The Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems, by James Whitcomb Riley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Author: James Whitcomb Riley Release Date: February 16, 2005 [EBook #15079] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREEN FIELDS *** Produced by Al Haines GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1893 BY JAMES W. RILEY TO MY SISTERS ELVA AND MARY CONTENTS. PROEM Artemus of Michigan, The As My Uncle Used to Say At Utter Loaf August Autumn Bedouin Being His Mother Blind Blossoms on the Trees, The By Any Other Name By Her White Bed Chant of the Cross-Bearing Child, The Country Pathway, A Cup of Tea, A Curse of the Wandering Foot, The Cyclone, The Dan Paine Dawn, Noon and Dewfall Discouraging Model, A Ditty of No Tone, A Don Piatt of Mac-o-chee Dot Leedle Boy Dream of Autumn, A Elizabeth Envoy Farmer Whipple--Bachelor Full Harvest, A Glimpse of Pan, A Go, Winter Her Beautiful Eyes Hereafter, The His Mother's Way His Vigil Home at Night Home-Going, The Hoodoo, The Hoosier Folk-Child, The How John Quit the Farm Iron Horse, The Iry and Billy and Jo Jack the Giant-Killer Jap Miller John Alden and Percilly John Brown John McKeen Judith June at Woodruff Just to Be Good Last Night--And This Let Us Forget Little Fat Doctor, The Longfellow Lounger, A Monument for the Soldiers, A Mr. What's-His-Name My Friend Nessmuk North and South Old Retired Sea Captain, The Old Winters on the Farm Old Year and the New, The On the Banks o' Deer Crick Out of Nazareth Passing of A Heart, The Plaint Human, The Quarrel, The Quiet Lodger, The Reach Your Hand to Me Right Here at Home Rival, The Rivals, The; or the Showman's Ruse Robert Burns Wilson Rose, The September Dark Shoemaker, The Singer, The Sister Jones's Confession Sleep Some Scattering Remarks of Bub's Song of Long Ago, A Southern Singer, A Suspense Thanksgiving Their Sweet Sorrow Them Flowers To an Importunate Ghost To Hear Her Sing Tom Van Arden To the Serenader Tugg Martin Twins, The Wandering Jew, The Watches of the Night, The Water Color, A We to Sigh Instead of Sing What Chris'mas Fetched the Wigginses When Age Comes On Where-Away While the Musician Played Wife-Blessed, The Wraith of Summertime, A GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS Ho! green fields and running brooks! Knotted strings and fishing-hooks Of the truant, stealing down Weedy backways of the town. Where the sunshine overlooks, By green fields and running brooks, All intruding guests of chance With a golden tolerance, Cooing doves, or pensive pair Of picnickers, straying there-- By green fields and running brooks, Sylvan shades and mossy nooks! And--O Dreamer of the Days, Murmurer of roundelays All unsung of words or books, Sing green fields and running brooks! A COUNTRY PATHWAY. I come upon it suddenly, alone-- A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads. Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, I take the path that leads me as it may-- Its every choice is mine. A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare-- A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and--is not there. Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise. The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me. And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, Allure me even so. Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother ail the stars With which to seek him through that awful night. O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes! So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- My _avant-courier_ must be obeyed! Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there awhile In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- "You dog our country-walks And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- We will not suffer tamely what you do And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sic Our bumble-bees on you!" But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast-- Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips. In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands: Or, the path climbs a boulder--wades a slough-- Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags: Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid. I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air, As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed. Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm. A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge, And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge. In such a solitude my somber way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows--till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom, And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world. And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, Where, like a gem in costly setting held, The old log cabin gleams. * * * * * O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on Adown your valley way, and run before Among the roses crowding up the lawn And thronging at the door,-- And carry up the echo there that shall Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay The household out to greet the prodigal That wanders home to-day. ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK. On the banks o' Deer Crick! There's the place fer me!-- Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be:-- See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky, And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by; Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees-- And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze! Well--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea: On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me! On the banks o' Deer Crick--mild er two from town-- 'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down,-- Like to git up in there--'mongst the sycamores-- And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours: Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line, Where the fish is jes so thick you kin see 'em shine As they flicker round yer bait, _coaxin_' you to jerk, Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as _work_! On the banks o' Deer Crick!--Allus my delight Jes to be around there--take it day er night!-- Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day-- Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way!-- Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight; And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at night-- Stars up through the tree-tops--er in the crick below,-- And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from the old b'y-o! Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to "Johnson's Hole," And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin' pole; Have yer "dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut-and-dry"-- Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye,-- Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade-- Like the Good Book tells us--"where there're none to make afraid!" Well!--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea-- On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me! A DITTY OF NO TONE. _Piped to the Spirit of John Keats._ I. Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise A fitting melody--an air sublime,-- A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze-- The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme: A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of-- Such thoughts as might be hymned To thee from this midsummer land of ours Through shower and sunshine blent for very love. II. Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill Of best-remembered birds hath something new In cadence for the hearing--lingering still Through all the open day that lies beyond; Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks, Majestic still in pathos of decay,-- The road--the wayside pond Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away. III. And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould, Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold, And braid them in the meshes of my song; And with them I would tangle wheat and rye, And wisps of greenest grass the katydid Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily, As harvest-hands went by; And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid, A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee. A WATER-COLOR. Low hidden in among the forest trees An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat-- A little wicker flask tossed into that. A sense of utter carelessness and grace Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene,-- As if the June, all hoydenish of face, Had romped herself to sleep there on the green, And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream Were just romantic parcels of her dream. THE CYCLONE. So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn In conference with themselves.--Intense--intense Seemed everything;--the summer splendor on The sight,--magnificence! A babe's life might not lighter fail and die Than failed the sunlight--Though the hour was noon, The palm of midnight might not lighter lie Upon the brow of June. With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings Of swallows--gone the instant afterward-- While from the elms there came strange twitterings, Stilled scarce ere they were heard. The river seemed to shiver; and, far down Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores Lean inward closer, under the vast frown That weighed above the shores. Then was a roar, born of some awful burst!-- And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path-- Flung--he or I--out of some space accurst As of Jehovah's wrath: Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer, Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done, And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there, The birds sang in the sun. WHERE-AWAY. O the Lands of Where-Away! Tell us--tell us--where are they? Through the darkness and the dawn We have journeyed on and on-- From the cradle to the cross-- From possession unto loss,-- Seeking still, from day to day, For the lands of Where-Away. When our baby-feet were first Planted where the daisies burst, And the greenest grasses grew In the fields we wandered through, On, with childish discontent, Ever on and on we went, Hoping still to pass, some day, O'er the verge of Where-Away. Roses laid their velvet lips On our own, with fragrant sips; But their kisses held us not, All their sweetness we forgot;-- Though the brambles in our track Plucked at us to hold us back-- "Just ahead," we used to say, "Lie the Lands of Where-Away." Children at the pasture-bars, Through the dusk, like glimmering stars, Waved their hands that we should bide With them over eventide: Down the dark their voices failed Falteringly, as they hailed, And died into yesterday-- Night ahead and--Where-Away? Twining arms about us thrown-- Warm caresses, all our own, Can but stay us for a spell-- Love hath little new to tell To the soul in need supreme, Aching ever with the dream Of the endless bliss it may Find in Lands of Where-Away! THE HOME-GOING. We must get home--for we have been away So long it seems forever and a day! And O so very homesick we have grown, The laughter of the world is like a moan In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain,-- We must get home--we must get home again! We must get home: It hurts so, staying here, Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, When most our lack, the least our hope of rest When most our need of joy, the more our pain-- We must get home--we must get home again! We must get home: All is so quiet there: The touch of loving hands on brow and hair-- Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild--- The lost love of the mother and the child Restored in restful lullabies of rain.-- We must get home--we must get home again! We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse, Time humors us and tiptoes through the house, And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, With dreams--not tear-drops--brimming our clenched eyes,-- Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain-- We must get home--we must get home again! We must get home; and, unremembering there All gain of all ambitions otherwhere, Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.-- Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain-- We must get home--we must get home again! HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM. Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on-- And then, I want to say to you, we _needed_ he'p about, As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out! A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!-- The house was small--but plenty-big we found it from the day That John--our only livin' son--packed up and went way. You see, we tuck sich pride in John--his mother more 'n me-- That's natchurul; but _both_ of us was proud as proud could be; Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright, And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight. He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start; And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up to say-- "Jest listen, David!--listen!--Johnny's beat the birds to-day!" High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,-- He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn: He'd ast more plaguey questions in a mortal-minute here Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year! And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell; And "The Childern of the Abbey"--w'y, he knowed that book as well At fifteen as his parents!--and "The Pilgrim's Progress," too-- Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through! At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance-- That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance; And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on, Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone. But--I missed him--w'y of course I did!--The Fall and Winter through I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two, Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin, But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home agin. He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the Sund'y out; And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about: But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than before, And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more. And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh, He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie, And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone; And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own. But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come; But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down, When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in town. "But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course I will," says he.-- "This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer me; I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and gay, "And town's the place fer me, and I'm a-goin' right away!" And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate, A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight. I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so, And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine--and let him go! I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;-- I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's hand, And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand. And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore! With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door, Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more--- Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store! The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write A letter to his mother, savin' that his work was light, And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit-- Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it. And sometimes he would write and ast how _I_ was gittin' on, And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone; And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock, And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk. And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home, Fer business would, of course be dull in town.--But _didn't_ come:-- We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why he staid. And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word-- Exceptin' what the neighbors brung who'd been to town and heard What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher. And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away, And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day! The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit, The wind a-howlin' round the house--it makes me creepy yit! And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the prongs Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs, And Mother sayin', "_David! David!_" in a' undertone, As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown. "I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother said, A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,-- "And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh; And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--" "Who'll eat 'em?" I-says-I. "The cramberries is drippin-sweet," says Mother, runnin' on, P'tendin' not to hear me;--"and somehow I thought of John All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was His favour--he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose he does?" "Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile-- "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!" And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content. "It's _me_," he says--"your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand; Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!" * * * * * * Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on; And then, I want to say to you, we _need_ sich he'p about, As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out! NORTH AND SOUTH. Of the North I wove a dream, All bespangled with the gleam Of the glancing wings of swallows Dipping ripples in a stream, That, like a tide of wine, Wound through lands of shade and shine Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine. And where orchard-boughs were bent Till their tawny fruitage blent With the golden wake that marked the Way the happy reapers went; Where the dawn died into noon As the May-mists into June, And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon. Of the South I dreamed: And there Came a vision clear and fair As the marvelous enchantments Of the mirage of the air; And I saw the bayou-trees, With their lavish draperies, Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees. Peering from lush fens of rice, I beheld the Negro's eyes, Lit with that old superstition Death itself can not disguise; And I saw the palm tree nod Like an oriental god, And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod, And I dreamed that North and South, With a sigh of dew and drouth, Blew each unto the other The salute of lip and mouth; And I wakened, awed and thrilled-- Every doubting murmur stilled In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled. THE IRON HORSE. No song is mine of Arab steed-- My courser is of nobler blood, And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, And greater strength and hardihood Than ever cantered wild and free Across the plains of Araby. Go search the level desert-land From Sana on to Samarcand-- Wherever Persian prince has been Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin, And I defy you there to point Me out a steed the half so fine-- From tip of ear to pastern-joint-- As this old iron horse of mine. You do not know what beauty is-- You do not know what gentleness His answer is to my caress!-- Why, look upon this gait of his,-- A touch upon his iron rein-- He moves with such a stately grace The sunlight on his burnished mane Is barely shaken in its place; And at touch he changes pace, And, gliding backward, stops again. And talk of mettle--Ah! my friend, Such passion smoulders in his breast That when awakened it will send A thrill of rapture wilder than Ere palpitated heart of man When flaming at its mightiest. And there's a fierceness in his ire-- A maddened majesty that leaps Along his veins in blood of fire, Until the path his vision sweeps Spins out behind him like a thread Unraveled from the reel of time, As, wheeling on his course sublime, The earth revolves beneath his tread. Then stretch away, my gallant steed! Thy mission is a noble one: You bear the father to the son, And sweet relief to bitter need; You bear the stranger to his friends; You bear the pilgrim to the shrine, And back again the prayer he sends That God will prosper me and mine,-- The star that on thy forehead gleams Has blossomed in our brightest dreams. Then speed thee on thy glorious race! The mother waits thy ringing pace; The father leans an anxious ear The thunder of thy hoofs to hear; The lover listens, far away, To catch thy keen exultant neigh; And, where thy breathings roll and rise, The husband strains his eager eyes, And laugh of wife and baby-glee Ring out to greet and welcome thee. Then stretch away! and when at last The master's hand shall gently check Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, The world will pat thee on the neck. HIS MOTHER'S WAY Tomps 'ud allus haf to say Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."-- _He_ lived hard-like--never jined Any church of any kind.-- "It was Mother's way," says he, "To be good enough fer _me_ And her too,--and certinly Lord has heerd _her_ pray!" Propped up on his dyin' bed,-- "Shore as Heaven's overhead, I'm a-goin' there," he said--- "It was Mother's way." JAP MILLER. Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit! When _he_ starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!-- 'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts: He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax, And prove the pore man pays 'em all--and them's about the fac's!-- Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball-- Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all. And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer.-- There's where the feller's strength lays,--he's so common-like and plain,-- They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you--nary grain! They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head, And did n't make no differunce what anybody said,-- He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes; But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes. He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last campaign He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain, And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust, And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd! He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know, Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show! And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State! W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun, Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run! Do n't matter what _his_ views is, when he states the same to you, They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two: You _can't_ take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.-- The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does, And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz! A SOUTHERN SINGER. Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls." Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. Such sumptuous languor lures the sense-- Such luxury of indolence-- The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, With water-lilies watching her. You waken, thrilling at the trill Of some wild bird that seems to spill The silence full of winey drips Of song that Fancy sips and sips. Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough The chipmunk stripes himself from view, You pause to lop a creamy spray Of elder-blossoms by the way. Or where the morning dew is yet Gray on the topmost rail, you set A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet Your vaulting shadow in the wheat. On lordly swards, of suave incline, Entessellate with shade and shine, You shall misdoubt your lowly birth, Clad on as one of princely worth: The falcon on your wrist shall ride-- Your milk-white Arab side by side With one of raven-black.--You fain Would kiss the hand that holds the rein. Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer! Sing us back home--from there to here; Grant your high grace and wit, but we Most honor your simplicity.-- Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. A DREAM OF AUTUMN. Mellow hazes, lowly trailing Over wood and meadow, veiling Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing Sailor-like to foreign lands; And the north-wind overleaping Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping Wrecks of roses where the weeping Willows wring their helpless hands. Flared, like Titan torches flinging Flakes of flame and embers, springing From the vale the trees stand swinging In the moaning atmosphere; While in dead'ning-lands the lowing Of the cattle, sadder growing, Fills the sense to overflowing With the sorrow of the year. Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter Sings the brook in rippled meter Under boughs that lithely teeter Lorn birds, answering from the shores Through the viny, shady-shiny Interspaces, shot with tiny Flying motes that fleck the winy Wave-engraven sycamores. Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled Over Harvest's battle-piain; And the sudden whir and whistle Of the quail that, like a missile, Whizzes over thorn and thistle, And, a missile, drops again. Muffled voices, hid in thickets Where the redbird stops to stick its Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets Of the truant's rustic trap; And the sound of laughter ringing Where, within the wild-vine swinging, Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging Purple clusters in her lap. Rich as wine, the sunset flashes Round the tilted world, and dashes Up the sloping west and splashes Red foam over sky and sea-- Till my dream of Autumn, paling In the splendor all-prevailing, Like a sallow leaf goes sailing Down the silence solemnly. TOM VAN ARDEN. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away. There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough. So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?-- Bachelors, we must confess, Boast of "single blessedness" To the world, but not alone-- Man's best sorrow is his own! And the saddest truth is this,-- Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend! Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summertime. When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth, We look back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- "Better to have loved and lost!" Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the glasses while I bend To prod up the failing fire . . . You are restless:--I presume There's a dampness in the room.-- Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs! . . . Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls.-- _Feats of mountebanks, depend_!-- Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the fire-light leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,-- I propose a health to those Who have _homes_, and home's repose, Wife- and child-love without end! . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend. JUST TO BE GOOD. Just to be good-- This is enough--enough! O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, Do we not feel how more than any gold Would be the blameless life we led of old While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss? Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough! It is enough-- Enough--just to be good! To lift our hearts where they are understood; To let the thirst for worldly power and place Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough! HOME AT NIGHT. When chirping crickets fainter cry, And pale stars blossom in the sky, And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom And blurred the butterfly: When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, And up the tiger-lily stalk The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls And glimmers down the garden-walls: When buzzing things, with double wings Of crisp and raspish flutterings, Go whizzing by so very nigh One thinks of fangs and stings:-- O then, within, is stilled the din Of crib she rocks the baby in, And heart and gate and latch's weight Are lifted--and the lips of Kate. THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung-- Unlettered all of mind and tongue; Unmastered, unmolested--made Most wholly frank and unafraid: Untaught of any school--unvexed Of law or creed--all unperplexed-- Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled, An all imperfect-perfect child-- A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you And I do tardy honor to, And so, profane the sanctities Of our most sacred memories. Who, growing thus from boy to man, That dares not be American? Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz-- Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does. The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not Much wider than the stable-lot Between the house and highway fence That bounds the home his father rents. His playmates mostly are the ducks And chickens, and the boy that "shucks Corn by the shock," and talks of town, And whether eggs are "up" or "down," And prophesies in boastful tone Of "owning horses of his own," And "being his own man," and "when He gets to be, what he'll do then."-- Takes out his jack-knife dreamily And makes the Folk-Child two or three Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span Of horses and a little man. The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise And wide and round as Brownies' eyes: The smile they wear is ever blent With all-expectant wonderment,-- On homeliest things they bend a look As rapt as o'er a picture-book, And seem to ask, whate'er befall, The happy reason of it all:-- Why grass is all so glad a green, And leaves--and what their lispings mean;-- Why buds grow on the boughs, and why They burst in blossom by and by-- As though the orchard in the breeze Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_, To lure and whet, as well they might, Some seven-league giant's appetite! The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face Has scant refinement, caste or grace,-- From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, It bears the grimy water-streak Of rinsings such as some long rain Might drool across the window-pane Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, As some lorn team drives by for town. His brow is elfed with wispish hair, With tangles in it here and there, As though the warlocks snarled it so At midmirk when the moon sagged low, And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, And children moaned themselves awake, With fingers clutched, and starting sight Blind as the blackness of the night! The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he In all the wealth of poverty! He owns nor title nor estate, Nor speech but half articulate,-- He owns nor princely robe nor crown;-- Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, He owns the bird-songs of the hills-- The laughter of the April rills; And his are all the diamonds set. In Morning's dewy coronet,-- And his the Dusk's first minted stars That twinkle through the pasture-bars, And litter all the skies at night With glittering scraps of silver light;-- The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, In beaten gold, belongs to him. JACK THE GIANT KILLER. _Bad Boy's Version_. Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':-- Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;" An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows-- Th' horns an' all--an' pigs an' sows! But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh! So awful sharp 'at he could go An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do! An' _one_ ole Gi'nt, he had four Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"-- An' he wuz feered o' Jack--'cause he, _Jack_, he killed six--five--ten--three, An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him: An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim 'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"-- Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door: But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum Clean acrost; an' when he come To th' uther side, he thist put on His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone! You could n't see him at all!--An' so He slewed the "griffuns"--_boff_, you know! Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,-- "Whoever kin this trumput blow Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!" An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed Th' castul-gates wide open, an' Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore," An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!-- Wisht 'at _I'd_ been Jack!--don't you? WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED. O it was but a dream I had While the musician played!-- And here the sky, and here the glad Old ocean kissed the glade-- And here the laughing ripples ran, And here the roses grew That threw a kiss to every man That voyaged with the crew. Our silken sails in lazy folds Drooped in the breathless breeze: As o'er a field of marigolds Our eyes swam o'er the seas; While here the eddies lisped and purled Around the island's rim, And up from out the underworld We saw the mermen swim. And it was dawn and middle-day And midnight--for the moon On silver rounds across the bay Had climbed the skies of June-- And there the glowing, glorious king Of day ruled o'er his realm, With stars of midnight glittering About his diadem. The seagull reeled on languid wing In circles round the mast, We heard the songs the sirens sing As we went sailing past; And up and down the golden sands A thousand fairy throngs Flung at us from their flashing hands The echoes of their songs. O it was but a dream I had While the musician played-- For here the sky, and here the glad Old ocean kissed the glade; And here the laughing ripples ran, And here the roses grew That threw a kiss to every man That voyaged with the crew. AUGUST. A day of torpor in the sullen heat Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, With drowsy eyes, and dream. Long since the winds have died, and in the sky There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; The sun glares ever like an evil eye, And withers flower and leaf. Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote The thresher lies deserted, like some old Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat Upon a sea of gold. The yearning cry of some bewildered bird Above an empty nest, and truant boys Along the river's shady margin heard-- A harmony of noise-- A melody of wrangling voices blent With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent To mimic waterfalls. And through the hazy veil the atmosphere Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, The sifted glances of the sun appear In splinterings of spray. The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on His journey to the sky. And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade. The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes: Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night. TO HEAR HER SING. To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays. It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whip-poor-will At dusk, when stars are blossoming-- To hear her sing--to hear her sing! To hear her sing--it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or grassy lane Our feet may never fare again. Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything-- The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say. The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than classic streams-- The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. To hear her sing--with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.-- To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her--to hear her sing! BEING HIS MOTHER. Being his mother--when he goes away I would not hold him overlong, and so Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay, Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow; Let his remembered features, as I pray, Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: Its fullest speech ever to be denied Mine own--being his mother! All thereof Thou knowest only, looking from the skies As when not Christ alone was crucified. JUNE AT WOODRUFF. Out at Woodruff Place--afar From the city's glare and jar, With the leafy trees, instead Of the awnings, overhead; With the shadows cool and sweet, For the fever of the street; With the silence, like a prayer, Breathing round us everywhere. Gracious anchorage, at last, From the billows of the vast Tide of life that comes and goes, Whence and where nobody knows-- Moving, like a skeptic's thought, Out of nowhere into naught. Touch and tame us with thy grace, Placid calm of Woodruff Place! Weave a wreath of beechen leaves For the brow that throbs and grieves O'er the ledger, bloody-lined, 'Neath the sun-struck window-blind! Send the breath of woodland bloom Through the sick man's prison room, Till his old farm-home shall swim Sweet in mind to hearten him! Out at Woodruff Place the Muse Dips her sandal in the dews, Sacredly as night and dawn Baptize lilied grove and lawn: Woody path, or paven way-- She doth haunt them night and day,-- Sun or moonlight through the trees, To her eyes, are melodies. Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear Through night-scenes, are songs to her-- Tinted lilts and choiring hues, Blent with children's glad halloos; Then belated lays that fade Into midnight's serenade-- Vine-like words and zithern-strings Twined through ali her slumberings. Blessed be each hearthstone set Neighboring the violet! Blessed every rooftree prayed Over by the beech's shadel Blessed doorway, opening where We may look on Nature--there Hand to hand and face to face-- Storied realm, or Woodruff Place. FARMER WHIPPLE.--BACHELOR. It's a mystery to see me--a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more-- A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day! I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate A little in beginning so's to set the matter straight As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife-- Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life! I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five-- Three brothers and a sister--I'm the only one alive,-- Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise. The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat-- We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! But someway we sort o' _suited_-like! and Mother she'd declare She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair Than _we_ was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!-- W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve! I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride In thinkin' all depended on _me_ now to pervide Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place With sleeves rolled up--and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.-- Fer _sompin' else_ was workin'! but not a word I said Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,-- "Someday I'd mayby marry, and _a brother's_ love was one Thing--a _lover's_ was another!" was the way the notion run! I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done-- When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one-- I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day-- A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way! And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane: I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain Well--when she turned and _kissed_ me, _with her arm around me--law_! I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw! I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fac', They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a almanack-- Er _somers_--'bout "puore happiness"--perhaps some folks'll laugh At the idy--"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."-- But its jest as true as preachin'!--fer that was a sister's kiss, And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:-- "_She_ was happy, _bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown_."-- And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down! I don't know how I acted--I don't know _what_ I said, Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; And the hosses kind o' glimmered before me in the road, And the lines fell from my fingers--and that was all I knowed-- Fer--well, I don't know how long--They's a dim rememberence Of a sound o' snortin' bosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where _I_ was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round! And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague Sort o' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg. Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, And wonder what was left _me_ worth livin' fer below, When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know! And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind When Brown and Mary married--Railly must a-been my _mind_ Was kindo' out o' kilter!--fer I hated Brown, you see, Worse'n _pizen_--and the feller whittled crutches out fer _me_-- And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respec'-- And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one. Then I went to work in airnest--I had nothin' much in view But to drownd out rickollections--and it kep' me busy, too! But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. Then I'd think how little _money_ was, compared to happiness-- And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near! Well!--A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand Astin' how I 'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land-- "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"-- And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."-- I'd never been West, anyhow--a most too wild fer me, I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town Said I'd find myself mistakend when I come to look around. So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again-- And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, I think it's more 'n likely she'd a-went along with me! Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! But finally they called out my stopping-place at last: And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train O' cars, and _skeered_ at sumpin', runnin' down a country lane! Well, in the mornin' airly--after huntin' up the man-- The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land-- We started fer the country;' and I ast the history Of the farm--its former owner--and so-forth, etcetery! And--well--it was _interestin'_--I su'prised him, I suppose, By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!-- But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder more, When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!-- _It was Mary_: They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here-- Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.-- It was with us in that meeting I don't want you to fergit! And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit! I _bought_ that farm, and _deeded_ it, afore I left the town, With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! And fu'thermore, I took her and _the childern_--fer you see, They'd never seed their Grandma--and I fetched 'em home with me. So _now_ you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more, Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!--And I've jest come into town To git a pair o' license fer to _marry_ Mary Brown. DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL. I. Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'! Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin' I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fishin'! II. On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover: Fish all out a visitin'--'cept some dratted minnor! Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner. III. Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin' In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':-- Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me! And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me! NESSMUK. I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry! True forester thou art, and still to be, Even in happier fields than thou hast known. Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown Of groves delectable--"preserves" for thee-- Ranged but by friends of thine--I name thee three:-- First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should. AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY. I've thought a power on men and things, As my uncle ust to say,-- And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings! W'y, they ain't no use to pray! Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_, As my uncle ust to say. They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, As my uncle ust to say, And yit don't waste no candle-grease, Ner whistle their lives away! But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme No ringin' song fer to last all time, They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, As my uncle ust to say. Whoever's Foreman of all things here, As my uncle ust to say, He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, And our round-up, night and day: And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, And north and south, and worst and best I ain't got nothin' to suggest, As my uncle ust to say. THE SINGER. While with Ambition's hectic flame He wastes the midnight oil, And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, To rest him from his toil,-- Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, Above him spreads her wings, And fans the embers of his lips To ashes as he sings. A FULL HARVEST. Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho', And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?-- And watch that little reaper wadin' thue That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground-- Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around The field--like it had nothin' else to do On'y jes' waste it all on me and you! BLIND. You think it is a sorry thing That I am blind. Your pitying Is welcome to me; yet indeed, I think I have but little need Of it. Though you may marvel much That _we_, who see by sense of touch And taste and hearing, see things _you_ May never look upon; and true Is it that even in the scent Of blossoms _we_ find something meant No eyes have in their faces read, Or wept to see interpreted. And you might think it strange if now I told you you were smiling. How Do I know that? I hold your hand-- _Its_ language I can understand-- Give both to me, and I will show You many other things I know. Listen: We never met before Till now?--Well, you are something lower Than five-feet-eight in height; and you Are slender; and your eyes are blue-- Your mother's eyes--your mother's hair-- Your mother's likeness everywhere Save in your walk--and that is quite Your father's; nervous.--Am I right? I thought so. And you used to sing, But have neglected everything Of vocalism--though you may Still thrum on the guitar, and play A little on the violin,-- I know that by the callous in The finger-tips of your left hand-- And, by-the-bye, though nature planned You as most men, you are, I see, "_Left_-handed," too,--the mystery Is clear, though,--your right arm has been Broken, to "break" the left one in. And so, you see, though blind of sight, I still have ways of seeing quite Too well for you to sympathize Excessively, with your good eyes.-- Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere, Within the whole asylum here, From cupola to basement hall, I was the blindest of them all! Let us move further down the walk-- The man here waiting hears my talk, And is disturbed; besides, he may Not be quite friendly anyway. In fact--(this will be far enough; Sit down)--the man just spoken of Was once a friend of mine. He came For treatment here from Burlingame-- A rich though brilliant student there, Who read his eyes out of repair, And groped his way up here, where we Became acquainted, and where he Met one of our girl-teachers, and, If you 'll believe me, asked her hand In marriage, though the girl was blind As I am--and the girl _declined_. Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he? And handsome, eloquently wide And high of brow, and dignified With every outward grace, his sight Restored to him, clear and bright As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still For the blind girl that never will Be wife of his. How do I know? You will recall a while ago I told you he and I were friends. In all that friendship comprehends, I was his friend, I swear! why now, Remembering his love, and how His confidence was all my own, I hear, in fancy, the low tone Of his deep voice, so full of pride And passion, yet so pacified With his affliction, that it seems An utterance sent out of dreams Of saddest melody, withal So sorrowfully musical It was, and is, must ever be-- But I'm digressing, pardon me. _I_ knew not anything of love In those days, but of that above All worldly passion,--for my art-- Music,--and that, with all my heart And soul, blent in a love too great For words of mine to estimate. And though among my pupils she Whose love my friend sought came to me I only knew her fingers' touch Because they loitered overmuch In simple scales, and needs must be Untangled almost constantly. But she was bright in other ways, And quick of thought, with ready plays Of wit, and with a voice as sweet To listen to as one might meet In any oratorio-- And once I gravely told her so,-- And, at my words, her limpid tone Of laughter faltered to a moan, And fell from that into a sigh That quavered all so wearily, That I, without the tear that crept Between the keys, had known she wept; And yet the hand I reached for then She caught away, and laughed again. And when that evening I strolled With my old friend, I, smiling, told Him I believed the girl and he Were matched and mated perfectly: He was so noble; she, so fair Of speech, and womanly of air; He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild And artless even as a child; And with a nature, I was sure, As worshipful as it was pure And sweet, and brimmed with tender things Beyond his rarest fancyings. He stopped me solemnly. He knew, He said, how good, and just, and true Was all I said of her; but as For his own virtues, let them pass, Since they were nothing to the one That he had set his heart upon; For but that morning she had turned Forever from him. Then I learned That for a month he had delayed His going from us, with no aid Of hope to hold him,--meeting still Her ever firm denial, till Not even in his new-found sight He found one comfort or delight. And as his voice broke there, I felt The brother-heart within me melt In warm compassion for his own That throbbed so utterly alone. And then a sudden fancy hit Along my brain; and coupling it With a belief that I, indeed, Might help my friend in his great need, I warmly said that I would go Myself, if he decided so, And see her for him--that I knew My pleadings would be listened to Most seriously, and that she Should love him, listening to me. Go; bless me! And that was the last-- The last time his warm hand shut fast Within my own--so empty since, That the remembered finger-prints I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet Them with the tears of all regret! I know not how to rightly tell How fared my quest, and what befell Me, coming in the presence of That blind girl, and her blinder love. I know but little else than that Above the chair in which she sat I leant--reached for, and found her hand, And held it for a moment, and Took up the other--held them both-- As might a friend, I will take oath: Spoke leisurely, as might a man Praying for no thing other than He thinks Heaven's justice;--She was blind, I said, and yet a noble mind Most truly loved her; one whose fond Clear-sighted vision looked beyond The bounds of her infirmity, And saw the woman, perfectly Modeled, and wrought out pure and true And lovable. She quailed, and drew Her hands away, but closer still I caught them. "Rack me as you will!" She cried out sharply--"Call me 'blind'-- Love ever is--I am resigned! Blind is your friend; as blind as he Am I--but blindest of the three-- Yea, blind as death--you will not see My love for you is killing me!" There is a memory that may Not ever wholly fade away From out my heart, so bright and fair The light of it still glimmers there. Why, it did seem as though my sight Flamed back upon me, dazzling white And godlike. Not one other word Of hers I listened for or heard, But I _saw_ songs sung in her eyes Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, As my mad lips did strike her own And we flashed one and one alone! Ah! was it treachery for me To kneel there, drinking eagerly That torrent-flow of words that swept Out laughingly the tears she wept?-- Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe, Than light of day to those that see,-- God knows, who did the rapture send To me, and hold it from my friend. And we were married half a year Ago,--and he is--waiting here, Heedless of that--or anything, But just that he is lingering To say good-bye to her, and bow-- As you may see him doing now,-- For there's her footstep in the hall; God bless her!--help him!--save us all! RIGHT HERE AT HOME. Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom, Where strangers allus joke us when they come, And brag o' _their_ old States and interprize-- Yit _settle_ here; and 'fore they realize, They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive! Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, Fer me and you and plain old happiness: We hear the World's lots grander--likely so,-- We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.-- We know _its_ ways aint _our_ ways--so we'll stay Right here at home, boys, where we know the way. Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do Man's plenty rich enough--and knows it, too, And's got a' extry dollar, any time, To boost a feller up 'at _wants_ to climb And 's got the git-up in him to go in And _git there_, like he purt'-nigh allus kin! Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!-- Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; And where a _common_ feller's jes as good As ary other in the neighborhood: The World at large don't worry you and me Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be! Right here at home, boys--jes right where we air!-- Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere: Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,-- All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, Right here at home, boys, ef we _size_ 'em right. Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled And kissed us--dyin' so and rickonciled, Seein' us all at home here--none astray-- Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day. THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR. He seemed so strange to me, every way-- In manner, and form, and size, From the boy I knew but yesterday,-- I could hardly believe my eyes! To hear his name called over there, My memory thrilled with glee And leaped to picture him young and fair In youth, as he used to be. But looking, only as glad eyes can, For the boy I knew of yore, I smiled on a portly little man I had never seen before!-- Grave as a judge in courtliness-- Professor-like and bland-- A little fat doctor and nothing less, With his hat in his kimboed hand. But how we talked old times, and "chaffed" Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"--- And how the little fat doctor laughed, And how I laughed with him! "And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see The face of the youth that was, To know no boy could smile on me As the little fat doctor does!" THE SHOEMAKER. Thou Poet, who, like any lark, Dost whet thy beak and trill From misty morn till murky dark, Nor ever pipe thy fill: Hast thou not, in thy cheery note, One poor chirp to confer-- One verseful twitter to devote Unto the Shoe-ma-ker? At early dawn he doth peg in His noble work and brave; And eke from cark and wordly sin He seeketh soles to save; And all day long, with quip and song, Thus stitcheth he the way Our feet may know the right from wrong, Nor ever go a stray. Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker, Nor slight his lasting fame: Alway he waxeth tenderer In warmth of our acclaim;-- Aye, more than any artisan We glory in his art Who ne'er, to help the under man, Neglects the upper part. But toe the mark for him, and heel Respond to thee in kine-- Or kid--or calf, shouldst thou reveal A taste so superfine: Thus let him jest--join in his laugh-- Draw on his stock, and be A shoer'd there's no rival half Sole liberal as he. Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker For all his goodly deeds,-- Yea, bless him free for booting thee-- The first of all thy needs! And when at last his eyes grow dim, And nerveless drops his clamp, In golden shoon pray think of him Upon his latest tramp. THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN. The old sea captain has sailed the seas So long, that the waves at mirth, Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, Were as near playmates from birth: He has loved both the storm and the calm, because They seemed as his brothers twain,-- The flapping sail was his soul's applause, And his rapture, the roaring main. But now--like a battered hulk seems he, Cast high on a foreign strand, Though he feels "in port," as it need must be, And the stay of a daughter's hand-- Yet ever the round of the listless hours,-- His pipe, in the languid air-- The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers, And the strange earth everywhere! And so betimes he is restless here In this little inland town, With never a wing in the atmosphere But the wind-mill's, up and down; His daughter's home in this peaceful vale, And his grandchild 'twixt his knees-- But never the hail of a passing sail, Nor the surge of the angry seas! He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck-- Would speak, though he coughs instead, Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck With a reeling mast o'erhead! Ho! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm, And his eyes gleam grim and weird, As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm, In the cloud of his beetling beard. ROBERT BURNS WILSON. What intuition named thee?--Through what thrill Of the awed soul came the command divine Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine Should palpitate with his whose raptures will Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill Their undulating ways up through the fine Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised His voice therein, and, quit of every stress Of earthly ache and longing and despair, Knew certainly each simple thing he praised Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, Than any joy of all the glory There. TO THE SERENADER. Tinkle on, O sweet guitar, Let the dancing fingers Loiter where the low notes are Blended with the singer's: Let the midnight pour the moon's Mellow wine of glory Down upon him through the tune's Old romantic story! I am listening, my love, Through the cautious lattice, Wondering why the stars above All are blinking at us; Wondering if his eyes from there Catch the moonbeam's shimmer As it lights the robe I wear With a ghostly glimmer. Lilt thy song, and lute away In the wildest fashion:-- Pour thy rippling roundelay O'er the heights of passion!-- Flash it down the fretted strings Till thy mad lips, missing All but smothered whisperings, Press this rose I'm kissing. THE WIFE-BLESSED. I. In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, Lorn-faced and long of hair-- In youth--in youth he painted her A sister of the air-- Could clasp her not, but felt the stir Of pinions everywhere. II. She lured his gaze, in braver days, And tranced him sirenwise; And he did paint her, through a haze Of sullen paradise, With scars of kisses on her face And embers in her eyes. III. And now--nor dream nor wild conceit-- Though faltering, as before-- Through tears he paints her, as is meet, Tracing the dear face o'er With lilied patience meek and sweet As Mother Mary wore. SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION. I thought the deacon liked me, yit I warn't adzackly shore of it-- Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, When jiners 'ud be comin' in, I'd seed him shakin' hands as free With all the sistern as with me! But jurin' last Revival, where He called on _me_ to lead in prayer, An' kneeled there with me, side by side, A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"-- That settled things as fur as them- Thare other wimmin was concerned!-- And--well!--I know I must a-turned A dozen colors!--_Flurried_?--_la_!-- No mortal sinner never saw A gladder widder than the one A-kneelin' there and wonderun' Who'd pray'--So glad, upon my word, I railly could n't thank the Lord! THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT. All hope of rest withdrawn me?-- What dread command hath put This awful curse upon me-- The curse of the wandering foot! Forward and backward and thither, And hither and yon again-- Wandering ever! And whither? Answer them, God! Amen. The blue skies are far o'er me--- The bleak fields near below: Where the mother that bore me?-- Where her grave in the snow?-- Glad in her trough of a coffin-- The sad eyes frozen shut That wept so often, often, The curse of the wandering foot! Here in your marts I care not Whatsoever ye think. Good folk many who dare not Give me to eat and drink: Give me to sup of your pity-- Feast me on prayers!--O ye, Met I your Christ in the city He would fare forth with me-- Forward and onward and thither, And hither again and yon, With milk for our drink together And honey to feed upon-- Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, Since the one Father put The blessed curse upon us-- The curse of the wandering foot. A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. A monument for the Soldiers! And what will ye build it of? Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, Outlasting the Soldiers' love? Can ye glorify it with legends As grand as their blood hath writ From the inmost shrine of this land of thine To the outermost verge of it? And the answer came: We would build it Out of our hopes made sure, And out of our purest prayers and tears, And out of our faith secure: We would build it out of the great white truths Their death hath sanctified, And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, And their faces ere they died. And what heroic figures Can the sculptor carve in stone? Can the marble breast be made to bleed, And the marble lips to moan? Can the marble brow be fevered? And the marble eyes be graved To look their last, as the flag floats past, On the country they have saved? And the answer came: The figures Shall all be fair and brave, And, as befitting, as pure and white As the stars above their grave! The marble lips, and breast and brow Whereon the laurel lies, Bequeath us right to guard the flight Of the old flag in the skies! A monument for the Soldiers! Built of a people's love, And blazoned and decked and panoplied With the hearts ye build it oft And see that ye build it stately, In pillar and niche and gate, And high in pose as the souls of those It would commemorate! THE RIVAL. I so loved once, when Death came by I hid Away my face, And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid To make my hiding-place. The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and I turned me then To calm my love--kiss down her shielding hand And comfort her again. And lo! she answered not: And she did sit All fixedly, With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, In love with Death, not me. IRY AND BILLY AND JO. Iry an' Billy an' Jo!-- Iry an' Billy's _the boys_, An' _Jo's_ their _dog_, you know,-- Their pictures took all in a row. Bet they kin kick up a noise-- Iry and Billy, the boys, And that-air little dog Jo! _Iry's_ the one 'at stands Up there a-lookin' so mild An' meek--with his hat in his hands, Like such a 'bediant child-- (_Sakes-alive_!)--An' _Billy_ he sets In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' _sweats_ Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good! Ho-ho! Iry an' Billy an' Jo! Yit the way them boys, you know, Usen to jes turn in An' fight over that dog Jo Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin !-- Iry _he'd_ argy 'at, by gee-whizz! That-air little Jo-dog wuz _his_!-- An' Billy _he'd_ claim it wuzn't so-- 'Cause the dog wuz _his'n_!--An' at it they'd go, Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know-- Iry an' Billy an' Jo! But their Pa--(He wuz the marshal then) He 'tended-like 'at he _jerked 'em up_; An' got a jury o' Brickyard men An' helt a _trial_ about the pup: An' _he_ says _he_ jes like to a-died When the rest o' us town-boys _testified_-- Regardin', you know, Iry an' Billy an' Jo.-- 'Cause we all knowed, when _the Gypsies_ they Camped down here by the crick last Fall, They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all!-- So the jury fetched in the _verdick_ so Jo he ain't _neether_ o' theirn fer _shore_-- He's _both_ their dog, an' jes no more! An' so They've quit quarrelin' long ago, Iry an' Billy an' Jo. A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME. In its color, shade and shine, 'T was a summer warm as wine, With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine, And a fragrance and a taste Of ripe roses gone to waste, And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced. 'Twas a summer such as broods O'er enchanted solitudes, Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods, And with lavish love out-pours All the wealth of out-of-doors, And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors. 'Twas a summertime long dead,-- And its roses, white and red, And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed,-- O they all are ghostly things-- For the ripple never sings, And the rocking lily never even rustles as it rings! HER BEAUTIFUL EYES. O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run: As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies-- So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes. And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me, When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies-- So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne; And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise-- So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes. DOT LEEDLE BOY. Ot's a leedle Christmas story Dot I told der leedle folks-- Und I vant you stop dot laughin' Und grackin' funny jokes'-- So-help me Peter-Moses! Ot's no time for monkeyshine', Ober I vas told you somedings Of dot leedle boy of mine! Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder, Ven der snow vas all about-- Dot you have to chop der hatchet Eef you got der saur kraut! Und der cheekens on der hind-leg Vas standin' in der shine Der sun shmile out dot morning On dot leedle boy of mine. He vas yoost a leedle baby Not bigger as a doll Dot time I got acquaintet-- Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!-- I grackys! dot's der moosic Ot make me feel so fine Ven first I vas been marriet-- Oh, dot leedle boy of mine! He look' yoost like his fader!-- So, ven der vimmen said "Vot a purty leedle baby!" Katrina shake der head. I dink she must a-notice Dot der baby vas a-gryin', Und she cover up der blankets Of dot leedle boy of mine. Vel, ven he vas got bigger, Dot he grawl und bump his nose, Und make der table over, Und molasses on his glothes-- Dot make 'im all der sveeter,-- So I say to my Katrine "Better you vas quit a-shpankin' Dot leedle boy of mine!" I vish you could a-seen id-- Ven he glimb up on der chair Und shmash der lookin' glasses Ven he try to comb his hair Mit a hammer!--Und Katrina Say "Dot's an ugly sign!" But I laugh und vink my fingers At dot leedle boy of mine. But vonce, dot Vinter morning, He shlip out in der snow Mitout no stockin's on 'im.-- He say he "vant to go Und fly some mit der birdies!" Und ve give 'im medi-cine Ven he catch der "parrygoric"-- Dot leedle boy of mine! Und so I set und nurse 'im, Vile der Christmas vas come roun', Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle," How he come der chimbly down: Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im Eef he bring 'im someding fine? "_Nicht besser as mein fader_," Say dot leedle boy of mine.-- Und he put his arms aroun' me Und hug so close und tight, I hear der gclock a-tickin' All der balance of der night! . . . Someding make me feel so funny Ven I say to my Katrine "Let us go und fill der stockin's Of dot leedle boy of mine." Veil.--Ve buyed a leedle horses Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, Und a leedle fancy jay-bird-- Eef you vant to hear 'im sing You took 'im by der top-knot Und yoost blow in behine-- Und dot make much _spectakel_-- For dot leedle boy of mine! Und gandles, nuts and raizens-- Unt I buy a leedle drum Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle Ven der Gristmas morning come! Und a leedle shmall tin rooster Dot vould crow so loud und fine Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning, Dot leedle boy of mine! Und--vile ve vas a-fixin'-- Dot leedle boy vake out! I fought he been a-dreamin' "Kriss Kringle" vas about,-- For he say--"_Dot's him!--I see 'im_ _Mit der shtars dot make der shine_!" Und he yoost keep on a-gryin'-- Dot leedle boy of mine,-- Und gottin' vorse und vorser-- Und tumble on der bed! So--ven der doctor seen id, He kindo' shake his head, Und feel his pulse--und visper "Der boy is a-dyin'." You dink I could _believe_ id?-- _Dot leedle boy of mine_? I told you, friends--dot's someding, Der last time dot he speak Und say "_Goot-bye, Kriss Kringle_!" --Dot make me feel so veak I yoost kneel down und drimble, Und bur-sed out a-gryin' "_Mein Goit, mein Gott im Himmel_!-- _Dot leedle boy, of mine_!" * * * * * Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas! . . . Eef dot leedle boy vould _liff'd_-- No deefer-en'! for Heaven vas His leedle Gristmas-gift! . . . Und der rooster, und der _gandy_, Und me--und my Katrine-- Und der jay-bird--is a-vaiting For dot leedle boy of mine. DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE. Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,-- Not the one of History, Who, with flaming tongue and pen, Scathes the vanities of men; Not the one whose biting wit Cuts pretense and etches it On the brazen brow that dares Filch the laurel that it wears: Not the Donn Piatt whose praise Echoes in the noisy ways Of the faction, onward led By the statesman!--But, instead, Give the simple man to me,-- Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! II. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! Branches of the old oak tree, Drape him royally in fine Purple shade and golden shine! Emerald plush of sloping lawn Be the throne he sits upon! And, O Summer sunset, thou Be his crown, and gild a brow Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed By the breezes, mellow-palmed As Erata's white hand agleam On the forehead of a dream.-- So forever rule o'er me, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! III. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee: Through a lilied memory Plays the wayward little creek Round thy home at hide-and-seek-- As I see and hear it, still Romping round the wooded hill, Till its laugh-and-babble blends With the silence while it sends Glances back to kiss the sight, In its babyish delight, Ere it strays amid the gloom Of the glens that burst in bloom Of the rarest rhyme for thee, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! IV. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! What a darling destiny Has been mine--to meet him there-- Lolling in an easy chair On the terrace, while he told Reminiscences of old-- Letting my cigar die out, Hearing poems talked about; And entranced to hear him say Gentle things of Thackeray, Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, Known to him as host and guest-- Known to him as he to me-- Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! THEM FLOWERS. Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf, All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore-- Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself With a stiff upper-lip any more; Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room As dark as the tomb, and as grim, And then take and send him some roses in bloom, And you can have fun out o' him! You've ketched him 'fore now--when his liver was sound And his appetite notched like a saw-- A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round With a big posy-bunch in yer paw; But you ketch him, say, when his health is away, And he's flat on his back in distress, And _then_ you kin trot out yer little bokay And not be insulted, I guess! You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is,-- Them flowers makes him think of the days Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his, And the roses that _she_ us't to raise:-- So here, all alone with the roses you send-- Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint,-- My eyes is--my eyes is--my eyes is--old friend-- Is a-leakin'--I'm blamed ef they ain't! THE QUIET LODGER. The man that rooms next door to me: Two weeks ago, this very night, He took possession quietly, As any other lodger might-- But why the room next mine should so Attract him I was vexed to know,-- Because his quietude, in fine, Was far superior to mine. "Now, I like quiet, truth to tell, A tranquil life is sweet to me-- But _this_," I sneered, "suits me too well.-- He shuts his door so noiselessly, And glides about so very mute, In each mysterious pursuit, His silence is oppressive, and Too deep for me to understand." Sometimes, forgetting book or pen, I've found my head in breathless poise Lifted, and dropped in shame again, Hearing some alien ghost of noise-- Some smothered sound that seemed to be A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly, Or the crisp writhings of some quire Of manuscript thrust in the fire. Then I have climbed, and closed in vain My transom, opening in the hall; Or close against the window-pane Have pressed my fevered face,--but all The day or night without held not A sight or sound or counter-thought To set my mind one instant free Of this man's silent mastery. And often I have paced the floor With muttering anger, far at night, Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er, The muffled noises, and the light And tireless movements of this guest Whose silence raged above my rest Hoarser than howling storms at sea-- The man that rooms next door to me. But twice or thrice, upon the stair, I've seen his face--most strangely wan,-- Each time upon me unaware He came--smooth'd past me, and was gone. So like a whisper he went by, I listened after, ear and eye, Nor could my chafing fancy tell The meaning of one syllable. Last night I caught him, face to face,-- He entering his room, and I Glaring from mine: He paused a space And met my scowl all shrinkingly, But with full gentleness: The key Turned in his door--and I could see It tremblingly withdrawn and put Inside, and then--the door was shut. Then silence. _Silence_!--why, last night The silence was tumultuous, And thundered on till broad daylight;-- O never has it stunned me thus!-- It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet.-- Ah, God! how loud may silence get When man mocks at a brother man Who answers but as silence can! The silence grew, and grew, and grew, Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard Throughout the house; and men flocked through The echoing halls, with faces blurred With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe, And shuddering at what they saw-- The quiet lodger, as he lay Stark of the life he cast away. * * * * * So strange to-night--those voices there, Where all so quiet was before; They say the face has not a care Nor sorrow in it any more-- His latest scrawl:--"Forgive me--You Who prayed, 'they know not what they do!'" My tears wilt never let me see This man that rooms next door to me! THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. O the waiting in the watches of the night! In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright; The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight: The ever weary memory that ever weary goes Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows-- The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose-- In the dreary, weary watches of the night! Dark--stifling dark--the watches of the night! With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight!-- What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought that may not be redressed-- Of tears we did not brush away--of lips we left unpressed, And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed! Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night! What solace in the watches of the night?-- What frailest staff of hope to stay--what faintest shaft of light? Do we _dream_ and dare _believe_ it, that by never weight of right Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last-- Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past, In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom that flees aghast-- Shall we survive the watches of the night? One leads us through the watches of the night-- By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might;-- With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears, Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears, And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears In the waning of the watches of the night. HIS VIGIL. Close the book and dim the light, I shall read no more to-night. No--I am not sleepy, dear-- Do not go: sit by me here In the darkness and the deep Silence of the watch I keep. Something in your presence so Soothes me--as in long ago I first felt your hand--as now-- In the darkness touch my brow; I've no other wish than you Thus should fold mine eyelids to, Saying nought of sigh or tear-- Just as God were sitting here. THE PLAINT HUMAN Season of snows, and season of flowers, Seasons of loss and gain!-- Since grief and joy must alike be ours, Why do we still complain? Ever our failing, from sun to sun, O my intolerent brother:-- We want just a little too little of one, And much too much of the other. BY ANY OTHER NAME. First the teacher called the roll, Clos't to the beginnin', "Addeliney Bowersox!" Set the school a-grinnin'. Wintertime, and stingin'-cold When the session took up-- Cold as _we_ all looked at _her_, Though _she_ couldn't look up! Total stranger to us, too-- Country-folks ain't allus Nigh so shameful unpolite As some people call us!-- But the honest facts is, _then_, Addeliney Bower- Sox's feelin's was so hurt She cried half an hour! My dest was acrost from her 'n: Set and watched her tryin' To p'tend she didn't keer, And a kind o' dryin' Up her tears with smiles---tel I Thought, "Well, '_Addeliney Bowersox_' is plain, but _she's_ Purty as a piney!" It's be'n many of a year Sence that most oncommon Cur'ous name o' _Bowersox_ Struck me so abomin- Nubble and outlandish-like!-- I changed it to Adde- Liney _Daubenspeck_--and _that_ Nearly killed her Daddy! TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST. Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost! Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin Impalpable transparency of grin; And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin, And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast That I am _helpless_ to combat thee! Well, Have at thee, then! Yet if a doom most dire Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst!--Revile Me not, Miasmic Mist!--Rank Air! _retire_! One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll _Inhale_ thee, O thou wraith despicable! THE QUARREL. They faced each other: Topaz-brown And lambent burnt her eyes and shot Sharp flame at his of amethyst.-- "I hate you! Go, and be forgot As death forgets!" their glitter _hissed_ (So _seemed_ it) in their hatred. Ho! Dared any mortal front her so?-- Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down-- Tense nostril, mouth--no muscle slack,-- And black--the suffocating black-- The stifling blackness of her frown! Ah! but the lifted face of her! And the twitched lip and tilted head! Yet he did neither wince nor stir,-- Only--his hands clenched; and, instead Of words, he answered with a stare That stammered not in aught it said, As might his voice if trusted there. And what--what spake his steady gaze?-- Was there a look that harshly fell To scoff her?--or a syllable Of anger?--or the bitter phrase That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, Or curdles blood as poison drips? What made their breasts to heave and swell As billows under bows of ships In broken seas on stormy days? We may not know--nor _they_ indeed-- What mercy found them in their need. A sudden sunlight smote the gloom; And round about them swept a breeze, With faint breaths as of clover-bloom; A bird was heard, through drone of bees,-- Then, far and clear and eerily, A child's voice from an orchard-tree-- Then laughter, sweet as the perfume Of lilacs, could the hearing see. And he--O Love! he fed thy name On bruised kisses, while her dim Deep eyes, with all their inner flame, Like drowning gems were turned on him. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. I. As one in sorrow looks upon The dead face of a loyal friend, By the dim light of New Year's dawn I saw the Old Year end. Upon the pallid features lay The dear old smile--so warm and bright Ere thus its cheer had died away In ashes of delight. The hands that I had learned to love With strength of passion half divine, Were folded now, all heedless of The emptiness of mine. The eyes that once had shed their bright Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, And ever lidded from the light That made them beautiful. II. The chimes of bells were in the air, And sounds of mirth in hall and street, With pealing laughter everywhere And throb of dancing feet: The mirth and the convivial din Of revelers in wanton glee, With tunes of harp and violin In tangled harmony. But with a sense of nameless dread, I turned me, from the merry face Of this newcomer, to my dead; And, kneeling there a space, I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:-- By this dear face so fixed and cold, O Lord, let not this New Year be As happy as the old! THE HEREAFTER. Hereafter! O we need not waste Our smiles or tears, whatever befall: No happiness but holds a taste Of something sweeter, after all;-- No depth of agony but feels Some fragment of abiding trust,-- Whatever death unlocks or seals, The mute beyond is just. JOHN BROWN. Writ in between the lines of his life-deed We trace the sacred service of a heart Answering the Divine command, in every part Bearing on human weal: His love did feed The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart Of other wounds than rankled at the dart In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed. He served the lowliest first--nay, them alone-- The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.-- For these doomed there it was he went to death. God! how the merest man loves one like that! A CUP OF TEA. I have sipped, with drooping lashes, Dreamy draughts of Verzenay; I have flourished brandy-smashes In the wildest sort of way; I have joked with "Tom and Jerry" Till wee hours ayont the twal'-- But I've found my tea the very Safest tipple of them all! 'Tis a mystical potation That exceeds in warmth of glow And divine exhilaration All the drugs of long ago-- All of old magicians' potions-- Of Medea's filtered spells-- Or of fabled isles and oceans Where the Lotos-eater dwells! Though I've reveled o'er late lunches With _blase_ dramatic stars, And absorbed their wit and punches And the fumes of their cigars-- Drank in the latest story, With a cock-tail either end,-- I have drained a deeper glory In a cup of tea, my friend. Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa, Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey-- No odds the name it knows--ah! Fill a cup of it for me! And, as I clink my china Against your goblet's brim, My tea in steam shall twine a Fragrant laurel round its rim. JUDITH. O her eyes are amber-fine-- Dark and deep as wells of wine, While her smile is like the noon Splendor of a day of June. If she sorrow--lo! her face It is like a flowery space In bright meadows, overlaid With light clouds and lulled with shade If she laugh--it is the trill Of the wayward whippoorwill Over upland pastures, heard Echoed by the mocking-bird In dim thickets dense with bloom And blurred cloyings of perfume. If she sigh--a zephyr swells Over odorous asphodels And wan lilies in lush plots Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. Then, the soft touch of her hand-- Takes all breath to understand What to liken it thereto!-- Never roseleaf rinsed with dew Might slip soother-suave than slips Her slow palm, the while her lips Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss Sweet as heated honey is. THE ARTEMUS OF MICHIGAN. Grand Haven is in Michigan, and in possession, too, Of as many rare attractions as our party ever knew:-- The fine hotel, the landlord, and the lordly bill of fare, And the dainty-neat completeness of the pretty waiters there; The touch on the piano in the parlor, and the trill Of the exquisite soprano, in our fancy singing still; Our cozy room, its comfort, and our thousand grateful tho'ts, And at our door the gentle face Of H. Y. Potts! His artless observations, and his drollery of style, Bewildered with that sorrowful serenity of smile-- The eye's elusive twinkle, and the twitching of the lid, Like he didn't go to say it and was sorry that he did. O Artemus of Michigan! so worthy of the name, Our manager indorses it, and Bill Nye does the same-- You tickled our affection in so many tender spots That even Recollection laughs At H. Y. Potts! And hark ye! O Grand Haven! count your rare attractions o'er-- The commerce of your ships at sea, and ships along the shore; Your railroads, and your industries, and interests untold, Your Opera House--our lecture, and the gate-receipts in gold!-- Ay, Banner Town of Michigan! count all your treasures through-- Your crowds of summer tourists, and your Sanitarium, too; Your lake, your beach, your drives, your breezy groves and grassy plots, But head the list of all of these With H. Y. Potts! THE HOODOO. Owned a pair o' skates onc't.--Traded Fer 'em,--stropped 'em on and waded Up and down the crick, a-waitin' Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'. Mildest winter I remember-- More like Spring- than Winter-weather!-- Did n't _frost_ tel bout December- Git up airly ketch a' feather Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder-- Sunshine swinge it like a cinder! Well--I _waited_--and _kep_' waitin'! Couldn't see my money's w'oth in Them-air skates and was no skatin', Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin'! So, one day--along in airly Spring--I swopped 'em off--and barely Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet, And crick--tail-race--all together, Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it! THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE A TRAGI-COMEDY, IN ONE ACT. PERSONS REPRESENTED. BILLY MILLER ) The Rivals JOHNNY WILLIAMS ) TOMMY WELLS Conspirator TIME--Noon: SCENE--Country Town--Rear-view of the Miller Mansion, showing Barn, with practical loft-window opening on alley-way, with colored-crayon poster beneath, announcing:--"BILLY MILLER'S Big Show and Monstur Circus and Equareum! A shour-bath fer Each and All fer 20 pins. This Afternoon! Don't fer git the date!" Enter TOMMY WELLS and JOHNNY WILLIAMS, who gaze awhile at poster, TOMMY secretly smiling and winking at BILLY MILLER, concealed at loft-window above. TOMMY (to JOHNNY). Guess 'at Billy haint got back,-- Can't see nothin' through the crack--- Can't hear nothin' neither--No! . . . Thinks he's got the dandy show, Don't he? JOHNNY (scornfully)-- 'Course' but what _I_ care?-- He haint got no show in there!-- What's _he_ got in there but that Old hen, cooped up with a cat An' a turkle, an' that thing 'At he calls his "circus-ring?" "_What a circus-ring_!" I'd _quit_! Bet mine's twic't as big as it! TOMMY-- Yes, but _you_ got no machine Wat you bathe with, painted green, With a string to work it, guess! JOHNNY (contemptuously)-- Folks don't _bathe_ in _circuses_!-- _Ladies_ comes to _mine_, you bet! I' got seats where girls can set; An' a dressin'-room, an' all, Fixed up in my pony's stall-- Yes, an' I' got _carpet_, too, Fer the tumblers, and a blue Center-pole! TOMMY-- Well, Billy, he's Got a tight-rope an' trapeze, An' a hoop 'at he jumps through Head-first! JOHNNY-- Well, what's _that_ to do-- Lightin' on a pile o' hay? Haint no _actin_' thataway! TOMMY-- Don't care what you say, he draws Bigger crowds than you do, 'cause Sense he started up, I know All the fellers says his show Is the best-un! JOHNNY-- Yes, an' he Better not tell things on me! His old circus haint no good!-- 'Cause he's got the neighborhood Down on me he thinks 'at I'm Goin' to stand it all the time; Thinks ist 'cause my Pa don't 'low Me to fight, he's got me now. An' can say I lie, an' call Me ist anything at all! Billy Miller thinks I am 'Feared to say 'at he says "dam"-- Yes, and worser ones! and I'm Goin' to tell his folks sometime!-- An' ef he don't shet his head I'll tell worse 'an _that_ he said When he fighted Willie King-- An' got licked like ever'thing!-- Billy Miller better shin Down his Daddy's lane agin, Like a cowardy-calf, an' climb In fer home another time! Better-- [Here BILLY leaps down from the loft upon his unsuspecting victim; and two minutes, later, JOHNNY, with the half of a straw hat, a bleeding nose, and a straight rent across one trouser-knee, makes his inglorious--exit.] WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE WIGGINSES. Wintertime, er Summertime, Of late years I notice I'm, Kindo'-like, more subjec' to What the _weather_ is. Now, you Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose, Thinks its bully when it snows; But the chap 'at chops and hauls Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls, And snapps tuggs and swingletrees, And then has to walk er freeze, Haint so much "stuck on" the snow As stuck _in_ it--Bless ye, no!-- When its packed, and sleighin's good, And _church_ in the neighborhood, Them 'at's _got_ their girls, I guess, Takes 'em, likely, more er less, Tell the plain facts o' the case, No men-folks about our place On'y me and Pap--and he 'Lows 'at young folks' company Allus made him sick! So I Jes don't want, and jes don't try! Chinkypin, the dad-burn town, 'S too fur off to loaf aroun' Either day er night--and no Law compellin' me to go!-- 'Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day, Er big-doin's thataway-- _Then_, to tell the p'inted fac', I've went more so's to come back By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where Minors _has_ got licker there-- That's pervidin' we could show 'em Old folks sent fer it from home! Visit roun' the neighbors some, When the boys wants me to come.-- Coon-hunt with 'em; er set traps Fer mussrats; er jes, perhaps, Lay in roun' the stove, you know, And parch corn, and let her snow! Mostly, nights like these, you'll be (Ef you' got a writ fer _me_) Ap' to skeer me up, I guess, In about the Wigginses. Nothin' roun' _our_ place to keep Me at home--with Pap asleep 'Fore it's dark; and Mother in Mango pickles to her chin; And the girls, all still as death, Piecin' quilts.--Sence I drawed breath Twenty year' ago, and heerd Some girls whispern' so's it 'peared Like they had a row o' pins In their mouth--right there begins My first rickollections, built On that-air blame old piece-quilt! Summertime, it's jes the same-- 'Cause I've noticed,--and I claim, As I said afore, I'm more Subjec' to the weather, _shore_, 'Proachin' my majority, Than I ever ust to be! Callin' back _last_ Summer, say,-- Don't seem hardly past away-- With night closin' in, and all S' lonesome-like in the dew-fail: Bats--ad-drat their ugly muggs!-- Flickern' by; and lightnin'-bugs Huckstern' roun' the airly night Little sickly gasps o' light;-- Whip-poor-wills, like all possessed, Moanin' out their mournfullest;-- Frogs and katydids and things Jes clubs in and sings and sings Their _ding-dangdest_!--Stock's all fed, And Pap's washed his feet fer bed;-- Mother and the girls all down At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'-- No wunder 'at I git blue, And lite out--and so would you! I caint stay aroun' no place Whur they haint no livin' face:-- 'Crost the fields and thue the gaps Of the hills they's friends, perhaps, Waitin' somers, 'at kin be Kindo' comfertin' to me! Neighbors all 'is plenty good, Scattered thue this neighberhood; Yit, of all, I like to jes Drap in on the Wigginses.-- Old man, and old lady too, 'Pear-like, makes so much o' you--, Least, they've allus pampered me Like one of the fambily.-- The boys, too, 's all thataway-- Want you jes to come and stay;-- Price, and Chape, and Mandaville, Poke, Chasteen, and "Catfish Bill"-- Poke's the runt of all the rest, But he's jes the beatinest Little schemer, fer fourteen, Anybody ever seen!-- "Like his namesake," old man claims, "Jeems K. Poke, the first o' names! Full o' tricks and jokes--and you Never know what _Poke's_ go' do!" Genius, too, that-air boy is, With them awk'ard hands o' his: Gits this blame pokeberry-juice, Er some stuff, fer ink--and goose- Quill pen-p'ints: And then he'll draw Dogdest pictures yevver saw! Er make deers and eagles good As a writin'-teacher could! Then they's two twin boys they've riz Of old Coonrod Wigginses 'At's deceast--and glad of it, 'Cause his widder's livin' yit! Course _the boys_ is mostly jes' Why I go to Wigginses.--- Though _Melviney_, sometimes, _she_ Gits her slate and algebry And jes' sets there ciphern' thue Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do!-- Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair Forreds tel, 'pear-like, her hair Jes' _spills_ in her lap--and then She jes' dips it up again With her hands, as white, I swan, As the apern she's got on! Talk o' hospitality!-- Go to Wigginses with me-- Overhet, or froze plum thue, You'll find welcome waitin' you:-- Th'ow out yer tobacker 'fore You set foot acrost that floor,-- "Got to eat whatever's set-- Got to drink whatever's wet!" Old man's sentimuns--them's his--- And means jes the best they is! Then he lights his pipe; and she, The old lady, presen'ly She lights her'n; and Chape and Poke. I haint got none, ner don't smoke,-- (In the crick afore their door-- Sorto so's 'at I'd be shore-- Drownded mine one night and says "I won't smoke at _Wigginses_!") Price he's mostly talkin' 'bout Politics, and "thieves turned out"-- What he's go' to be, ef he Ever "gits there"--and "we'll see!"-- Poke he 'lows they's blame few men Go' to hold their breath tel then! Then Melviney smiles, as she Goes on with her algebry, And the clouds clear, and the room's Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms! (That Melviney, she' got some Most surprisin' ways, I gum!-- Don't 'pear like she ever _says_ Nothin', yit you'll _listen_ jes Like she was a-talkin', and Half-way seem to understand, But not quite,--_Poke_ does, I know, 'Cause he good as told me so,-- Poke's her favo-rite; and he-- That is, confidentially-- He's _my_ favo-rite--and I Got my whurfore and my why!) I haint never ben no hand Much at talkin', understand, But they's _thoughts_ o' mine 'at's jes Jealous o' them Wigginses!-- Gift o' talkin 's what they got, Whether they want to er not-- F'r instunce, start the old man on Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone, 'Way back in the Forties, when Bears stold pigs right out the pen, Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm With a bee-hive on their arm!-- And--sir, _ping_! the old man's gun Has plumped-over many a one, Firin' at him from afore That-air very cabin-door! Yes--and _painters_, prowlin' 'bout, Allus darkest nights.--Lay out Clost yer cattle.--Great, big red Eyes a-blazin' in their head, Glittern' 'long the timber-line-- Shine out some, and then _un_-shine, And shine back--Then, stiddy! whizz! 'N there yer Mr. Painter is With a hole bored spang between Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen, Say, on blooded racin'-stock, Ef you want to hear him talk; Er tobacker--how to raise, Store, and k-yore it, so's she pays: The old lady--and she'll cote Scriptur' tel she'll git yer vote! Prove to you 'at wrong is right, Jes as plain as black is white: Prove when you're asleep in bed You're a-standin' on yer head, And yer train 'at's goin' West, 'S goin' East its level best; And when bees dies, it's their wings Wears out--and a thousand things! And the boys is "chips," you know; "Off the old block"--So I go To the Wigginses, 'cause--jes 'Cause I _like_ the Wigginses-- Even ef Melviney _she_ Hardly 'pears to notice me! Rid to Chinkypin this week-- Yisterd'y.--No snow to speak Of, and didn't have no sleigh Anyhow; so, as I say, I rid in--and froze one ear And both heels--and I don't keer!-- "Mother and the girls kin jes Bother 'bout their Chris'mases _Next_ time fer _theirse'vs_, I jack!" Thinks-says-I, a-startin' back,-- Whole durn meal-bag full of things Wrapped in paper-sacks, and strings Liable to snap their holt Jes at any little jolt! That in front o' me, and _wind_ With _nicks_ in it, 'at jes skinned Me alive!--I'm here to say Nine mile' hossback thataway Would a-walked my log! But, as Somepin' allus comes to pass, As I topped old Guthrie's hill. Saw a buggy, front the 'Still, P'inted home'ards, and a thin Little chap jes climbin' in. Six more minutes I were there On the groun's'--And course it were-- It were little Poke--and he Nearly fainted to see me!-- "You ben in to Chinky, too?" "Yes; and go' ride back with you," I-says-I. He he'pped me find Room fer my things in behind-- Stript my hoss's reins down, and Put his mitt' on the right hand So's to lead--"Pile in!" says he, "But you 've struck pore company!" Noticed he was pale--looked sick, Kindo-like, and had a quick Way o' flickin' them-air eyes 0' his roun' 'at didn't size Up right with his usual style-- s' I, "You well?" He tried to smile, But his chin shuck and tears come.-- "_I've run 'Viney 'way from home_!" Don't know jes what all occurred Next ten seconds--Nary word, But my heart jes drapt, stobbed thue, And whirlt over and come to.-- Wrenched a big quart bottle from That fool-boy!--and cut my thumb On his little fiste-teeth--helt Him snug in one arm, and felt That-air little heart o' his Churn the blood o' Wigginses Into that old bead 'at spun Roun' her, spilt at Lexington! His k'niptions, like enough, He'pped us both,--though it was rough-- Rough on him, and rougher on Me when last his nerve was gone, And he laid there still, his face Fishin' fer some hidin'-place Jes a leetle lower down In my breast than he 'd yit foun'! Last I kindo' soothed him, so's He could talk.--And what you s'pose Them-air revelations of Poke's was? . . . He'd ben writin' love- Letters to Melviney, and Givin her to understand They was from "a young man who Loved her," and--"the violet's blue 'N sugar's sweet"--and Lord knows what! Tel, 'peared-like, Melviney got S' interested in "the young Man," Poke _he_ says, 'at she brung A' answer onc't fer him to take, Statin' "she'd die fer his sake," And writ fifty xs "fer Love-kisses fer him from her!" I was standin' in the road By the buggy, all I knowed When Poke got that fer.--"That's why," Poke says, "I 'fessed up the lie-- _Had_ to--'cause I see," says he, "'Viney was in airnest--she Cried, too, when I told her.--Then She swore me, and smiled again, And got Pap and Mother to Let me hitch and drive her thue Into Chinkypin, to be At Aunt 'Rindy's Chris'mas-tree-- That's to-night." Says I, "Poke--durn Your lyin' soul!--'s that beau o' hern-- That--_she_--loves--Does _he_ live in That hellhole o' Chinkypin?" "No," says Poke, "er 'Viney would Went some _other_ neighborhood." "Who _is_ the blame whelp?" says I. "Promised 'Viney, hope I'd die Ef I ever told!" says Poke, Pittiful and jes heart-broke-- "'Sides that's why she left the place,-- 'She caint look him in the face Now no more on earth!' she says.--" And the child broke down and jes Sobbed! Says I, "Poke, I p'tend T' be _your_ friend, and your _Pap's_ friend, And your _Mother's_ friend, and all The _boys_' friend, little, large and small-- The _whole fambily's_ friend--and you Know that means _Melviney_, too.-- Now--you hush yer troublin!'--I'm Go' to he'p friends ever' time-- On'y in _this_ case, _you_ got To he'p _me_--and, like as not I kin he'p Melviney then, And we'll have her home again. And now, Poke, with your consent, I'm go' go to that-air gent She's in love with, and confer With _him_ on his views o' _her_.-- Blast him! give the man _some_ show.-- Who is he?--_I'm go' to know_!" Somepin' struck the little chap Funny, 'peared-like.--Give a slap On his leg--laughed thue the dew In his eyes, and says: "It's you!" Yes, and--'cordin' to the last Love-letters of ours 'at passed Thue his hands--we was to be Married Chris'mas.--"Gee-mun-_nee_! Poke," says I, "it's _suddent_--yit We _kin_ make it! You're to git Up tomorry, say, 'bout _three_-- Tell your folks you're go' with me:-- We'll hitch up, and jes drive in 'N take the town o' Chinkypin!" GO, WINTER! Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again The twitter of the bluebird and the wren; Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine Of Summer's sun--not thine.-- Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love And all the heartening fervencies thereof, It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin Pathetic yearnings in. So get thee from us! We are cold, God wot, Even as _thou_ art.--We remember not How blithe we hailed thy coming.--That was O Too long--too long ago! Get from us utterly! Ho! Summer then Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been, And thy last icy footprint melt and mold In her first marigold. ELIZABETH. _May 1, 1891_. I. Elizabeth! Elizabeth! The first May-morning whispereth Thy gentle name in every breeze That lispeth through the young-leaved trees, New raimented in white and green Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen;-- And, as in odorous chorus, all The orchard-blossoms sweetly call Even as a singing voice that saith Elizabeth! Elizabeth! II. Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair, In deep, cool shadows of thy hair, Thy face maintaineth its repose.-- Is it, O sister of the rose, So better, sweeter, blooming thus Than in this briery world with us?-- Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath Of biting winter harrieth With sleeted rains and blighting snows All fairest blooms--Elizabeth! III. Nay, then!--So reign, Elizabeth, Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death! Put forth the scepter of thy love In every star-tipped blossom of The grassy dais of thy throne! Sadder are we, thus left alone, But gladder they that thrill to see Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee. Bereaved are we by life--not death-- Elizabeth! Elizabeth! SLEEP. Orphaned, I cry to thee: Sweet sleep! O kneel and be A mother unto me! Calm thou my childish fears: Fold--fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly, And dry my tears. Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed And faint with languor,--slide Thy dim face down beside Mine own, and let me rest And nestle in thy heart, and there abide, A favored guest. Good night to every care, And shadow of despair! Good night to all things where Within is no delight!-- Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there, I sob: Good night--good night! DAN PAINE. Old friend of mine, whose chiming name Has been the burthen of a rhyme Within my heart since first I came To know thee in thy mellow prime; With warm emotions in my breast That can but coldly be expressed, And hopes and wishes wild and vain, I reach my hand to thee, Dan Paine. In fancy, as I sit alone In gloomy fellowship with care, I hear again thy cheery tone, And wheel for thee an easy chair; And from my hand the pencil falls-- My book upon the carpet sprawls, As eager soul and heart and brain, Leap up to welcome thee, Dan Paine. A something gentle in thy mein, A something tender in thy voice, Has made my trouble so serene, I can but weep, from very choice. And even then my tears, I guess, Hold more of sweet than bitterness, And more of gleaming shine than rain, Because of thy bright smile, Dan Paine. The wrinkles that the years have spun And tangled round thy tawny face, Are kinked with laughter, every one, And fashioned in a mirthful grace. And though the twinkle of thine eyes Is keen as frost when Summer dies, It can not long as frost remain While thy warm soul shines out, Dan Paine. And so I drain a health to thee;-- May merry Joy and jolly Mirth Like children clamber on thy knee, And ride thee round the happy earth! And when, at last, the hand of Fate Shall lift the latch of Canaan's gate, And usher me in thy domain, Smile on me just as now, Dan Paine. OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM I have jest about decided It 'ud keep a _town-boy_ hoppin' Fer to work all winter, choppin' Fer a' old fire-place, like _I_ did! Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!-- Blame backbone o' winter, 'peared-like, _Wouldn't_ break!--and I wuz skeerd-like Clean on into _Febuary_! Nothin' ever made we madder Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' On a' extra fore-stick, sayin' "Groun'hog's out and seed his shadder!" AT UTTER LOAF. I. An afternoon as ripe with heat As might the golden pippin be With mellowness if at my feet It dropped now from the apple-tree My hammock swings in lazily. II. The boughs about me spread a shade That shields me from the sun, but weaves With breezy shuttles through the leaves Blue rifts of skies, to gleam and fade Upon the eyes that only see Just of themselves, all drowsily. III. Above me drifts the fallen skein Of some tired spider, looped and blown, As fragile as a strand of rain, Across the air, and upward thrown By breaths of hayfields newly mown-- So glimmering it is and fine, I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine. IV. Far-off and faint as voices pent In mines, and heard from underground, Come murmurs as of discontent, And clamorings of sullen sound The city sends me, as, I guess, To vex me, though they do but bless Me in my drowsy fastnesses. V. I have no care. I only know My hammock hides and holds me here In lands of shade a prisoner: While lazily the breezes blow Light leaves of sunshine over me, And back and forth and to and fro I swing, enwrapped in some hushed glee, Smiling at all things drowsily. A LOUNGER. He leant against a lamp-post, lost In some mysterious reverie: His head was bowed; his arms were crossed; He yawned, and glanced evasively: Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put Them back again, and scratched his side-- Shifted his weight from foot to foot, And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed. Grotesque of form and face and dress, And picturesque in every way-- A figure that from day to day Drooped with a limper laziness; A figure such as artists lean, In pictures where distress is seen, Against low hovels where we guess No happiness has ever been. A SONG OF LONG AGO. A song of Long Ago: Sing it lightly--sing it low-- Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we used to know When our baby-laughter spilled From the glad hearts ever filled With music blithe as robin ever trilled! Let the fragrant summer-breeze, And the leaves of locust-trees, And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees, All palpitate with glee, Till the happy harmony Brings back each childish joy to you and me. Let the eyes of fancy turn Where the tumbled pippins burn Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,-- There let the old path wind In and out and on behind The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. Blend in the song the moan Of the dove that grieves alone, And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone; And the low of cows that call Through the pasture-bars when all The landscape fades away at evenfall. Then, far away and clear, Through the dusky atmosphere, Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear: O sad and sweet and low As the memory may know Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! THE CHANT OF THE CROSS-BEARING CHILD. I bear dis cross dis many a mile. O de cross-bearin' chile-- De cross-bearin' chile! I bear dis cross 'long many a road Wha' de pink ain't bloom' an' de grass done mowed. O de cross-bearin' chile-- De cross-bearin' chile! Hits on my conscience all dese days Fo' ter bear de cross ut de good Lord lays On my po' soul, an' ter lif my praise. O de cross-bearin' chile-- De cross-bearin' chile! I 's nigh-'bout weak ez I mos' kin be, Yit de Marstah call an' He say,--"You 's free Fo' ter 'cept dis cross, an' ter cringe yo' knee To no n'er man in de worl' but me!" O de cross-bearin' chile-- De cross-bearin' chile! Says you guess wrong, ef I let you guess-- Says you 'spec' mo', an'-a you git less:-- Says you go eas', says you go wes', An' whense you fine de road ut you like bes' You betteh take ch'ice er any er de res'! O de cross-bearin' chile-- De cross-bearin' chile! He build my feet, an' He fix de signs Dat de shoe hit pinch an' de shoe hit bines Ef I on'y w'ah eights an-a wanter w'ah nines; I hone fo' de rain, an' de sun hit shines, An' whilse I hunt de sun, hits de rain I fines.-- O-a trim my lamp, an-a gyrd my lines! O de cross-bearin' chile-- De cross-bearin' chile! I wade de wet, an' I walk de dry: I done tromp long, an' I done clim high; An' I pilgrim on ter de jasper sky, An' I taken de resk fo' ter cas' my eye Wha' de Gate swing wide an' de Lord draw nigh, An' de Trump hit blow, an' I hear de cry,-- "You lay dat cross down by an' by!-- O de Cross-bearin' Chile-- Do Cross-bearin' Chile!" THANKSGIVING. Let us be thankful--not only because Since last our universal thanks were told We have grown greater in the world's applause, And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old-- But thankful for all things that come as alms From out the open hand of Providence:-- The winter clouds and storms---the summer calms-- The sleepless dread--the drowse of indolence. Let us be thankful--thankful for the prayers Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, That they might fall upon us unawares, And bless us, as in greater need, we prayed. Let us be thankful for the loyal hand That love held out in welcome to our own, When love and only love could understand The need of touches we had never known. Let us be thankful for the longing eyes That gave their secret to us as they wept, Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise, Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept. And let us, too, be thankful that the tears Of sorrow have not all been drained away, That through them still, for all the coming years, We may look on the dead face of To-day. AUTUMN. As a harvester, at dusk, Faring down some woody trail Leading homeward through the musk Of may-apple and pawpaw, Hazel-bush, and spice and haw,-- So comes Autumn, swart and hale, Drooped of frame and slow of stride. But withal an air of pride Looming up in stature far Higher than his shoulders are; Weary both in arm and limb, Yet the wholesome heart of him Sheer at rest and satisfied. Greet him as with glee of drums And glad cymbals, as he comes! Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine. He the Emperor--the King-- Royal lord of everything Sagging Plenty's granary floors And out-bulging all her doors; He the god of corn and wine, Honey, milk, and fruit and oil-- Lord of feast, as lord of toil-- Jocund host of yours and mine! Ho! the revel of his laugh!-- Half is sound of winds, and half Roar of ruddy blazes drawn Up the throats of chimneys wide, Circling which, from side to side, Faces--lit as by the Dawn, With her highest tintings on Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin-- Smile at some old fairy-tale Of enchanted lovers, in Silken gown and coat of mail, With a retinue of elves Merry as their very selves, Trooping ever, hand in hand, Down the dales of Wonderland. Then the glory of his song!-- Lifting up his dreamy eyes-- Singing haze across the skies; Singing clouds that trail along Towering tops of trees that seize Tufts of them to stanch the breeze; Singing slanted strands of rain In between the sky and earth, For the lyre to mate the mirth And the might of his refrain: Singing southward-flying birds Down to us, and afterwards Singing them to flight again; Singing blushes to the cheeks Of the leaves upon the trees-- Singing on and changing these Into pallor, slowly wrought, Till the little, moaning creeks Bear them to their last farewell, As Elaine, the lovable, Was borne down to Lancelot.-- Singing drip of tears, and then Drying them with smiles again. Singing apple, peach and grape, Into roundest, plumpest shape, Rosy ripeness to the face Of the pippin; and the grace Of the dainty stamin-tip To the huge bulk of the pear, Pendant in the green caress Of the leaves, and glowing through With the tawny laziness Of the gold that Ophir knew,-- Haply, too, within its rind Such a cleft as bees may find, Bungling on it half aware. And wherein to see them sip Fancy lifts an oozy lip, And the singer's falter there. Sweet as swallows swimming through Eddyings of dusk and dew, Singing happy scenes of home Back to sight of eager eyes That have longed for them to come, Till their coming is surprise Uttered only by the rush Of quick tears and prayerful hush; Singing on, in clearer key, Hearty palms of you and me Into grasps that tingle still Rapturous, and ever will! Singing twank and twang of strings-- Trill of flute and clarinet In a melody that rings Like the tunes we used to play, And our dreams are playing yet! Singing lovers, long astray, Each to each, and, sweeter things-- Singing in their marriage-day, And a banquet holding all These delights for festival. THE TWINS. One 's the pictur' of his Pa, And the _other_ of her Ma-- Jes the bossest pair o' babies 'at a mortal ever saw! And we love 'em as the bees Loves the blossoms of the trees, A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze! One's got her Mammy's eyes-- Soft and blue as Apurl-skies-- With the same sort of a smile, like--Yes, and mouth about her size,-- Dimples, too, in cheek and chin, 'At my lips jes _wallers_ in, A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin. And the _other_--Well, they say That he's got his Daddy's way O' bein' ruther soberfied, er ruther extry gay,-- That he either cries his best, Er he laughs his howlin'est-- Like all he lacked was buttons and a vest! Look at _her_!--and look at _him_!-- Talk about yer "Cheru-_bim_!" Roll 'em up in dreams together, rosy arm and chubby limb! O we love 'em as the bees Loves the blossoms of the trees, A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze! BEDOUIN. O love is like an untamed steed!-- So hot of heart and wild of speed, And with fierce freedom so in love, The desert is not vast enough, With all its leagues of glimmering sands, To pasture it! Ah, that my hands Were more than human in their strength, That my deft lariat at length Might safely noose this splendid thing That so defies all conquering! Ho! but to see it whirl and reel-- The sands spurt forward--and to feel The quivering tension of the thong That throned me high, with shriek and song! To grapple tufts of tossing mane-- To spurn it to its feet again, And then, sans saddle, rein or bit, To lash the mad life out of it! TUGG MARTIN. I. Tugg Martin's tough.--No doubt o' that! And down there at The town he come from word's bin sent Advisin' this-here Settle-ment To kindo' _humor_ Tugg, and not To git him hot-- Jest pass his imperfections by, And he's as good as pie! II. They claim he's _wanted_ back there.--Yit The officers they mostly quit _Insistin'_ when They notice Tugg's so _back'ard_, and Sorto' gives 'em to understand He druther not!--A Deputy (The slickest one you ever see!) Tackled him _last_--"disguisin' then," As Tugg says, "as a gentlemen!"-- You 'd ort o' hear _Tugg_ tell it!--_My_! I thought I'd _die_! III. The way it wuz;--Tugg and the rest The boys wuz jest A-kindo' gittin' thawed out, down At "Guss's Place," fur-end o' town, One night, when, first we knowed, Some feller rode Up in a buggy at the door, And hollered fer some one to come And fetch him some Red-licker out--And whirped and swore That colt he drove wuz "_Thompson's_" shore! IV. Guss went out, and come in agin And filled a pint and tuck it out-- Stayed quite a spell--then peeked back in, Half-hid-like where the light wuz dim, And jieuked his head At Tugg and said,-- "Come out a minute--here's a gent Wants you to take a drink with him." V. Well--Tugg laid down his cards and went-- In fact, _we all_ Got up, you know, _Startin'_ to go-- When in reels Guss aginst the wall, As white as snow, Gaspin',--"_He's tuck Tugg!--wher's my gun_?" And-sir, outside we heerd The hoss snort and kick up his heels Like he wuz skeerd, And then the buggy-wheels Scrape--and then Tugg's voice hollerun',-- "I'm bested!--Good-bye, fellers!" . . . 'Peared S' all-fired suddent, Nobody couldn't Jest git it fixed,--tel hoss and man, Buggy and Tugg, off through the dark Went like the devil beatin' tan- Bark! VI. What _could_ we do? . . . We filed back to The bar: And Guss jest _looked_ at us, And we looked back "The same as you," Still sayin' nothin'--And the sap It stood in every eye, And every hat and cap Went off, as we teched glasses solemnly, And Guss says-he: "Ef it's 'good-bye' with Tugg, fer _shore_,--I say God bless him!--Er ef they Aint railly no _need_ to pray, I'm not reniggin!--board's the play, And here's God bless him, anyway!" VII. It must a-bin an hour er so We all set there, Talkin o' pore Old Tugg, you know, 'At never, wuz ketched up before-- When--all slow-like--the door- Knob turned--and Tugg come shamblin' in, Hand-cuffed'--'at's what he wuz, I swear!-- Yit smilin,' like he hadn't bin Away at all! And when we ast him where The _Deputy_ wuz at,--"I don't know where," Tugg said,-- "All _I_ know is--he's dead." LET US FORGET. Let us forget. What matters it that we Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago, And talked of love, and let our voices low, And ruled for some brief sessions royally? What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? It has availed not anything, and so Let it go by that we may better know How poor a thing is lost to you and me. But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew From your drenched lids--and missed, with no regret, Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you; And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet With all this waste of tears, let us forget! JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY. We got up a Christmas-doin's Last Christmas Eve-- Kindo' dimonstration 'At I railly believe Give more satisfaction-- Take it up and down-- Than ary intertainment Ever come to town! Railly was a _theater_-- That's what it was,-- But, bein' in the church, you know, We had a "_Santy Clause_"-- So 's to git the _old folks_ To patternize, you see, And _back_ the institootion up Kindo' _morally_. Schoolteacher writ the thing-- (Was a friend o' mine), Got it out o' Longfeller's Pome "Evangeline"-- Er some'rs--'bout the _Purituns_--. _Anyway_, the part "_John Alden_" fell to _me_-- And learnt it all by heart! Claircy was "_Percilly_"-- (Schoolteacher 'lowed Me and her could act them two Best of all the crowd)-- Then--blame ef he didn't Git her Pap, i jing!-- To take the part o' "_Santy Clause_," To wind up the thing. Law! the fun o' practisun!-- Was a week er two Me and Claircy didn't have Nothin' else to do!-- Kep' us jes a-meetin' round, Kindo' here and there, Ever' night rehearsin'-like, And gaddin' ever'where! Game was wo'th the candle, though!-- Christmas Eve at last Rolled around.--And 'tendance jes Couldn't been surpassed!-- Neighbors from the country Come from Clay and Rush-- Yes, and 'crost the county-line Clean from Puckerbrush! Meetin'-house jes trimbled As "Old Santy" went Round amongst the childern, With their pepperment And sassafrac and wintergreen Candy, and "a ball O' popcorn," the preacher 'nounced, "Free fer each and all!" Schoolteacher suddently Whispered in my ear,-- "Guess I got you:--_Christmas-gift_!-- _Christmas is here_!" I give _him_ a gold pen, And case to hold the thing,-- And _Claircy_ whispered "_Christmas-gift_!" And I give her a _ring_. "And now," says I, "jes watch _me_-- Christmas-gift," says I, "_I'm_ a-goin' to git one-- '_Santy's_' comin' by!"-- Then I rech and grabbed him: And, as you'll infer, 'Course I got the old man's, And _he_ gimme _her_! REACH YOUR HAND TO ME. Reach your hand to me, my friend, With its heartiest caress-- Sometime there will come an end To its present faithfulness-- Sometime I may ask in vain For the touch of it again, When between us land or sea Holds it ever back from me. Sometime I may need it so, Groping somewhere in the night, It will seem to me as though Just a touch, however light, Would make all the darkness day, And along some sunny way Lead me through an April-shower Of my tears to this fair hour. O the present is too sweet To go on forever thus! Round the corner of the street Who can say what waits for us?-- Meeting--greeting, night and day, Faring each the self-same way-- Still somewhere the path must end.-- Reach your hand to me, my friend! THE ROSE. It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving frees With a passion all in vain,-- For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo-- Till quenched was the flame of love in him, And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dew-drops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me. And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose-- Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine-- The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me! But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?" * * * * * I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. MY FRIEND. "He is my friend," I said,-- "Be patient!" Overhead The skies were drear and dim; And lo! the thought of him Smited on my heart--and then The sun shone out again! "He is my friend!" The words Brought summer and the birds; And all my winter-time Thawed into running rhyme And rippled into song, Warm, tender, brave, and strong. And so it sings to-day.-- So may it sing alway! Though waving grasses grow Between, and lilies blow Their trills of perfume clear As laughter to the ear, Let each mute measure end With "Still he is thy friend." SUSPENSE. A woman's figure, on a ground of night Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there As in vague hope some alien lance of light Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight-- The salt and bitter blood of her despair-- Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair And grip toward God with anguish infinite. And O the carven mouth, with all its great Intensity of longing frozen fast In such a smile as well may designate The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last, Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate Throbs Love's eternal lie--"Lo, I can wait!" THE PASSING OF A HEART. O touch me with your hands-- For pity's sake! My brow throbs ever on with such an ache As only your cool touch may take away; And so, I pray You, touch me with your hands! Touch--touch me with your hands.-- Smooth back the hair You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair That I did dream its gold would wear alway, And lo, to-day-- O touch me with your hands! Just touch me with your hands, And let them press My weary eyelids with the old caress, And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, That Death may say: He touched her with his hands. BY HER WHITE BED. By her white bed I muse a little space: She fell asleep--not very long ago,-- And yet the grass was here and not the snow-- The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and--her face!-- Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow; The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place In thicker twilight for the roses' scent. Then _night_.--She slept--in such tranquility, I walk atiptoe still, nor _dare_ to weep, Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content-- That though God stood to wake her for me, she Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord! Let _him_ so sleep." WE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING. "Rain and rain! and rain and rain!" Yesterday we muttered Grimly as the grim refrain That the thunders uttered: All the heavens under cloud-- All the sunshine sleeping; All the grasses limply bowed With their weight of weeping. Sigh and sigh! and sigh and sigh! Never end of sighing; Rain and rain for our reply-- Hopes half-drowned and dying; Peering through the window-pane, Naught but endless raining-- Endless sighing, and, as vain, Endlessly complaining. Shine and shine! and shine and shine! Ah! to-day the splendor!-- All this glory yours and mine-- God! but God is tender! We to sigh instead of sing, _Yesterday_, in sorrow, While the Lord was fashioning This for our To-morrow! THE BLOSSOMS ON THE TREES. Blossoms crimson, white, or blue, Purple, pink, and every hue, From sunny skies, to tintings drowned In dusky drops of dew, I praise you all, wherever found, And love you through and through;-- _But_, Blossoms On The Trees, With your breath upon the breeze, There's nothing all the world around As half as sweet as you! Could the rhymer only wring All the sweetness to the lees Of all the kisses clustering In juicy Used-to-bes, To dip his rhymes therein and sing The blossoms on the trees,-- "O Blossoms on the Trees," He would twitter, trill and coo, "However sweet, such songs as these Are not as sweet as you:-- For you are _blooming_ melodies The _eyes_ may listen to!" A DISCOURAGING MODEL. Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under there Where the shadows are lost in her hair. Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint! And that lace at her throat--and the fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, The flakes of their touches--first fluttering at The bow--then the roses--the hair--and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. O what artist on earth with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, Nor the gold of her smile--O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair? LAST NIGHT--AND THIS. Last night--how deep the darkness was! And well I knew its depths, because I waded it from shore to shore, Thinking to reach the light no more. She would not even touch my hand.-- The winds rose and the cedars fanned The moon out, and the stars fled back In heaven and hid--and all was black! But ah! To-night a summons came, Signed with a teardrop for a name,-- For as I wondering kissed it, lo, A line beneath it told me so. And _now_--the moon hangs over me A disk of dazzling brilliancy, And every star-tip stabs my sight With splintered glitterings of light! SEPTEMBER DARK. I. The air falls chill; The whip-poor-will Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense; And lo, the katydids commence. II. Through shadowy rifts Of woodland, lifts The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, While left and right The fireflies' light Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night. III. O Cloudland, gray And level, lay Thy mists across the face of Day! At foot and head, Above the dead, O Dews, weep on uncomforted! A GLIMPSE OF PAN. I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here, And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer O'er the grasses, green and sweet. And I peered through a vista of leaning trees, Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept To the face of a river, that answered these With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept And kissed them, with quavering ecstacies, And gurgled and laughed and wept. And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear I saw Pan lying,--his limbs in the dew And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere, Over, across, and around him blew Filmy dragonflies hither and there, And little white butterflies, two and two, In eddies of odorous air. OUT OF NAZARETH. "He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes." Thus heard one who shared the tent, In the far-off Orient, Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz-- Nobler never loved the stars Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim Dawn his courser neighed to him! He said: "Let the sands be swarmed With such thieves as I, and thou Shalt at morning rise, unharmed, Light as eyelash to the brow Of thy camel, amber-eyed, Ever munching either side, Striding still, with nestled knees, Through the midnight's oases. "Who can rob thee an thou hast More than this that thou hast cast At my feet--this dust of gold? Simply this and that, all told! Hast thou not a treasure of Such a thing as men call love? "Can the dusky band I lead Rob thee of thy daily need Of a whiter soul, or steal What thy lordly prayers reveal? Who could be enriched of thee By such hoard of poverty As thy niggard hand pretends To dole me--thy worst of friends? Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless One indeed who blesses thee; Robbing thee, I dispossess But myself.--Pray thou for me!" He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes. THE WANDERING JEW. The stars are failing, and the sky Is like a field of faded flowers; The winds on weary wings go by; The moon hides, and the temptest lowers; And still through every clime and age I wander on a pilgrimage That all men know an idle quest, For that the goal I seek is--REST! I hear the voice of summer streams, And, following, I find the brink Of cooling springs, with childish dreams Returning as I bend to drink-- But suddenly, with startled eyes, My face looks on its grim disguise Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, I hasten on, nor taste of rest. I come upon a merry group Of children in the dusky wood, Who answer back the owlet's whoop, That laughs as it had understood; And I would pause a little space, But that each happy blossom-face Is like to one His hands have blessed Who sent me forth in search of rest. Sometimes I fain would stay my feet In shady lanes, where huddled kine Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, And lift their patient eyes to mine; But I, for thoughts that ever then Go back to Bethlehem again, Must needs fare on my weary quest, And weep for very need of rest. Is there no end? I plead in vain: Lost worlds nor living answer me. Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign Have I not passed eternity? Have I not drank the fetid breath Of every fevered phase of death, And come unscathed through every pest And scourge and plague that promised rest? Have I not seen the stars go out That shed their light o'er Galilee, And mighty kingdoms tossed about And crumbled clod-like in the sea? Dead ashes of dead ages blow And cover me like drifting snow, And time laughs on as 'twere a jest That I have any need of rest. LONGFELLOW. The winds have talked with him confidingly; The trees have whispered to him; and the night Hath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody: The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight-- Her legends fair--her darkest mystery. His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.-- Nor shall he cease to sing--in every lay Of Nature's voice he sings--and will alway. JOHN MCKEEN. John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote! Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere! And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes! Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish glee Of rhyming riddle, or story found In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound Old book of the Used-to-be! John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!-- To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone Out on election days! John, ah, John! did it prove your worth To yield you the office you still maintain? To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth Of all the happier things on earth To the hunger of heart and brain? Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded span Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,-- Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man? The blinds of your mansion are battened to; Your faded wife is a close recluse; And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do Dutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose!-- But O for the old-home voices, blent With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes! THEIR SWEET SORROW. They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say.-- He holds her hand an instant, wholly Distressed--and she unclasps it slowly. He bends his gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her. The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks--"Quick! Act! Speak up!" A tension circles both her slender Wrists--and her raised eyes flash in splendor, Even as he feels his dazzled own.-- Then, blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly--and "Never! Never!" Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh,-- While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S. Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, And cooked 'em on our stove one day When our hired girl she said I may. _Honey's_ the goodest thing--Oo-_ooh_! And blackberry-pies is goodest, too! But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet! Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,--an' She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!-- An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face-- An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'! I _ruther_ go to the Circus-show; But, 'cause my _parunts_ told me so, I ruther go to the Sund'y School, 'Cause there I learn the goldun rule. Say, Pa,--what _is_ the goldun rule 'At's allus at the Sund'y School? MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. They called him Mr. What's-his-name: From where he was, or why he came, Or when, or what he found to do, Nobody in the city knew. He lived, it seemed, shut up alone In a low hovel of his own; There cooked his meals and made his bed, Careless of all his neighbors said. His neighbors, too, said many things Expressive of grave wonderings, Since none of them had ever been Within his doors, or peered therein. In fact, grown watchful, they became Assured that Mr. What's-his-name Was up to something wrong--indeed, Small doubt of it, we all agreed. At night were heard strange noises there, When honest people everywhere Had long retired; and his light Was often seen to burn all night. He left his house but seldom--then Would always hurry back again, As though he feared some stranger's knock, Finding him gone, might burst the lock. Beside, he carried, every day, At the one hour he went away, A basket, with the contents hid Beneath its woven willow lid. And so we grew to greatly blame This wary Mr. What's-his-name, And look on him with such distrust His actions seemed to sanction just. But when he died--he died one day-- Dropped in the street while on his way To that old wretched hut of his-- You'll think it strange--perhaps it is-- But when we lifted him, and past The threshold of his home at last, No man of all the crowd but stepped With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_! What was it? Just a shriek of pain I pray to never hear again-- A withered woman, old and bowed, That fell and crawled and cried aloud-- And kissed the dead man's matted hair-- Lifted his face and kissed him there-- Called to him, as she clutched his hand, In words no one could understand. Insane? Yes.--Well, we, searching, found An unsigned letter, in a round Free hand, within the dead man's breast: "Look to my mother--_I'm_ at rest. You'll find my money safely hid Under the lining of the lid Of my work-basket. It is hers, And God will bless her ministers!" And some day--though he died unknown-- If through the City by the Throne I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame, I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name. WHEN AGE COMES ON. When Age comes on!-- "The deepening dusk is where the dawn Once glittered splendid, and the dew In honey-drips, from red rose-lips Was kissed away by me and you.-- And now across the frosty lawn Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! And biting wild-winds whistle through Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on! When Age comes on!-- O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, Flow back in summer-floods, and fling Here at our feet our childhood sweet, And all the songs we used to sing! . . . Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone-- Our old faith lost--and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! Poor hearts! have we not anything But longings left when Age comes on? ENVOY. Just as of old! The world rolls on and on; The day dies into night--night into dawn-- Dawn into dusk--through centuries untold.-- Just as of old. Time loiters not. The river ever flows, Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows; Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold: Just as of old. Lo! where is the beginning, where the end Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend!-- God answers with a silence of pure gold-- Just as of old. 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