-comin , he s a man we all hold dear ; (Eats as tho he hadn t tasted food for half a year.) An the way he says the blessin if s a blessin short and slim Shows turkey, not religion s, got the upper hand of him. His wife, too, was invited say, that woman talks a streak ; Can t get a word in edgeways, if you waited for a week ; She s bedfast with the rheumatiz, an sicker than a cat, So pulverize the turkey, an thank Providence for that ! OP Doctor Squills, alas ! can t come you know old Doc, of course; He ll practice on a human being, or medicate a horse. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 91 Doc never went to college, but he ll kill a man. as slick, As them there city doctors can, an , maybe, twice as quick. "Doc" ain t much good at treatin folks, but everyone al lows He s a wonder when it comes to doc trin horses, hens an cows. Doc s gone to-day to treat a hog thaf s sick at Poker Flat ; So, down the cranb ry sass an thank kind Providence for that. We ll gather round the festive board that s groaning with good cheer, For ol Thanksgivin only comes just one day in the year. Don t bother bout dyspepsee, but let the vittles soar To that spot assigned by .nature till you just can t hold no more. Just loosen up the buttons, an the neckwear get untied ; So s to give the good ol turkey room to circulate inside. Then slide into the rocker, or stretch out upon the mat, An that you ain t exploded, thank kind Providence for that! "WHEN CASEY CAME HOME SOBER" HERE S trouble down in Casey s block, there s heaps of trouble there, And many an imprecation deep is flying through the air; For Casey has disgraced himself, and the block it feels ag grieved For it s very proud of Casey, and it hates to be deceived. Pat Casey never yet was known to draw a sober breath, And Casey said that if he did twould surely cause his death ; m . 92 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. And now the block is crazy, and trouble there is rife, For Casey s come home sober, for the first time in his life. Pat Casey was the "mixed-ale king," the champion of his class. He drank a half a dozen kegs while others drained a glass. The block was madly proud of him, and now it feared to lose The glorious reputation of its uncrowned king of booze. So ev ry growler, duck and can was quickly on the chase, And quarts of ale and lager soon were dashed in Casey s face, And soon the glorious news went out to thousands round the door, "The honor of the block is saved ; great Casey s full once more." Poor Casey couldn t understand how things all came about ; He must have sobered while asleep, of that there was no doubt. He deeply felt the sad disgrace, he keenly felt the pain. And swore that beastly sober he would never be again. The morals of the neighborhood he d never more offend, But a decent, drunken Casey he d remain until the end ; And he promised ne er again that he to death would scare his wife, By coming home quite sober any more in all his life. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 93 SETTLIN -UP TIME. T S settling time at Jones store, and folks for miles around For Happy Valley Corners, with their produce, now are bound; There s Hiram Lucks, he s hauling ducks, and Bill Smith s freighting hogs. He s going to exchange em for some brand-new Sunday togs. Samanthy Denns, her eggs and hens, is going to convert Eight into sugar, coffee, tea, and gingham for a skirt ; Old Jabez Reece has squash and geese, and turkeys, too, a score ; And, bright and gay, all wend their way to Jones general store. It s settling time at Jones store, and country folks all meet, And with a hearty "Howd y do!" each other now they greet. "Well, Mandy Jane," says Farmer Elaine, "how s Joe, and sister Liz?" "Joe s good and slick," says Mandy quick, "but Liz has rheumatiz." "How goes the crops?" says Eeuben Hopps of Ebenezer Hugs. Says Eb. "0. K. we find the hay, but fruit s eat up with bugs." Thus to and fro, enquiries go, from eight a. m. till four. Then roosters crow, to let you know that settling time is o er. 94 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Now homeward roll, the jovial eouls, along the country roads, All blithe and gay they wend their way to scattered far abodes; And in each wagon snugly lies all that the city yields In rich abundance to the man who tills the smiling fields. There s ribbons for the housewife, muslin good for Sarah Anne; For Gran-dad there s tobacco, shirts and shoes for Ed and Dan; And an organ for the parlor that makes melodies sublime. No joys there are like to the joys that come with settling time. THE CAUTIOUS LOVER ARLING, at last I am alone, and now take up my pen To tell thee that, indeed, I am the happiest of men. Thou art my first, my only love I ne er have loved before (Excepting Sue and Mayme and Liz, and half a dozen more) . Oh, wondrous is this thing called love that now fills all my life! Ah, blessed day that soon will dawn when I shall call thee wife! Ah, then with joy, full, full will be and brimming o er my cup (My bliss depending on the way your father "ponies" up). UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 95 So filled am I with thoughts of thee, my heart and breast aflame, That ev ry wand ring zephyr seems to murmur o er thy name. With thee and thoughts of thee I live, and hunger flees away For love is all the food I crave (and three "square" meals per day). I pace my chamber through the night and gaze up at the stars, And then my soul leaps forth in flight and breaks down all its bars, And with thee, sweet, in other worlds a lover s tryst I keep (Which proves a man can do a heap when he is fast asleep). Thou art my life, and shouldst thou ask of me some proof of love, To fight with dragons in the deeps or storm the heights above, Forth, then, thy champion I would go; my love is so in tense, That for thy sake I d gladly die (about ten centuries hence). 96 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. "HE KNEW IT THEN." WOOED sweet Clementina Jones, In eloquent, impassioned tones, And shrunk unto a bag of bones. I wooed with tongue and pen. I scarce could eat I d no desire I sought seclusion, twanged a lyre; My breast burnt up with molten fire, I knew what love was then. I pressed my suit and at her feet My heart I laid, and fortune neat; Then told her how that poor heart beat, Beyond all mortal ken. But icily she answered: "No," Then bade me from her presence go, And, weighted neath a world of woe, I knew what grief was then. Another suitor came one night, My heart was frozen at the sight; She saw him, and her eyes flashed bright- The handsomest of men; He wooed, and to the altar led She whom I loved, and they were wed ; My heart within my breast lay dead. Despair. I knew it then. Years passed ; by chance I saw again And met once more these lovers twain ; He fat and bald she thin and plain Of children they had ten; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 97 And, oh ! I smiled with sweet content, To find he couldn t pay his rent, And that she squandered every cent. Ah ! joy! I knew it then. BELINDA ANNE. N Hallowe en night, when the logs blaze bright, And the frost lies white on the ground, And the bleak wind moans in dismal tones, Then we love to gather around The cheerful glow on the hearth ; and, oh ! Thaf s the time when Belinda Anne Such tales will tell of what befell When she first met the "Pollywog Man." She said that the Pollywog had a head That measured a yard around, And the queerest eyes, like pumpkin pies, And walked a foot from the ground She thought his shoes must be twenty-twos ; And he d a beard of black and tan, Which, to his disgrace, he shook in the face Of poor Belinda Anne. Then she told how, once, when walking about, She came to a fairy court, And the gallants gay, in bright array, About her gan to sport. They were choosing a queen, such a beauteous scene Ne er had been since the world began ; And, by gen ral consent, the most votes went, Of course to Belinda Anne. gg UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. One night, she said, she d pains in her head, And her work wasn t half-way through Dishes piled in a heap when she fell asleep, As most of the hired girls do. Then she woke with a start; for, bless your heart, There stood the Pollywog Man Washing dishes a score and scrubbing the floor, To the joy of Belinda Anne. POOR DOLLIE S SICK. READ lightly on the parlor floor, And mind the creaking stair; Be careful not to slam the door; And, Fido, don t you dare To bark, or even wag your tail ; And see the clocks don t tick, For Dollie s health s begun to fail. And, oh ! she s very sick. The doctor s here ! his looks are grave, He sounds poor Dollie s chest, And asks what kind of food she craves, And if she can digest Her meals; and pulse and temperature He takes, and starts to stick Some plaster on the wounds, to cure Poor Dollie where she s sick. We none of us exactly know Just what is the disease Poor Dollie s got, but there s a flow Of sawdust, if you please, UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 99 From limbs, and joints, and ribs and bones ; So hurry, now, be quick ! Fetch little "Doctor" Willie Jones; For, oh! poor Dollie s sick. Then, next her arm he vaccinates, (A toasting-fork is used), And Dollie s mamma he berates, And says she has abused Her daughter s health ; and, also, we Sent for him in the nick Of time to save her life; for she Is very, very sick. Her temp rature s a "thousand," and Her pulse is nine-naught-two, But "Doctor" Jones can understand Her case, and pull her through; He takes an apple for his fee All fears we now dispel; And, as he bows and leaves, we see Hey, presto ! Dollie s well ! BABY S FIEST SUNDAY IN CHUECH. WAS a great event in baby s life When first to church she went; She cried for weeks to go, until Her mamma gave consent. Now, up the aisle she s proudly marched, Most gloriously arrayed, Decked out in all her Sunday best, And not one bit afraid. 100 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. She promised, oh, to be so good, And never say a word ; But, as she toddled up the aisle, The congregation heard A little baby s voice repeat (As baby s always do), "Does ev rybody, mamma, know That all my clo thes are new ?" At length she s seated, and, amazed, She gazes all around ; And, when the organ starts to play, She marvels at the sound; And, soon again, in accents clear, Are heard these childish words : "Oh, mamma, what s the man a-doing With the dicky birds?" In trooped the choir-boys all in white, And baby s face was then A study that no brush could paint, No ; neither could a pen ; And baby s mamma s face took on A brilliant hue of red As baby said : "Look, mamma ! Little boys all going to bed !" Of course, when all stood up to sing, Then baby stood up, too, Perched high upon a hassock, To command a better view. She had to have a hymn-book, And made poor mamma frown; For, when the place was found for her, She turned it upside down. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. A lengthy sermon now began; She glanced the books all o er, And longed so much to gather them, And play at "keeping store." But the sermon wearied baby so, Her eyes they ceased to roam, And a plaintive voice said: "I se so tired; Please, mamma, take me home." WHAT BOYS AND GIELS AEE MADE OF. LITTLE boy was talking to a pretty little maid, And the matter was of import and of weight. The discussion took a turn from which we much can learn, If we study it and then investigate. The little girl had said that she d heard, or somewhere read, That the things which constitute a little miss, From the bottom of her toes to her airy, fairy nose Were ingredients fashioned somewhat after this: Sugar and spice, things lovely and nice, candy and cara mels, too; Sunbeams rays from bright golden days, and roses all wet with dew. Peaches and cream, and love s own dream, likewise come to the aid of Dame Nature old, when the compound s rolled, of which, little girls are made of. Then the little boy s blue eyes somewhat expressed surprise, And from his looks perhaps twould be inferr d He d a most decided doubt in his little mind about The truth of what he recently had heard. 102 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Though he did not quite dissent; yet still, of course, he meant His sex s cause to then and there uphold, So what constitutes a boy, with proper manly joy, His little lips with eloquence now told. A heart of gold, a lion so bold, an eagle on the wing, Spice of the East, honey, at least, enough for the feast of a king. The whole earth s dower of strength and power, for noth ing is he afraid of; Beauty and health, and love and wealth that s what little boys are made of. She heard somewhat dismayed, as these compounds were arrayed, But she questioned not, nor did she try to check. But, a little later on, he chanced to light upon Some insect strange, and placed it on her neck. And, oh a scene ensued, for a sudden storm had brewed; Indignantly she shook her golden curls, And right then we learned from both, what constitutes the growth Of those funny things called little boys and girls. Toads and frogs, and queer puppy dogs, mice and owls and bats. All things that creep and make you weep, lizards, worms and cats. Vinegar, snails, tarantulas tails and things we re much afraid of; Mosquitoes, rats, tin-cans and old hats little boys and girls are made of. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 1Q3 SQUASH ! ! ! LD Uncle Kube, way down in Maine, had never had no luck At raising any fancy sort of vegetable truck. With corn an hogs, an such like things; well, he would just allow, No critter lived in this broad land to touch him anyhow. But tomaters, taters, and the like, that most folks have on hand, He couldn t raise the things for shucks, an mostly bought em canned ; But, one day in his garden patch, he saw, and yelled "Je- hosh !" There, glowin in the mornin sun, a glorious golden squaeh. His good wife heard the shoutin , and swift to the garden hied, And there upon the ground, to her astonishment, espied The primest, finest, biggest golden squash that ever grew, An she no sooner knew of it than all Maine knew it, too. The news it spread like wild-fire, and folks for miles around All rushed to view the yellow beauty nestlin on the ground ; And Uncle Rube swelled out with pride, and said : "Look here, by gosh, I ain t much on tomaters, but I beat the world on squash." A mystery twas to Uncle Eube just how that ol squash grew; He d tried to raise em all his life, a hundred times or two, 104 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. But the more he dug an 7 coaxed, and tried, the less success he had, Till he just quit in sheer disgust, an went off hoppin mad. And now, without no tendin , no fixin/ and no care, He d raised a squash that made Creation hump itself an stare. A dinner then he vowed he d give, and cut a mighty splosh, And invite all the folks around, to help him eat that squash. The invites they were all sent out, the peparations made, An uncle Keuben s wife, to market sundry trips essayed. And lovingly did uncle Eube his golden treasure view, As Nature painted it each morn a deeper golden hue. An folks went in for fastin , so that on th eventful day Ten pounds of squash an turkey each could nicely stow away ; Then uncle Reuben lowed again, from Maine way to Osh- kosh, There never yet was seen the like of that jim-dandy squash. Now dawned the day of days that was to see the sumptuous feast, An as the streaks of rosy light were glimmering in the East, Up bright an early uncle Rube arose, an took his knife, An sallied to the garden patch, to take the squash s life. Keen was the blade and strong his grasp, an swiftly beat his heart, As now he reached the precious spot an backward gave a start. "Murder ! Thieves ! ! Police ! ! ! he yelled. "Great snakes ! oh lor*, by gosh !" Some thund rin gol darn thief has been an stole the gosh blame squash," UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 1Q5 KICKS IN THE KITCHEN. HE utensils kicked in the kitchen At the way they were overworked, And they formed a labor union, And each their duties shirked. Then Bridget berated them soundly, And for the kettle she made a grab, When it promptly steamed, While the frying-pan screamed : "Scab! Scab!! Scab!!! SERIOUS POEMS. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 1Q9 SERIOUS POEMS. WHERE ARE ALL THE OLD BOYS? HERE are all the Old Boys ? Where are the dear Old Boys, Who shared those glorious school-days with all their boisterous joys ; Who drank deep draughts at Wisdom s fount of knowledge undefiled, And shook the earth with shouts of mirth, while blue skies ever smiled? Oh! gladsome, happy old school chums, to what spheres have you flown? In these sad times, what lands and climes now claim you as their own? Ye stars above, oh! tell me, answer, ye zephyrs rare. Oh! Where are all the Old Boys, and echo answers "where?" Oh ! Where are all the Old Boys ? You ll find them if you come And view the starry banner, and mark where er the drum. With throbbing beat is calling Columbia s sons to arms, And the very earth is trembling with the battle s wild alarms. Where er the fight is fiercest with the shriek of shot and shell ; Wherever blood runs freest, and all resembles hell ; AVhere hopes forlorn are to be led, or there s a death to dare The Old Boys you will find them. You ll find the Old Boys there. HO UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Oh! Where are all the Old Boys? Look down upon the Veldt, Where sky and earth, in purple haze, like molten metals melt; Where mother Earth is storing her hoard of precious gold, And none can wrest it from her, save he who s strong and bold. Look to Alaska s fastness of solitude and ice; Look cross the blue Pacific to the lands of palm and spice, Where fickle Fortune s to be wooed for smiles so few and rare; The Old Boys you will find them. You ll find the Old Boys there. Where er America s glorious flag majestically waves Its sheltering folds, and savage lands from heathen dark ness saves, Where awful plague and pestilence are wrestled with and fought, Where val rous deeds by flood and field are daily to be wrought, Where Pagan races piteously cry out for Light and Grace, Where sacrifice of self is asked, and Death met face to face, Where suffring man for succor calls, and there s a cross to bear, The Old Boys you will find them. You ll find the Old Boys there. Where burning suns scorch up the earth, and blister Na ture s face, Where jungle, swamp and tropic growth stretch into distant space, Where mighty rivers madly race toward the distant deeps, Eise little mounds of stone that mark the spot where some one sleeps. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Oh ! attered over all the earth, in distant solitudes, Where Nature ever scorns to be, save in her fiercest moods, Those lonesome mounds are heaving in the fever-laden air, Our Old Boys neath them sleeping. You ll find the Old Boys there. Yes; scattered to the four winds, gone where? God only knows ! Beneath the blistering sun-god, or blinding Arctic snows. Still gone, and gone forever. Let s drop no idle tear; We, too, must follow like them for none can linger here. Save for the fleeting moments the rolling years unfold, The "new boy" that we greet to-day, to-morrow is the "old/ But in a land they re gathering, a land that s blest and fair; Beyond the skies we ll meet them. We ll meet the Old Boys there. i "THE CHRISTMAS OF 92." (The Actor s Story.) SHALL never forget the Christmas, The Christmas of Ninety-two; I was sick out West in a hospital, With no chance of pulling through ; I d been on the road but a month or so, When I suddenly came down sick ; And, though weak as a rat, and suff ring much, I stuck to my work like a brick. 112 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. But a time there comes, when you ve got to give up When courage no longer will do, And one night on the stage I staggered and fell, And that was the last I knew Till I woke next day in a hospital, And woke up, alas ! to find The company folks had all gone ahead, While I was left sick, behind. It nigh broke my heart when I realized The pitiful plight I was in. I hadn t had time to put by a cent, And my purse it was terribly thin, But under my pillow a note I found ; And, ere it was half read through, The tears well, they trickled all down my cheeks, And I didn t know what to do. The boys had chipped in, and raised quite a sum, And the letter, it went on and told How they hoped I d soon be up and around. God bless em, twas better than gold. I turned on my side in a dazed sort of way, When my eyes, by accident, fell On a note addressed to Jack Barnes, Esquire. In a second I knew twas from Nell. Sweet Helen Boyd was our leading soubrette, A girl that was simply sublime. I loved her at sight, but said not a word, Though she knew it, I guess, all the time. I learned from the nurse, when the boys brought me in, That Nell was right there by my side, And when they all bade me a silent adieu, Nell kissed me, and broke down and cried. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 113 Oh, the joy of those words, and, sick as I was, I felt my heart dancing with mirth, And places I wouldn t for millions have changed With all the crowned monarchs on earth. "Dear Mr. Barnes" Just a short, friendly note, But what kept me all night wide awake, Was the little "P. S." she put at the end, "Get well, if you can, for my sake." Oh, the agony grim of those terrible weeks For typhoid is far from a joke ; Never a friend to cheer with a smile, Far far from kindred and folk. Twas agony, yes, but think of the joy, When at last I began to get well, And could lie there and weave most exquisite dreams And in Paradise wander with Nell. But the horrible thought, it would haunt me at times. Maybe I had passed from her mind; That pity alone might have caused her to write. And then, too, no doubt, she would find New faces to make her forget about me. The thought brought the tortures of hell, And I wished that the fever had carried me off, And never had let me get well. It was Christmas Day in the hospital, And it fell on a Sunday, too. My money had vanished, and everything gone, And I felt despondent and blue ; I was thinking of home and those far away You know how a fellow will dwell On thoughts like to that, when a voice it said "Jack !" And there by my side stood Nell ! UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. I thought twas a vision, but twas Nell sure enough, And she put her dear f ace*down to mine ; The tears filled her eyes as she proffered her lips. Oh, the joy of that kiss divine. And Nell held my hand, and told me the news The Comp ny was just passing through. "I got leave to miss just a train, Jack," she said, "And came to spend Christmas with you." "Get well, dear old boy," she said, e er she left; "Get well just as quick as you can. Your part I fixed it with Manager Jones Is yours, for the other new man We got in your place, his acting is vile. So give that old bed, dear, the shake, And come back and join us, Jack dear, once moi e ; Ah, do, laddie dear, for my sake For it s terribly lonely without you, boy, I ve missed you, I can t tell you how." Then she put her dear head once more down to mine, And the angels above heard a vow That when I was well, and our season was o er, We d link both our fortunes in life, And Nell murmured "Husband" ere parting from me- While I whispered tenderly, "Wife." Ah ! many a Christmas has now passed away, Since the Christmas of Ninety-two, But that is the Christmas I love best of all, And will, till life s over and through, For it gave me my Nell, the best little girl That ever drew breath in the world ; It gave me the rosy-cheeked, golden-haired lass, Whose arms round my neck now are curled; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 115 It gave me back health, and that brought me wealth; It pointed the pathway to fame. That sickness, a blessing it was in disguise ; And God, you see s good, just the same. And the dear, loving eyes now smiling at me, So winsome and winning and true, In my heart still hold sway, as on that blest day, The Christmas of "Ninety-two." LITTLE MAID WITH THE LAUGHING EYES. EAR little maid with the laughing eyes, Putting to blush the blue of the skies, Gazing entranced on a world so fair, Never a trouble and never a care ; Ah, what a pity ; ah, lack-a-day, You cannot remain as you are alway. Dear little maid with the laughing eyes, Looking at us in sweet surprise, Soon the years o er your head will have rolled, Silvering white your locks of gold ; Merciless Time, your chariot stay, And let fair youth linger here alway. Sweet little maid with the laughing eyes, Care in the future for each there lies ; Eevel in youth with its golden dreams, Drift down Fairyland s mystic streams Care-free and happy, joyous and gay; Sad tis we cannot be young alway. 116 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. THE BOY WHO TALKED AND THE BOY WHO DID. LOQUENT James was his father s pride, Great things were predicted for him. His fame it was blazoned both far and wide, And everyone raved about Jim. But Jim s brother John was a silent youth, Twas seldom he had much to say ; He gloried in honor, in work, and in truth, And quietly went on his way. But a crowd of folks round Jim ever hung, For they seemed quite enraptured to hear This wonderful youth with the voluble tongue, Whose voice rang impassioned and clear As he talked, and talked, eternally talked Of his plans, ambitions, and aims, And round like a peacock strutted and walked This wonderful orator, James. While Jim talked on, in his masterful way, Of what he was going to do, John bravely toiled through the heat of the day With his own and Jim s work to do. For if one but talks, then his share of the work, And I think this plain to us all, Must pass from the one who does nothing but shirk, On the back of a brother to fall. When work needed doing, Jim s voice it was raised, As he lazily lolled in the sun, And ere his advice had been passed on and praised, John had the work over and done. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 117 On memory s tablet this fact should be chalked, For the fact can no longer be hid, That James was the boy who looked on and talked, While John, he accomplished and did. A troublesome mortgage hung over the farm Threats came, it would soon be foreclosed ; The outlook was dark, and viewed with alarm ; Jim protested, orated, and posed. Of mankind s injustice he d rave by the hour, At capital fiercely he d scoff, While John seemed inspired with additional power, And soon he had paid the thing off. Folks now realized how foolish they d been, And eloquent James they ignored ; They saw he was naught but a talking-machine, Henceforth it was John they adored. For, though sounding phrases may dazzle awhile, If to fame and success you would mount, Fortune alone on true effort will smile ; For, with man and God, deeds only count ! RELIGIOUS. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. "GOD KNOWS BEST!" EEMEMBEE the time, in my earlier days, when I used to be worried in mind O er the way that God had of directing the spheres, and ruling o er all human kind ; I would think over this, and study o er that, for twas all a great myst ry to me, And then I d decide that God s ways they were not just all that God s ways ought to be. Impetuous youth it will question; aye, yes! and even, at times, twill condemn The ways of the great Jehovah himself, though his ways are beyond mortal ken ; But, ah ! when the years they have ripened the mind, and life s evening shadows they fall, Then we re free to confess, as we ask God to bless, that twas He who knew best, after all. I have looked in the eyes of an agonized wife, as a wee, lit tle life ebbed away; I have felt in my breast the turmoil and strife, as we gazed on the poor, silent clay; I have felt fierce rebellion sweep up in my soul, as I yearned for that little one s kiss, And I ve said, as the tears down my cheeks gan to roll, "Could a merciful God have done this?" But, ah ! when the first throb of anguish was past, when the wounds were less jagged and sore, I thought of that babe in the bright world above, an angel of God s evermore. 122 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. "For of such is the kingdom of heaven/ Christ said, then the wife to my side I would call, And I d point to the skies, and we d both dry our eyes, for twas God who knew best, after all. I have seen this man rise, and that one ascend, to affluence, fortune and fame, And I ve envied the friends I knew in my youth, who have made for themselves quite a name; And I thought God was harsh that he willed I should toil, while others around lived at ease The full cup of fortune was theirs first to drink, while I d naught to drain but the lees. But now I can see, in the evening of life, as I follow God s methods divine, That not one of the lives I envied so much has been ^blessed so completely as mine; And I would not change places with one of the friends of those envious days I recall, Which makes it quite plain, all over again, that it s God who knows best, after all. As now I look back o er the years of my life, and pass ev ry one in review, And weigh up its pleasures, its cares and its strife, as a man bowed with years oft will do, I can see how I wronged the Almighty above when I ques tioned His mandates divine, And I m glad I was led through the years by His love, re gardless of wishes of mine, For I could not foresee where ambition would lead, as I yearned above others to climb ; But ambition is oft but a cloak for mere greed, and God could foresee all the, time. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 123 And not one single thing the Almighty has done would I alter, no matter how small; From beginning to end, I ve had God a<? a friend, and twas He who knew best, after all. It has ever been thus, and twill ever be thus, in the Al mighty s wonderful plan ; The Father all wise, in His home in the skies, knows what s best for the children of man ; When the grief s hard to bear, ,our heart-strings may tear, and dazed we may be by the blow, But twill all be made plain, let that ease your pain, and the reason we some day shall know. When our patience God tries, ah ! don t criticize, but with meekness bow down to His will, For whate er may betide, Christ still doth abide, and God, He our Father is still; Just do what is right, keep your faith ever bright, for not even a sparrow doth fall, But in Heaven tis known, so let s joyfully own, that God knoweth best, after all. <GOD WILL TAKE CAEE OF ME." ANY a year has winged its flight since mother passed away ; Many a year, but ever near, still seems that solemn day When down I knelt and gently felt the hand so frail and white, And gazed into those eyes anew, now lit with Heaven s own light. 124 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. The silence broke when mother spoke, twas but a whis pered word, But, oh, how oft those words so soft, my inmost soul have stirred. "We ll meet again," she said, "where pain and sorrow can not be ; Your eyes are wet, John, dear; don t fret, God will take care of me !" I wasn t just the best of boys, I wasn t just the worst ; But when those words fell on my ears, my tears in torrents burst. I realized that all I prized, and held most dear in life, Would soon depart; it broke my heart, and cut me like a knife. I saw the blank, the awful blank, if Providence should make Me motherless, and my distress caused her again to take My hand and say : "John, work and pray ; be honest, brave and true ; Just learn to love the One above, and He ll take care of you!" On roll the years. List to those cheers, mark that brave line of blue; Tis hard, I know, but I must go; the old flag needs me, too. "We re coming, Father Abraham!" Oh! wife, dear, heed that song, And it will make your courage wake, your heart beat true and strong. The babe s asleep ; once more I ll creep and kiss him then farewell. Just one brave smile to cheer me while I face the shot and shell. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 125 The long day through, my thoughts to you will turn so ten derly. Wipe that deax eye ; be brave, don t cry ; God will take care of me. By camp-fire bright, these lines I write; for, ah, my thoughts will roam, After the strife, to you, dear wife, and our beloved home. A year has gone, the old flag s torn, but still floats proudly o er The shattered host, now but a ghost of what it was of yore. The live-long day the bloody fray has swept from side to side. The North and South at cannon s mouth; let Gettysburg decide Which cause shall win. Ere I turn in, these lines I write, I see You all so clear; don t worry, dear, God will take care of me! Once more the roar of guns sweep o er the valley and the plain, And far and near the ringing cheer sweeps up in vict ry s train. "The boys are home !" the very dome of heaven with joy is rent, And heads are bare when muttered prayer breathes out a heart s content. Two eyes seek mine, two eyes that shine with love; ah, words are tame To tell the bliss when wee lips kiss my cheek, and lisp my name. 126 tJNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Ah, me ! that night, what rapt delight, with babe upon my knee, And wife at rest upon my breast ! God did take care of me. If I but glide on mem ry s tide; ah, then can I supply A thousand instances to show how Providence is nigh, To shield from foes, and guard all those who put their f aitli and trust In one Great God Omnipotent, all merciful and just, Tis not for long, ah, soon the song, the blessed angels sing In brighter spheres, will greet my ears as Heavenward I wing. When back are rolled the Gates of Gold, I ll cry: "Ah, mother, see ! I m here at last, all sorrows past, God did take care of me!" THE PASSING OF THE OLD CHURCH. HEY want to close the old church, and build them one that s new, And soon its days of glory will have faded from our view. No longer will its walls resound to hymns of praise and prayer, And naught but mem ries will remain of precious worship there. No more its loud hosannas will heavenward ascend ; For, like all things on earth, alas! it, too, must have an end. Tis out of date and style, they say at least the young folks do So they want to close the old church, and build them one that s new. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 12? "Out of date and out of style ?" Why, once we thought it grand, And not a church to equal it existed in the land ; And we scarce could muster patience when traveling folks came home And raved of London s Abbey and St. Peter s there in Eome. There were grander, bigger churches yes, that we d freely own, But we felt that ours was nearer to the Father s Great White Throne, That its prayers were answered quicker, and more grace and blessings drew, Than any other church on earth, be that church old or new. Fourscore long years have passed away since first to church - I came, And here alone, in all the world, things still are much the same. The same old "Kock of Ages" rings out inspiringly, And "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," " Nearer, my God, to , Thee," Have yet the old-time sweetness so full of trust and love ; And they seem to lift my very soul to mansions up above, As I stand right up and sing them in our old family pew. Ah! they ll never sound like that again in any church that s new. Ah ! well can I remember when mother took my hand And led me first to our old church, which, like the prom ised land, Stretched out before my wond ring gaze, and still I feel the awe That fell upon my childish soul when first God s house I saw. 128 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. The hassock mother knelt upon is in the same old place; The Bible s there, all stained with tears that fell from her dear face; And here it was we bade her soul that solemn last adieu. Ah ! leave me but the old church, and you can have the new. Within these walls I first received the blessed broken bread, And took the cup in memory of the precious life-blood shed, And supped with Him who said : "Do this in memory of Me," That I might live eternal!) 7 , and from all sin be free. J Twas here I felt the meaning of a purer, holier life; Twas here the solemn words were said which gave to me a wife, And here, at last, we breathed a prayer, when her soul to heav n flew. Ah ! her spirit haunts the old church ; don t tell me of the new. Twas here I brought my little ones, to train them in the way That leads from this dim shadow-land to realms of bright est day. Here, too, they broke the "Bread of Life," and up there in the choir Their voices rose in hymns of praise that mounted high and higher, And soared right up to heaven s gate ; ah ! how my soul was stirred, For God, I knew, inspired that song, and he surely must have heard, UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 129 For angels took the song to him and took the singers, too And all that s left & the old church I ne er could love a > new. "Pis sad to think the dear old church will crumble and decay, To live no more but as a dream that comes at close of day. It seemed to me a very part of God s eternal shore ; A spot that Great Jehovah threw his shelt ring mantle o er ; A mighty Rock of Ages in the shifting sands of time, Where storms of doubt and change might break, but ne er its base could climb. And so my heart in sadness now sends up a human cry That the things I deemed immortal, alas ! must droop and die. So, brethren, do not take from me the only link that s left Twixt earth and heaven of mem ries sad and sweet to one bereft, Who oft has prayed that Time would pass this spot, so sacred, by And let me worship in this house in peace until I die. But if, alas ! tis not to be, and the dear old place must go, There s one blest thought sweet comfort brings, thank God ! it helps me so Though church, wife, children pass away, through ail eter nity The dear, good God, who changes not, will still "abide with me." 130 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. SUNDAY IN THE OLD CHURCH. H, those Sundays in the old church, in the days of long ago, How pleasantly life s placid stream unruffled used to flow. My childish soul knew nothing, then, of ^higher criti cism/ Of practices unorthodox, and other kinds of schism. Just simple, childish, lovely faith was all I knew so pure. Ah, sad it is ; ah, cruel tis, such faith will not endure As once it did in those dear days by memory now arrayed, When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached and prayed. God s day of rest a haven was of quiet and content, And Nature hushed her hum of noise, and acquiescence lent; For Nature s God from Sinai had issued his decree, And holy calm fell down upon the meadow and the lea. The glorious bells their tidings glad to all the country tolled, And called belated worshipers to gather in the fold. And once within that fold secure, no sheep e er felt afraid When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached and prayed. No time for ceremonious form, though all was reverent there One thought alone pervades the mind, the thought of praise and prayer; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 131 No ranks of surpliced choristers distract the mind and eye, But each one sang his hymn of praise; and, as it rose on high, A glorious, mighty volume, it swept about God s throne, To blend with angel voices, as though it was their own ; Then rushed with light and gladness hell s darkness to in vade, When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached and prayed. I see the grand old pastor, with radiant, noble face And glorious voice that never tired in telling of the grace That s waiting for the sinner who will take his load of care With a humble and a contrite heart to Christ and leave it there. Oh, blessed words of comfort, yet never half so sweet As when he gently led you to God s holy mercy seat, And you saw heaven s gate wide open, and its glories all displayed, When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached and prayed. "As through a glass now darkly" was not the way he saw His glass was purest crystal, and never knew a flaw ; No clouds were e er obscuring heaven s wonders from his eyes, For God to him had given the faith that looks beyond the skies And views the mansions there prepared for such of those who love To tread the path the Saviour trod, and follow Him above. And few, indeed, if any, from that narrow pathway strayed, When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached and prayed. 132 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. If e er he condescended to acknowledge doubt or fear, A splendid sight our pastor, then, it was to see and hear. His voice rang like the blast that shook the walls of Jeri cho, And unbelief and scoffing pride were routed and laid low ; He towered like a giant, his eyes flashed scorn and fire, The "God of Battles" came to earth his efforts to inspire, And the hosts of sin and Satan were vanquished and dis mayed When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached and prayed. And then the sword avenging, he suddenly would sheathe, His voice to wooing whispers sank, a smile his face would wreathe. The "God of Battles" disappeared, then came the "God of Love/ The beauteous Spirit fluttering down in semblance of a dove. Oh, who that heard could then resist that pleading, loving tone; Oh, who would not take up that cross, and bear it for his own? Not I, nor you, we heard the voice and willingly obeyed, Singing soft the old hymns over, as the pastor knelt and prayed. Oh, would that every church on earth were like that one of old, And every worn and weary soul at rest within its fold; And would their earthly shepherd and their heavenly Shep herd true Were like the ones I knew of old, and new look heaven ward to! UNCLE CHARLIE S PCEMS. 133 His kingdom then would quickly come again, upon the earth, Mankind with one accord would sing: "One Lord, one Faith, one Birth," If we could spread that living grace that always was dis played When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached and prayed. "PREACH JESUS TO ME." E VE got a new minister coming, I hear; the old one, I m told s had his day. Too old-fashioned and slow, and not up to date; at least so the younger folks say, So the man who s grown gray in the service of God forever aside now must stand, While a youth fresh from college, with brand-new ideas, is going to take things in hand; And we ll hear the old truths told over again, from Gen esis way down to Paul, And told in the latest most new-fangled way, so that no one will know them at all. Well, there s this much I know, whoever may come, and whoever the preacher may be, If a blessing he wants from this old heart of mine, he s got to preach Jesus to me ! The old style of preaching the Gospel of God, with elo quence simple and strong, Repentance, salvation, through Jesus who died, they ve dis covered at last is all wrong ; 134 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. And, instead, we have lectures on various things political, social, and such All told in a genteel, half-hearted way, with a matter-of- fact sort of touch, And about as much use to a hungering soul, as twould be if you gave it a stone; All food for the mind, for the spirit and heart, must be left most severely alone; Not a word in the whole discourse will you hear of the Cross and of grim Calvary. Well such kind of fare, it may satisfy some; but you ve got to preach Jesus to me. Ah, me ! what a change has come over the land, from the days that I once knew of old, When the good pastor s voice, so grand and inspired, in sonorous majesty rolled, And we heard the old story of God and his love, and of Jesus, the Saviour of men, And the next Sabbath day, with the same eager hearts, we came back to hear it again. We never grew weary, we never grew tired, of that tale of God s wonderful love; Our religion we drew not from books or from men, but straight from the Father above, For the grace that He gave us came down like the rain, so plenteous, so full, and so free, And it s that blessed grace that my thirsty soul craves, so preach the dear Saviour to me. Ah ! in those good old days, a spade was a spade ; and sin, it was nailed down as sin; No trimming of sails to suit this one and that, but the shafts of the Gospel sank in UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 135 The wrong-doer s heart, and rich man or poor, face to face, in an instant was brought With the terrible price the sinner must pay who sets God s commandments at naught. No parleys with Sin, temporizing with wrong, but heart- searching within and without. Ah! the wonderful faith of those blessed old days, with never a question of doubt; Just the Bible God s word from beginning to end and to those precious pages I flee, And I pick out the texts that thrilled me with joy, when the Saviour was first preached to me. It s all very well, in the heyday of youth, to criticize, ques tion, discuss, But to those who have reached the evening of life, ah, how different it all is with us ! With the scythe of the Eeaper coming daily more near, and the eyes growing dimmer with age, Oh ! don t take the comfort the Holy Book gives, as we ponder o er each precious page ; Oh ! take not away, but add, if you can, for there s nothing to cheer our last breath No, nothing but those blessed pages to help, as we draw near the portals of death. Ah, there s naught but our Lord that can then stand be tween our souls and Eternity, So give me the light of God s Gospel, and preach Christ Jesus the Saviour to me. Preach Jesus, Him only, and if you ll do that, there s no other topic you ll need; He is the food that the multitude craves, if only their voices you d heed, 136 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. For the world it is hungry for some one to come and arouse it from out of its sleep, And into the heavenly garners of God, a harvest of souls you will reap. It isn t that people are weary of church, or that spiritual matters have tired, But the preachers have strayed from the old paths of faith, and no longer are thrilled and inspired. So back to the Cross and the crucified One, and oh ! glo rious the harvest will be, And the whole world will ring with the joy of the saved so preach Jesus to them and to me. "COBBLER JIM." OBBLER JIM was happy and gay, and as his store you passed, You d hear his voice above the din of the" blows that fell on his last. His wasn t a voice of culture, nor was it a voice of power, But as Jim sat at his bench and sang, blithely from hour to hour, His song would blend with that of the birds, perched in the trees close by, And it seemed as together they sang, the man and the bird would try, Which best could prove, by their happy notes, that whether at work or play God s world is full of sunshine and bliss the man at his bench, or they. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 137 You ll ask what caused the cobbler s joy, and what inspired his song With that note of perfect happiness, which rang the whole day long; What was it gave to those rugged notes a tone almost di vine, And made them seem so different from a voice like yours and mine; What was it made the birds join in whene er he chanced to sing, And hover in the branches near and o er the lintel cling. The answer s clear, the answer s plain, and all is due to Him: The God who gave the birds their song, inspired the notes of Jim. Time was when Jim was a ne er-do-well, and never a note he sang Unless strong drink inflamed his blood, and then the tavern rang With a flood of ribald melody, at once both coarse and rude; Then, with an oath, he staggered home in a mean and ugly mood; Then trouble came and sickness, and, but for a loving wife, Eight then and there would have ended the cobbler s mis spent life, And Jim resolved, when health returned, no more he d be a clod He had worked and sung for the devil ; now he d work and sing for God. And how Jim worked, and how he sang, twas glorious to see No living soul upon the earth was happier than he ! 138 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. And every time his hammer fell, or home a nail he drove in, He d say : "There goes another blow at misery and sin !" The dogs, that never came near Jim without a blow or kick, Saw Jim had changed, and bravely came his proffered hand to lick; For, even in animals, the power, the instinct lies To tell if God or Satan looks at them through human eyes. Yes, Jim had "got religion," and it didn t make him sad He had the proper Christlike kind that ever makes one glad; The kind that lights the heart and soul, and drives out gloom and fear; The kind that fills one s life with joy and heaven itself draws near; The kind that makes the grave itself a stepping-stone to bless No other kind is Christ-inspired unless it s like to this For misery, despair, and gloom can never have a part In any truly Christian life when Christ is in the heart. Let s take a leaf from out Jim s book, and when our lives seem dark Let s jom our voices with the birds, and imitate the lark, And make our hymns of joyfulness to heaven s gates as cend, And angels gathered round the throne a listening ear will lend And join their melodies with ours, until all heaven rings With mighty Alleuiahs grand unto the King of kings; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 139 And God will hear our anthems, and a blessing then from Him Will fill our livas with sunshine, and make us just like Jim. GOD KNOWS. HEN the sea of life is stormy and o ercast, And the clouds of trouble gather grim and fast, And the heart is weary sighing In the breast where hope lies dying, And all the joy of life is o er and past Sink not, oh, weary brother, neath thy woes, Fear not the awesome tempest as it grows ; Eevive thy strength declining; For, behind the clouds now lining Thy path, God s sun s still shining, and He Knows! When the still, small voice of conscience pleads in vain, And the wayward feet stray off in Pleasure s train, And the old, old faith s neglected, And every thought s directed To unhallowed ends, the lust and greed of gain; Remember, though thine eyes thou mayest close To the path thou rt treading and the way it goes Down, down the road of ruin, With its wrecks the wayside strewing, God grieves o er all thou rt doing, for He Knows! 140 UNCLE CHAKLIE S POEMS. Take heed, oh, weary brother, in the strife ; This is not all, the thing that we call life, With its turmoil and its laughter, With its tears swift following after, Its murm rings and contentions ever rife. There s a land far, far above the Alpine snows Devoid of pain, and sorrows anguished throes ; There angels now entreat thee To enter, and will meet thee With a smile, and God will greet thee, for He Knows! THE ACTORS CORNER. Dedicated to Francis Wilson, Esq. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. THE ACTOR S PRAYER GUARANTEED TO MEET ALL CONTINGENCIES. H, kindly Providence, I pray thee send An angel for my guide, I need a friend; Not one of those with feathers, robes and wings, For, at the best, they re useless sort of things; But one with whiskers and the needful dough To take me on the road, so I may show The Hayseeds, Jays, Yahoos, and such like yaps, That I m the greatest Genius born, perhaps. And I would ask thee likewise to provide A sure-thing play through which, ah, let me glide, The cynosure of every envious eye; And calcium by the million tanks supply, So that the stage s center I can hog And, bathed in radiance, put on endless "dog." Give me week-stands, and in the Pullman cars * The lower berth ; and may the hotel bars Be gen rous with the intoxicating cup, And prompt the barkeep s heart to "chalk it up/ In "three-per" hostelries, oh, grant I may Secure a rate of one cold plunk per day, With ample table and the necessary heat, Plus an electric bell, so I may greet The clerks and bell-boys, much to their delight, And keep them in a ferment day and night Grant that my name in letters ten feet high May smite me as I pass the billboards by, And ev ry news-sheet that I chance to see, May it contain some paragraph of me. 144 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Some fiendish, lie, perhaps, I do not care, So that my name in good black type is there. Grant that the girls with me may fall in love And, after matinees, may push and shove To see me from the stage s door emerge, And then in serried ranks about me surge, Falling adoringly upon their knees ; Providence, oh, send me triumphs such as these. Oh, rid me from those all-pestiferous ills The tailors , butchers , bakers , printers bills, Shedding my obligations smilingly By judicious dalliance with bankruptcy. Oh, grant that she, my cumbrous, unloved spouse, No hornet s nest about me may arouse ; For alimony grant she may not sue, But support herself as all good wives should do. Send fortune golden, capped, wine, women, song, And let me walk Broadway the whole day long; Envied and ogled down the lane to flit, "The man that has arrived," the man thatfs "It." These trifling favors grant to me, I pray, Though more I need, this will suffice to-day, And on account, oh, Providence, send "ten"; I guess that s all I want just now Amen. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 145 A NOVELTY AT LAST. HE manager, with haughty mien, sat in his office chair ; And actresses of note and fame surged round about him there. "I drove them wild last season/ said a voluble soubrette, "And from Buffalo to Kankakee they talk about me yet. My double hand-spring kills em dead laugh, well, say, they roar They flop right over in their seats, and roll clean on the floor. Say, I m the one to knock em cold." The manager looked vexed, And, scarcely deigning her a word, impatiently said: "Next." The next was shy on youth and looks, but talent shone from out Her eyes, which blazed with genius, and then she told about Those days with Booth and Barrett, with Jefferson and Kean, And other stars legitimate, long vanished from the scene. "I know your record, madam !" said the listening manager ; "But I m looking for a novelty some one to make a stir ; Some one to make the whole world talk, and play to S. E. 0. Nothing doing in your line ; if there is, I ll let you know." Approached him now a gorgeous girl, her carriage stood without : She was of Mayflower pedigree a girl folks raved about; 146 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. She d wearied of society, now nothing could assuage Her craving for excitement but a life upon the stage. She spoke, and then the manager replied all in a breath : "The society racket, madam, I find s been done to death ; There s not a dollar in it." The fair girl gave a pout As the office-boy threw wide the door, and quickly bowed her out. Deep sighed the manager and gazed with troubled, weary air Upon a dashing figure that drew near his office-chair. "You ll remember I m the heroine of the famous Jones divorce," The imperious creature rattled on; "you know of me, of course. I m pictured in the papers, and my name s on every page ; The whole world s simply crazy to see me on the stage. I d pack the houses." "Is that so?" the manager replied. "I m sorry that we differ. John, show the lady, please, outside." Diamonds, dresses, old blue blood no longer are the thing ; Dames from high society, not a dollar do they bring. Divorcees they are passe, not one of them will do Oh, pray excuse me, madam, what can I do for you? Before him stood a woman who, for quite a little while, Had all the country guessing in a famous murder trial. The manager rose promptly, and showed her to the door, And said: "The murder racket, ma am, I find s been worked before." A prim and modest matron now into the office strayed ; The managerial X-ray eyes like searchlights on her played. "I am a woman," she began, "who s led a blameless life; One husband s all I ever had, I m proud to be his wife; UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. I mind my business, stay at home; my scrubbing, cooking do; I crave no costly dresses, all I have or want is two; I never scandalize or lie; I never get enraged. The manager, as he dropped dead, said : "MADAM, YOU RE ENGAGED !" REFLECTIONS OF THE STAGE VILLAIN. ITY the sorrows of a villainous old man Who now, alas ! approaches life s allotted span, And soon eternity and the unknown must face With fainting heart and ne er a single hope of grace. For, oh, my very soul is steeped in fiendish crime, Which I must expiate on, on through endless time. From Maine to Texas, from Key West to Oregon, There runs a gory trail of ghastly deeds I ve done. In Oshkosh, Eed Bank and each cross-roads town My victims cry for vengeance, and the angels frown As overtime they work to record keep Of all my wanton infamies so foul and deep. I do mind me of the time when I, a strippling, went Upon the stage, of man s blood innocent. But villainy was quickly portioned as my lot, And, ere the night had gone, sixteen poor souls I d shot ; And stabbed, aye, many more, and poisoned twenty-two, As it is wont for villains on the stage to do. For full twice-twenty years my life of crime has run, And every wanton deed that s known to man I ve dona 148 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Eight thousand murders ; ye gods, what seas of gore ! Forgeries, bigamies, and trigamies galore! My victims I both afternoon and night would slay, And thus the self-same man Fd slaughter twice a day. My conscience gives no rest; for, here upon Broadway, I see my hapless victims pass me day by day. Men whom I ve shot and stabbed, maids whose jugulars I ve cut, Familiarly they nod, and leer, and past me strut, And one, alas ! there is my wretched soul affrights ; For that same man I murdered sixteen hundred nights!!! And thus in fear I wait the final curtain call, My chance of future mercy most exceeding small. The greatest villain that the world has ever known, One saving hope have I, perchance it may atone That of the thousands I have slain by murder fell, Not one is dead, and all, thank heaven ! are hale and well ! THE HUNGRY THESPIAN. HE shades of night were falling fast, As down Broadway an actor passed, And stopped to read, with eager air, This sign beneath a restaurant s glare: LAMB STEW, 10 CENTS. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 149 "Touch not the stew/ an old man said, " Tis full of microbes ; so s the bread." The actor man made no reply, But still read on, with rav nous eye: CORNED BEEF AND CABBAGE, 10 CENTS. "Beware the cabbage and the beef," The old man cried, "or come to grief. Appendicitis lurks therein." The actor s voice rose o er the din. FRANKFURTERS, 10 CENTS. "Avoid the sausage," loudly roar d The warning voice, "with dog tis stored, And other canine mysteries vile." Still Shakespear Jones read on the while, TWO FRIED, 10 CENTS. 150 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. "Leave eggs alone/ the old man spoke, "Think of the last that on thee broke And splashed thy face and filled thine eye." On read the thespian, with a sigh, SMALL STEAK, 10 CENTS. "Beware the steak," implored the man, "For steak s beneath the Beef Trust s ban ; Tis only food for millionaires. Yon actors shouldn t put on airs. Touch not the steak." "Sirrah, avaunt," the actor cried, "Unhand me, scoundrel, stand aside. I want no viands, boiled or fried ; I never eat, and then, besides, I ve no darned 10 cents." THE FAMILY THEATRIC. HO is it burns the midnight oil And paper by the tons will spoil, Swipes plots from Dickens, Scott or Doyle? THE AUTHOR. Who is it all the checks doth sign, Backs the show gets printing fine, And for the soubrette opens wine ? THE ANGEL. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Who is it stands out in the front, And watches each and every stunt, Counts up the house and does a grunt ? THE MANAGER. Who is it calls you sharp at ten, And says : "Now, ladees, shentlemen, Ve dry dis over vonce agen" ? DER HERR CONDUCTOR. Who is it, with an eye intense, Seeks out some trivial offense, And fines the whole crowd fifty cents? THE STAGE MANAGER. Who gets into most awful scrapes, Dares death in fourteen hundred shapes, And from the villain s toils escapes ? THE HERO. Who is it, dressed in sombre black, Weeps, wrings her hands, and says : "Alack !" And on the villain turns her back ? THE HEROINE. Who raises trouble by the peck, The hero s life starts out to wreck, And later gets it in the neck ? THE VILLAIN. Who is it finds the stolen will, O erhears the villain s plans to kill, And with him "raises Samuel Hill "? THE COMEDIAN. 152 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Who is it keeps the house in roars, Dusts furniture, and opens doors, And does a dance to six encores ? THE SOUBRETTE. Who is it hands you gun and sword, And of stage-money keeps a hoard, And over everything is lord ? HIS MAJESTY "PROPS/ Whom do we talk of tremblingly, With bated breath, and dread that he May fail "to walk" oh, misery ? The beloved and all necessary "GHOST." Who is it starts to scandalize, Spreads discord fierce, tells endless lies And has the whole crowd by the eyes ? THE SOUBRETTE S MAMA. Who is it to the show will come In numbers scanty, faces glum, And then go homerand say "it s bum" ? THE AUDIENCE. Who is it trouble fierce will hatch, And, when you go your train to catch, Your trunk and gripsack will attach ? THE LANDLORD. Who is it weary, sad and sore, Hoofs o er the ties a week or more And, Broadway reached, cries out for gore ? THE TROUPE. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 153 THE TRAGEDIAN S SOLILOQUY. (Parodies on Shakespeare.} be, or not to be, that is ihe conundrum, Whether it is wiser to be biffed in the eye By the o erripe fruit of the domestic hen, Or to be soaked and assaulted on the ear By the abhorrent and decayed vegetable. Who would hotel-bills pay, to sweat under a heavy burden, When he can the dull landlord easily evade By a noiseless descent of the convenient fire-escape? Is this a ham sandwich that I see before me ? Come thou tempting morsel, let me catch thee, And to this yawning stomach beat a swift retreat, And give the lie to those who say I never eat. Oh, oft have I been called "ham," now void of pelf, I would, ye gods, I were a ham that I might eat myself. Be thou an Actor or a Variety man damned, Bring with thee Shakespeare from Heaven, or rag-time from, well Is it thy purpose to oust me from the classic boards And drive me barnstorming to the Hayseed hordes ? Thy mummery of song and dance is for the City s great, While Shakespeare s for the varlets vile of low estate. Oh, what a falling off was there, from the "Immortal Will," To this hell broth of rubbish vaudeville This seething caldron of diablerie, Legs, loveliness, jag-time and lunacy. 154 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. Most impotent, grave and irreverend Hayseeds, My very ignoble and disapproved bad Masters, That I have deigned to show you good acting, tie most true, And my genius is lost on Punkinheads like you. Superb am I in my speech, And but little versed in the wily ways of commerce; For, since I was to a grasshopper that much high, I have pursued the Actors Art, and hoofed the tie, Carrying a banner or spear, at "three per" week, And little of this great world can I now speak More than pertains to things strictly theatrical. The quality of whiskey is much strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven Upon the thirsty palate of the Thespian beneath. She loved me for the gallons of it I had drank, And I loved her that she did admire my wondrous tank. He who steals my purse steals trash ; For, being a Tragedian s purse, the darn thing s minus cash. LAMENT OF A SAD TRAGEDIAN. HIS wretched world is out of joint, the sad Trage dian said; The classic drama s buried, great Shakespeare s doubly dead ; Art s sacred lamp has flickered out, its temples they pro fane With exhibitions lewd, nude, rude, and wickedly inane. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 155 Could I fall down a flight of stairs, or waltz upon my nose, I d be the star attraction of ten hundred different shows; But, with only art to recommend, I fain must disappear ; Oh, thou immortal Bard, look down Ah, thanks! Make mine a beer! But yesterday I hied me to a catiff agent s den. "Your line of business, sir, is dead/ he said, and straight way then He offered me keep still my heart, and burst not from thy bounds A thinking part in "Uncle Tom," play brass, and tend the hounds, Understudy Eva, to dance sand, jig, buck, clogs; Give out vile dodgers to the mob, and sleep among the dogs, With bloodhounds for my roommates ! Great shades of Shakespeare hear, The drama s dead, defunct, deceased Oh, thanks ! Once more a beer! Another catiff agent offered me employment vile ; He called the job a lead-pipe cinch, and smiled a ghastly smile. The piece was named the "Hooligans The Happy Danc ing Micks," And in it I was savagely assaulted, sir, with bricks ; All through the piece it showered bricks if not, I had to stoop While slapsticks on my pants were drummed by all that wretched troupe. Again I ask: "Art thou not dead, thou Bard of Avon, dear?" Ah, doubly moribund thou art Ah, thanks ! Another beer! 156 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. But yesterday they proffered me a most revolting role, The insult of that offer vile sank deep into my soul; I, that have played with Edwin Booth, with Barrett, and with Kean, Was, for a paltry pittance, my manhood to demean And drain the cup of misery unto its very dregs By capering in a mad burlesque as the elephant s hind legs ! An insult, sir ! An outrage, sir ! A most revolting crime ! Oh, Bard of Avon, me avenge ! Thanks ! Whiskey straight this time. Alas, the depths to which we lights of palmy days have sunk, The brimful cup of misery, whose dregs perforce we ve drunk, Have not been told in full till I, with aching heart, reveal What I within mine inmost soul no longer can conceal : A medicine show engaged me to declaim, orate, recite, And to swallow pills between the acts the memory of that night With mortal horror fills me, and terrors on me seize. Oh, art thou rt dead and doubly damned Ah, Blackberry brandy, please! A HARD-LUCK STORY. TUENING THE TABLES. HE hard-up actor sa,w with ioy a friend of his draw near. He needed .fifty bones the chance to get the "bones" was here. His friend had prospered wondrously had diamonds, bonds and that, While he was "stony/ "busted," "broke," and hungry as a rat. UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. 157 "How do, old chap; delighted much to see you," then he said. "Must have fifty quick, old chap ; an aunt of mine is dead. The Potters field will get her, if I can t raise the dough ; So you ll let me have that fifty, for old times sake, I know." "Well, Jack, old boy," his friend replied, "there s not a single thing I would not do for you, old chap, for recollections bring The time when you were good to me, when we were strapped out West ; But I ve got troubles of my own troubles like the rest. I know my season has been good ; I cleared a tidy pile, But for the last few weeks, old chap, my luck s been simply vile. You ve lost an aunt, I ve buried four, my mother s scarce alive ,- Won t last the day." "Too bad," said Jack; "we ll make it twenty-five. " "Twenty-five ! That s kind of you, to put it down so low ; I could have managed that all right, but bout two days ago The baby started yelling, and we got a doctor quick. The kid had pendicitis, and was critically sick. Operation then and there ; had nurses by the score ; Cost me sixteen hundred cold, and may cost that much more. In fact, dear Jack, you can t conceive how hoodooed I have been." "As that s the case," Jack murmured, "suppose we say fif teen "* 158 UNCLE CHARLIE S POEMS. "Fifteen, old boy; that isn t much; a trifle, I ll admit, But you can t realize, old chap, how badly I ve been hit. I bought a house, and paid for it a house that you d ad mire But forgot about insurance, and, of course, the place took fire. Everything we had was burned, my uncle died of shock ; The funeral takes place to-day, at half-past three o clock. Can t pay the undertaker, boy, my grief is just intense." "That s tough, indeed, old boy," said Jack ; "we ll make it fifty cents" ! "Ah, now you re talking, Jack, old boy ; you re getting near the mark, But, as I walked downtown to-day, I came through Central Park; A gang of toughs set on to me, great Scott ! I had a time ; Nearly lost my life, old chap swiped my every dime. I shouted Murder! and Police! till the scoundrels ran away. Haven t got a blessed cent to buy a meal ; and, say, Instead of staking you, old chap, I wish, right now and here, You d hock your coat and pants, dear boy, and go buy me a beer." THE END. ARE YOU IN LOVE? If So, You Should Order At Once COflPILED BY CHARLES NOEL DOUGLAS, 22mo, 16O Pages. Cloth Bound. Price, SO Cents. The most unique, artistic, interesting and valuable book of its kind in existence. Everything the master minds of all ages have sung and written concerning the divine passion can be found in this work, and it is replete with the most exquisite love lyrics, love ballads, and love poems, attuned to each and every mood of the human heart. It contains two thousand literary love gems a very Cupid s treasury and store-house of love. The daintiest, handsomest and most desirable gift book ever placed on the market. An indispensable ad junct to every library, desk, and boudoir. If you want to write to the object of your love and (159) do not know just what to say or how to say it, this book will help you out and be of great value to you. LIST OF SUBJECTS MENTIONED IN THE BOOK. Absence. Affection. Anticipation. Expectation. Attractiveness. Bashfulness. Beauty. Blushes. Bliss. Bride. Caprice. Charm. Confidence. Compliments. Constancy. Coquette. Courtship. Wooing. Cupid. Deceit. Deception. Devotion. Despondency. Destiny. Disappointment. Dreams. Doubt. Emotion. Eyes. Face. Falseness Fickleness. Fancy. Farewell. Parting. Fate. Feeling. Fidelity. Flattery. Flirtation. Forgetfulness. Forgiveness. Frailty. Grace. Grief. Heart. Hope. Husband. Inconstancy. Indifference. Jealousy. Kisses. Lips. Love. Loveliness. Memory. Remembrance. Matrimony. Wedlock. Pity. Eapture. Eecklessness. Eegret. Separation. Serenade. Sincerity. Smiles. Sympathy. Tenderness. Trust. Truth. Unfaithfulness. Valentine. Voice. Wife. Wounds. Yes. Sent by the compiler on receipt of 50 cents (add five cents for mailing), and address all orders to CHARLES NOEL DOUGLAS, 1299 Park Place, Brooklyn, N. Y. (160) UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-17m-8, 55(B3339s4)444 2S THE L1BKA1 tSITY OF CAL1 PS Douglas - ^, 3507 Uncle Charlie s * poems PS 3507