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Title: Armazindy - The Poems and Prose Sketches of James Whitcomb Riley
Author: Riley, James Whitcomb
Language: English
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[Illustration]
THE POEMS AND PROSE
SKETCHES OF
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
ARMAZINDY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S
SONS NEW YORK 1917
Copyright, 1894, 1898, by
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
⁂ _The publication of this volume in the Homestead Edition
of the works of James Whitcomb Riley is made possible by
the courtesy of The Bowen-Merrill Company, of Indianapolis,
the original publishers of Mr. Riley’s books._
TO HENRY EITEL
CONTENTS
PAGE
ARMAZINDY
ARMAZINDY 3
THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 15
NATURAL PERVERSITIES 17
THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 20
WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 22
THE BLIND GIRL 25
WE DEFER THINGS 28
THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 29
FOR THIS CHRISTMAS 31
A POOR MAN’S WEALTH 32
THE LITTLE RED RIBBON 34
“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?” 35
A GOOD-BYE 37
WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED 38
“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD” 40
TO A POET-CRITIC 41
AN OLD-TIMER 42
THE SILENT VICTORS 44
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 51
THREE SINGING FRIENDS 56
A NOON LULL 59
A WINDY DAY 60
MY HENRY 62
THE SONG I NEVER SING 64
TO EDGAR WILSON NYE 67
LITTLE DAVID 68
OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 69
RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES 71
SERENADE—TO NORA 72
THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE 74
WHAT REDRESS 76
DREAMER, SAY 77
WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_ 79
MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 81
“RINGWORM FRANK” 85
AN EMPTY GLOVE 87
OUR OWN 89
MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY
_The Frog_ 93
“TWIGGS AND TUDENS” 95
DOLORES 113
WHEN I DO MOCK 114
MY MARY 115
_Eros_ 118
ORLIE WILDE 119
LEONAINIE 128
TO A JILTED SWAIN 130
THE VOICES 131
_A Barefoot Boy_ 134
THE YOUTHFUL PATRIOT 135
PONCHUS PILUT 136
A TWINTORETTE 139
SLUMBER-SONG 140
THE CIRCUS PARADE 141
FOLKS AT LONESOMEVILLE 143
THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS 144
THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY 146
CHARMS 148
A FEW OF THE BIRD-FAMILY 150
THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 151
THE TRESTLE AND THE BUCK-SAW 153
THE KING OF OO-RINKTUM-JING 154
THE TOY PENNY-DOG 156
JARGON-JINGLE 157
THE GREAT EXPLORER 158
THE SCHOOL-BOY’S FAVORITE 159
ALBUMANIA 162
THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN 165
SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME 168
HOME-MADE RIDDLES 169
THE LOVELY CHILD 171
THE YELLOWBIRD 172
ENVOY 173
ARMAZINDY
ARMAZINDY
Armazindy;—fambily name
_Ballenger_,—you’ll find the same,
As her Daddy answered it,
In the old War-rickords yit,—
And, like him, she’s airnt the good
Will o’ all the neighborhood.—
Name ain’t down in _History_,—
But, i jucks! it _ort_ to be!
Folks is got respec’ fer _her_—
Armazindy Ballenger!—
’Specially the ones ’at knows
Fac’s o’ how her story goes
From the start:—Her father blowed
Up—eternally furloughed—
When the old “Sultana” bu’st,
And sich men wuz needed wusst.—
Armazindy, ’bout fourteen-
Year-old then—and thin and lean
As a killdee,—but—_my la!_—
Blamedest nerve you ever saw!
The girl’s mother’d _allus_ be’n
Sickly—wuz consumpted when
Word came ’bout her husband.—So
Folks perdicted _she’d_ soon go—
(Kind o’ grief _I_ understand,
Losin’ _my_ companion,—and
Still a widower—and still
Hinted at, like neighbers will!)
So, app’inted, as folks said,
Ballenger a-bein’ dead,
Widder, ’peared-like, gradjully,
Jes grieved after him tel _she_
Died, nex’ Aprile wuz a year,—
And in Armazindy’s keer
Leavin’ the two twins, as well
As her pore old miz’able
Old-maid aunty ’at had be’n
Struck with palsy, and wuz then
Jes a he’pless charge on _her_—
_Armazindy Ballenger_.
Jevver watch a primrose ’bout
Minute ’fore it blossoms out—
Kindo’ loosen-like, and blow
Up its muscles, don’t you know,
And, all suddent, bu’st and bloom
Out life-size?—Well, I persume
’At’s the only measure I
_Kin_ size Armazindy by!—
Jes a _child_, _one_ minute,—nex’,
_Woman-grown_, in all respec’s
And intents and purposuz—
’At’s what Armazindy wuz!
Jes a _child_, I tell ye! Yit
She made things git up and git
Round that little farm o’ hern!—
Shouldered all the whole concern;—
Feed the stock, and milk the cows—
Run the _farm_ and run the _house_!—
_Only_ thing she didn’t do
Wuz to plough and harvest too—
But the house and childern took
Lots o’ keer—and had to look
After her old fittified
Grandaunt.—Lord! ye could’a’ cried,
Seein’ Armazindy smile,
’Peared-like, sweeter all the while!
And I’ve heerd her laugh and say:—
“Jes afore Pap marched away,
He says, ‘I depend on _you_,
Armazindy, come what may—
You must be a Soldier, too!’”
Neighbers, from the fust, ’ud come—
And she’d _let_ ’em help her _some_,—
“Thanky, ma’am!” and “Thanky, sir!”
But no charity fer _her_!—
“_She_ could raise the means to pay
Fer her farm-hands ever’ day
Sich wuz needed!”—And she _could_—
In cash-money jes as good
As farm-produc’s ever brung
Their perducer, _old_ er young!
So folks humored her and smiled,
And at last wuz rickonciled
Fer to let her have her own
Way about it.—But a-goin’
Past to town, they’d stop and see
“Armazindy’s fambily,”
As they’d allus laugh and say,
And look sorry right away,
Thinkin’ of her Pap, and how
He’d indorse his “Soldier” now!
’Course _she_ couldn’t never be
Much in _young-folks’_ company—
Plenty of _in_-vites to go,
But das’t leave the house, you know—
’Less’n _Sund’ys_ sometimes, when
Some old _Granny_’d come and ’ten’
Things, while Armazindy _has_
Got away fer Church er “Class.”
Most the youngsters _liked_ her—and
’Twuzn’t hard to understand,—
Fer, by time she wuz sixteen,
Purtier girl you never seen—
’Ceptin’ she lacked schoolin’, ner
Couldn’t rag out stylisher—
Like some _neighber_-girls, ner thumb
On their blame’ melodium,
Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed
Round the old back-porch and washed
Their clothes fer ’em—rubbed and scrubbed
Fer girls’d ort to jes be’n clubbed!
—And jes sich a girl wuz Jule
Reddinhouse.—_She’d_ be’n to school
At _New Thessaly_, i gum!—
Fool before, but that he’pped _some_—
’Stablished-like more confidence
’At she _never_ had no sense.
But she wuz a cunnin’, sly,
Meek and lowly sort o’ lie,
’At men-folks like me and you
B’lieves jes ’cause we ortn’t to.—
Jes as purty as a snake,
And as _pizen_—mercy sake!
Well, about them times it wuz,
Young Sol Stephens th’ashed fer us;
And we sent him over to
Armazindy’s place to do
_Her_ work fer her.—And-sir! Well—
Mighty little else to tell,—
Sol he fell in love with her—
Armazindy Ballenger!
Bless ye!—’Ll, of all the love
’At I’ve ever yit knowed of,
That-air case o’ theirn beat all!
W’y, she _worshipped_ him!—And Sol,
’Peared-like, could ’a’ kissed the sod
(Sayin’ is) where that girl trod!
Went to town, she did, and bought
Lot o’ things ’at neighbers thought
Mighty strange fer _her_ to buy,—
Raal chintz dress-goods—and ’way high!—
Cut long in the skyrt,—also
Gaiter-pair o’ shoes, you know;
And lace collar;—yes, and fine
Stylish hat, with ivy-vine
And red ribbons, and these-’ere
Artificial flowers and queer
Little beads and spangles, and
Oysturch-feathers round the band!
Wore ’em, Sund’ys, fer a while—
Kindo’ went to Church in style,
Sol and Armazindy!—Tel
It was noised round purty well
They wuz _promised_.—And they wuz—
Sich news travels—well it does!—
Pity ’at _that_ did!—Fer jes
That-air fac’ and nothin’ less
Must ’a’ putt it in the mind
O’ Jule Reddinhouse to find
Out some dratted way to hatch
Out _some_ plan to break the match—
’Cause she _done_ it!—_How?_ they’s none
Knows adzac’ly _what_ she done;
_Some_ claims she writ letters to
Sol’s folks, up nigh Pleasant View
Somers—and described, you see,
“Armazindy’s fambily”—
Hintin’ “ef Sol married _her_,
He’d jes be pervidin’ fer
Them-air twins o’ hern, and old
Palsied aunt ’at couldn’t hold
Spoon to mouth, and layin’ near
Bedrid’ on to eighteen year’,
And still likely, ’pearantly,
To live out the century!”
Well—whatever plan Jule laid
Out to reach the p’int she made,
It wuz _desper’t_.—And she won,
Finully, by marryun
Sol herse’f—_e-lopin’_, too,
With him, like she _had_ to do,—
’Cause her folks ’ud allus swore
“Jule should never marry pore!”
This-here part the story I
Allus haf to hurry by,—
Way ’at Armazindy jes
Drapped back in her linsey dress,
And grabbed holt her loom, and shet
Her jaws square.—And ef she fret
Any ’bout it—never ’peared
Sign ’at _neighbers_ seed er heerd;—
Most folks liked her all the more—
I know _I_ did—certain-shore!—
(’Course _I’d_ knowed her _Pap_, and what
_Stock_ she come of.—Yes, and thought,
And think _yit_, no man on earth
’S worth as much as that girl’s worth!)
As fer Jule and Sol, they had
Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!—
Her folks let her go.—They said,
“Spite o’ them she’d made her bed
And must sleep in it!”—But she,
’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free
As she ust to—ner so _late_,
Ner so _fine_, I’m here to state!—
Sol wuz pore, of course, and she
Wuzn’t ust to poverty—
Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes
’Filiate with lonesomeness,—
’Cause Sol _he_ wuz off and out
With his th’asher nigh about
Half the time; er, season done,
He’d be off mi-anderun
Round the country, here and there,
Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air
Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit
Jule a bit!—and then, to boot,
_She_ had now the keer o’ two
Her own childern—and to do
Her own work and cookin’—yes,
And sometimes fer _hands_, I guess,
Well as fambily of her own.—
Cut her pride clean to the bone!
So how _could_ the whole thing end?—
She set down, one night, and penned
A short note, like—’at she sewed
On the childern’s blanket—blowed
Out the candle—pulled the door
To close after her—and, shore-
Footed as a cat is, clumb
In a rigg there and left home,
With a man a-drivin’ who
“Loved her ever fond and true,”
As her note went on to say,
When Sol read the thing next day.
Raally didn’t ’pear to be
Extry waste o’ sympathy
Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit,
Sake o’ them-air little bit
O’ two _orphants_—as you might
Call ’em _then_, by law and right,—
Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and
Tried to hold him out their hand
Same as allus: But he’d flinch—
Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch,
He let _all_ holts go; and so
Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,—
Tel, to make a long tale short,
He wuz fuller than he ort
To ’a’ be’n, at work one day
’Bout his th’asher, and give way,
Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched
In the beltin’.
... Rid and fetched
Armazindy to him.—He
Begged me to.—But time ’at she
Reached his side, he smiled and _tried_
To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died....
Hands all turned and left her there
And went somers else—_some_where.
Last, she called us back—in clear
Voice as man’ll ever hear—
Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me,
As her old Pap’s ust to be.—
Give us orders what to do
’Bout the body—he’pped us, too.
So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed
In Armazindy’s hands at last.
More’n that, she claimed ’at she
Had consent from him to be
Mother to his childern—now
’Thout no parents anyhow.
_Yes-sir!_ and she’s _got_ ’em, too,—
Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do—
So they let her have _her way_—
Like she’s doin’ yit to-day!
Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her—
Armazindy Ballenger—
To in-large her fambily
Jes _one_ more by takin’ _me_—
Which I’m feared she never will,
Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still.
THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED
O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy?
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed!
O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw
The stars through the window, and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed.
O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;
Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of
love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories my memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o’er the head
Once bowed o’er my own in the old trundle-bed.
NATURAL PERVERSITIES
I am not prone to moralize
In scientific doubt
On certain facts that Nature tries
To puzzle us about,—
For I am no philosopher
Of wise elucidation,
But speak of things as they occur,
From simple observation.
I notice _little_ things—to wit:—
I never missed a train
Because I didn’t _run_ for it;
I never knew it rain
That my umbrella wasn’t lent,—
Or, when in my possession,
The sun but wore, to all intent,
A jocular expression.
I never knew a creditor
To dun me for a debt
But I was “cramped” or “bu’sted”; or
I never knew one yet,
When I had plenty in my purse,
To make the least invasion,—
As I, accordingly perverse,
Have courted no occasion.
Nor do I claim to comprehend
What Nature has in view
In giving us the very friend
To trust we oughtn’t to.—
But so it is: The trusty gun
Disastrously exploded
Is always sure to be the one
We didn’t think was loaded.
Our moaning is another’s mirth,—
And what is worse by half,
We say the funniest thing on earth
And never raise a laugh:
’Mid friends that love us overwell,
And sparkling jests and liquor,
Our hearts somehow are liable
To melt in tears the quicker.
We reach the wrong when most we seek
The right; in like effect,
We stay the strong and not the weak—
Do most when we neglect.—
Neglected genius—truth be said—
As wild and quick as tinder,
The more you seek to help ahead
The more you seem to hinder.
I’ve known the least the greatest, too—
And, on the selfsame plan,
The biggest fool I ever knew
Was quite a little man:
We find we ought, and then we won’t—
We prove a thing, then doubt it,—
Know _everything_ but when we don’t
Know _anything_ about it.
THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM
He puts the poem by, to say
His eyes are not themselves to-day!
A sudden glamour o’er his sight—
A something vague, indefinite—
An oft-recurring blur that blinds
The printed meaning of the lines,
And leaves the mind all dusk and dim
In swimming darkness—strange to him!
It is not childishness, I guess,—
Yet something of the tenderness
That used to wet his lashes when
A boy seems troubling him again;—
The old emotion, sweet and wild,
That drove him truant when a child,
That he might hide the tears that fell
Above the lesson—“Little Nell.”
And so it is he puts aside
The poem he has vainly tried
To follow; and, as one who sighs
In failure, through a poor disguise
Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say
His eyes are not themselves to-day.
WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS
My dear old friends—It jes beats all,
The way you write a letter
So’s ever’ _last_ line beats the _first_,
And ever’ _next_-un’s better!—
W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down
You make so inte_rest_in’,
A feller, readin’ of ’em all,
Can’t tell which is the _best_-un.
It’s all so comfortin’ and good,
’Pears-like I almost _hear_ ye
And git more sociabler, you know,
And hitch my cheer up near ye
And jes smile on ye like the sun
Acrosst the whole per-rairies
In Aprile when the thaw’s begun
And country couples marries.
It’s all so good-old-fashioned like
To _talk_ jes like we’re _thinkin’_,
Without no hidin’ back o’ fans
And giggle-un and winkin’,
Ner sizin’ how each other’s dressed—
Like some is allus doin’,—
“_Is_ Marthy Ellen’s basque be’n _turned_
Er shore-enough a new-un!”—
Er “ef Steve’s city-friend hain’t jes
‘A _lee_tle kindo’-sorto’”—
Er “wears them-air blame’ eye-glasses
Jes ’cause he hadn’t ort to?”—
And so straight on, _dad-libitum_,
Tel all of us feels, _some_way,
Jes like our “comp’ny” wuz the best
When we git up to come ’way!
That’s why I like _old_ friends like _you_,—
Jes ’cause you’re so _abidin’_.—
Ef I wuz built to live “_fer keeps_,”
My principul residin’
Would be amongst the folks ’at kep’
Me allus _thinkin’_ of ’em,
And sorto’ eechin’ all the time
To tell ’em how I love ’em.—
Sich folks, you know, I jes love so
I wouldn’t live without ’em,
Er couldn’t even drap asleep
But what I _dreamp’_ about ’em,—
And ef we minded God, I guess
We’d _all_ love one another
Jes like one famb’ly,—me and Pap
And Madaline and Mother.
THE BLIND GIRL
If I might see his face to-day!—
He is so happy now!—To hear
His laugh is like a roundelay—
So ringing-sweet and clear!
His step—I heard it long before
He bounded through the open door
To tell his marriage.—Ah! so kind—
So good he is!—And I—so blind!
But thus he always came to me—
Me, first of all, he used to bring
His sorrow to—his ecstasy—
His hopes and everything;
And if I joyed with him or wept,
It was not long _the music_ slept,—
And if he sung, or if I played—
Or both,—we were the braver made.
I grew to know and understand
His every word at every call,—
The gate-latch hinted, and his hand
In mine confessed it all:
He need not speak one word to me—
He need not sigh—I need not see,—
But just the one touch of his palm,
And I would answer—song or psalm.
He wanted recognition—name—
He hungered so for higher things,—
The altitudes of power and fame,
And all that fortune brings:
Till, with his great heart fevered thus,
And aching as impetuous,
I almost wished sometimes that _he_
Were blind and patient made, like me.
But he has won!—I knew he would.—
Once in the mighty Eastern mart,
I knew his music only could
Be sung in every heart!
And when he proudly sent me this
From out the great metropolis,
I bent above the graven score
And, weeping, kissed it o’er and o’er.—
And yet not blither sing the birds
Than this glad melody,—the tune
As sweetly wedded with the words
As flowers with middle-June;
Had he not _told_ me, I had known
It was composed of love alone—
His love for _her_.—And she can see
His happy face eternally!—
While _I_—O God, forgive, I pray!—
Forgive me that I did so long
To look upon his face to-day!—
I know the wish was wrong.—
Yea, I am thankful that my sight
Is shielded safe from such delight:—
I can pray better, with this blur
Of blindness—both for him and her.
WE DEFER THINGS
We say and we say and we say,
We promise, engage and declare,
Till a year from to-morrow is yesterday,
And yesterday is—Where?
THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY
The Muskingum Valley!—How longin’ the gaze
A feller throws back on its long summer days,
When the smiles of its blossoms and _my_ smiles wuz one-
And-the-same, from the rise to the set o’ the sun:
Wher’ the hills sloped as soft as the dawn down to noon,
And the river run by like an old fiddle-tune,
And the hours glided past as the bubbles ’ud glide,
All so loaferin’-like, ’long the path o’ the tide.
In the Muskingum Valley—it ’peared-like the skies
Looked lovin’ on me as my own mother’s eyes,
While the laughin’-sad song of the stream seemed to be
Like a lullaby angels was wastin’ on me—
Tel, swimmin’ the air, like the gossamer’s thread,
’Twixt the blue underneath and the blue overhead,
My thoughts went astray in that so-to-speak realm
Wher’ Sleep bared her breast as a piller fer them.
In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far away,
I know that the winter is bleak there to-day—
No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees—
Wher’ the buds ust to bloom, now the icicles freeze.—
That the grass is all hid ’long the side of the road
Wher’ the deep snow has drifted and shifted and blowed—
And I feel in my life the same changes is there,—
The frost in my heart, and the snow in my hair.
But, Muskingum Valley! my memory sees
Not the white on the ground, but the green in the trees—
Not the froze’-over gorge, but the current, as clear
And warm as the drop that has jes trickled here;
Not the choked-up ravine, and the hills topped with snow,
But the grass and the blossoms I knowed long ago
When my little bare feet wundered down wher’ the stream
In the Muskingum Valley flowed on like a dream.
FOR THIS CHRISTMAS
Ye old-time stave that pealeth out
To Christmas revellers all,
At tavern-tap and wassail-bout,
And in ye banquet-hall.—
Whiles ye old burden rings again,
Add yet ye verse, as due:
“_God bless you, merry gentlemen_”—
_And gentlewomen, too!_
A POOR MAN’S WEALTH
A poor man? Yes, I must confess—
No wealth of gold do I possess;
No pastures fine, with grazing kine,
Nor fields of waving grain are mine;
No foot of fat or fallow land
Where rightfully my feet may stand
The while I claim it as my own—
By deed and title, mine alone.
Ah, poor indeed! perhaps you say—
But spare me your compassion, pray!—
When I ride not—with you—I walk
In Nature’s company, and talk
With one who will not slight or slur
The child forever dear to her—
And one who answers back, be sure,
With smile for smile, though I am poor.
And while communing thus, I count
An inner wealth of large amount,—
The wealth of honest purpose blent
With Penury’s environment,—
The wealth of owing naught to-day
But debts that I would gladly pay,
With wealth of thanks still unexpressed
With cumulative interest.—
A wealth of patience and content—
For all my ways improvident;
A faith still fondly exercised—
For all my plans unrealized;
A wealth of promises that still,
Howe’er I fail, I hope to fill;
A wealth of charity for those
Who pity me my ragged clothes.
A poor man? Yes, I must confess—
No wealth of gold do I possess;
No pastures fine, with grazing kine,
Nor fields of waving grain are mine;
But ah, my friend! I’ve wealth, no end!
For millionaires might condescend
To bend the knee and envy me
This opulence of poverty.
THE LITTLE RED RIBBON
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
The summer-time comes, and the summer-time goes—
And never a blossom in all of the land
As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!
The long winter months, and the glare of the snows;
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
And never a glimmer of sun in the skies
As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!
Dreams only are true; but they fade and are gone—
For her face is not here when I waken at dawn;
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose
_Mine_ only; _hers_ only the dream and repose.
I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears,
And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years,
Moaning over the one only song that it knows,—
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?”
“How did you rest, last night?”—
I’ve heard my gran’pap say
Them words a thousand times—that’s right—
Jes them words thataway!
As punctchul-like as morning dast
To ever heave in sight
Gran’pap ’ud allus haf to ast—
“How did you rest, last night?”
Us young-uns used to grin,
At breakfast, on the sly,
And mock the wobble of his chin
And eyebrows helt so high
And kind: “_How did you rest, last night?_”
We’d mumble and let on
Our voices trimbled, and our sight
Wuz dim, and hearin’ gone.
...
Bad as I ust to be,
All I’m a-wantin’ is
As puore and ca’m a sleep fer me
And sweet a sleep as his!
And so I pray, on Jedgment Day
To wake, and with its light
See _his_ face dawn, and hear him say—
“How did you rest, last night?”
A GOOD-BYE
“Good-bye, my friend!”
He takes her hand—
The pressures blend:
They understand
But vaguely why, with drooping eye,
Each moans—“Good-bye!—Good-bye!”
“Dear friend, good-bye!”
O she could smile
If she might cry
A little while!—
She says, “I _ought_ to smile—but I—
Forgive me—_There!_—Good-bye!”
“‘Good-bye?’ Ah, no:
I hate,” says he,
“These ‘good-byes’ so!”
“And _I_,” says she,
“Detest them so—why, I should _die_
Were this a _real_ ‘good-bye!’”
WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED
When Maimie married Charley Brown,
Joy took possession of the town;
The young folks swarmed in happy throngs—
They rang the bells—they carolled songs—
They carpeted the steps that led
Into the church where they were wed;
And up and down the altar-stair
They scattered roses everywhere;
When, in her orange-blossom crown,
Queen Maimie married Charley Brown.
So beautiful she was, it seemed
Men, looking on her, dreamed they dreamed;
And he, the holy man who took
Her hand in his, so thrilled and shook.
The gargoyles round the ceiling’s rim
Looked down and leered and grinned at him,
Until he half forgot his part
Of sanctity, and felt his heart
Beat worldward through his sacred gown—
When Maimie married Charley Brown.
The bridesmaids kissed her, left and right—
Fond mothers hugged her with delight—
Young men of twenty-seven were seen
To blush like lads of seventeen,
The while they held her hand to quote
Such sentiments as poets wrote.—
Yea, all the heads that Homage bends
Were bowed to her.—But O my friends,
_My_ hopes went up—_my_ heart went down—
When Maimie married—_Charley Brown!_
“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD”
I
This woman, with the dear child-heart,
Ye mourn as dead, is—where and what?
With faith as artless as her Art,
I question not,—
But dare divine, and feel, and know
Her blessedness—as hath been writ
In allegory.—Even so
I fashion it:—
II
A stately figure, rapt and awed
In her new guise of Angelhood,
Still lingered, wistful—knowing God
Was very good.—
Her thought’s fine whisper filled the pause;
And, listening, the Master smiled,
And lo! the stately angel was
—A little child.
TO A POET-CRITIC
Yes,—the bee sings—I confess it—
Sweet as honey—Heaven bless it!—
Yit he’d be a _sweeter_ singer
Ef he didn’t have no stinger.
AN OLD-TIMER
Here where the wayward stream
Is restful as a dream,
And where the banks o’erlook
A pool from out whose deeps
My pleased face upward peeps,
I cast my hook.
Silence and sunshine blent!—
A Sabbath-like content
Of wood and wave;—a free-
Hand landscape grandly wrought
Of Summer’s brightest thought
And mastery.—
For here form, light and shade,
And color—all are laid
With skill so rarely fine,
The eye may even see
The ripple tremblingly
Lip at the line.
I mark the dragon-fly
Flit waveringly by
In ever-veering flight,
Till, in a hush profound,
I see him eddy round
The “cork,” and—’light!
Ho! with the boy’s faith then
Brimming my heart again,
And knowing, soon or late,
The “nibble” yet shall roll
Its thrills along the pole,
I—breathless—wait.
THE SILENT VICTORS
MAY 30, 1878
_“Dying for victory, cheer on cheer_
_Thundered on his eager ear.”_
CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN.
I
Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation’s heart
Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away,
Who in grim Battle’s drama played their part,
And slumber here to-day.—
Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine
Of Freedom, while our country held its breath
As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line
And marched upon their death:
When Freedom’s Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed,
Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again
To shudder in the storm of battle-field—
The elements of men,—
When every star that glittered was a mark
For Treason’s ball, and every rippling bar
Of red and white was sullied with the dark
And purple stain of war:
When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey,
Were howling o’er their gory feast of lives,
And sending dismal echoes far away
To mothers, maids, and wives:—
The mother, kneeling in the empty night,
With pleading hands uplifted for the son
Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight—
The victory had won:
The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say
The babe was waiting for the sire’s caress—
The letter meeting that upon the way,—
The babe was fatherless:
The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed
Against the brow once dewy with her breath,
Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed
Save by the dews of death.
II
What meed of tribute can the poet pay
The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine
Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day
In epitaph design?—
Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows
That ache no longer with a dream of fame,
But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house,
Renown’d beyond the name.
The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall,
And tender morning with her shining hand
May brush them from the grasses green and tall
That undulate the land.—
Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift,
Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap,
Can yield us hope the Hero’s head to lift
Out of its dreamless sleep:
The dear old flag, whose faintest flutter flies
A stirring echo through each patriot breast,
Can never coax to life the folded eyes
That saw its wrongs redressed—
That watched it waver when the fight was hot,
And blazed with newer courage to its aid,
Regardless of the shower of shell and shot
Through which the charge was made;—
And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings,
Like some proud bird in stormy element,
And soar untrammelled on its wanderings,
They closed in death, content.
III
O mother, you who miss the smiling face
Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight,
And left you weeping o’er the vacant place
He used to fill at night,—
Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day
That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns
That drowned the farewell words you tried to say
To incoherent ones;—
Be glad and proud you had the life to give—
Be comforted through all the years to come,—
Your country has a longer life to live,
Your son a better home.
O widow, weeping o’er the orphaned child,
Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send
A keener pang to grief unreconciled,—
Teach him to comprehend
He had a father brave enough to stand
Before the fire of Treason’s blazing gun,
That, dying, he might will the rich old land
Of Freedom to his son.
And, maiden, living on through lonely years
In fealty to love’s enduring ties,—
With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears
That gather in your eyes,
Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer,
Submission to the will of Heaven’s High Host:—
I see your Angel-soldier pacing there,
Expectant at his post.—
I see the rank and file of armies vast,
That muster under one supreme control;
I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast—
The calling of the roll—
The grand divisions falling into line
And forming, under voice of One alone,
Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine
The hymn that shakes the Throne.
IV
And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest
In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom
And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best,
In silence o’er the tomb.
With reverent hands we twine the Hero’s wreath
And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone
That stands the sentinel for each beneath
Whose glory is our own.
While in the violet that greets the sun,
We see the azure eye of some lost boy;
And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one
We kissed in childish joy,—
Recalling, haply, when he marched away,
He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet.—
The kiss he gave his mother’s brow that day
Is there and burning yet:
And through the storm of grief around her tossed,
One ray of saddest comfort she may see,—
Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost
To weeping Liberty.
...
But draw aside the drapery of gloom,
And let the sunshine chase the clouds away
And gild with brighter glory every tomb
We decorate to-day:
And in the holy silence reigning round,
While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere,
Where loyal souls of love and faith are found,
Thank God that Peace is here!
And let each angry impulse that may start,
Be smothered out of every loyal breast;
And, rocked within the cradle of the heart,
Let every sorrow rest.
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE
Up and down old Brandywine,
In the days ’at’s past and gone—
With a dad-burn hook-and-line
And a saplin’-pole—i swawn!
I’ve had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever _any_where!
Heaven to come can’t discount _mine_,
Up and down old Brandywine!
Hain’t no sense in _wishin’_—yit
Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes
“Gee” the blame’ world round and git
Back to that old happiness!—
Kindo’ drive back in the shade
“The old Covered Bridge” there laid
’Crosst the crick, and sorto’ soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!
Honest, now!—it hain’t no _dream_
’At I’m wantin’,—but _the fac’s_
As they wuz; the same old stream,
And the same old times, i jacks!—
Gimme back my bare feet—and
Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!—
And let hottest dog-days shine
Up and down old Brandywine!
In and on betwixt the trees
’Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo’ curdled with the breeze
And the yallerhammer’s tune;
And the smokin’, chokin’ dust
O’ the turnpike at its wusst—
_Saturd’ys_, say, when it seems
Road’s jes jammed with country teams!
Whilse the old town, fur away
’Crosst the hazy pastur’-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o’ day
Peaceful’ as a hired hand.
Jolt the gravel th’ough the floor
O’ the ole bridge!—grind and roar
With yer blame’ percession-line—
Up and down old Brandywine!
Souse me and my new straw hat
Off the foot-log!—what _I_ care?—
Fist shoved in the crown o’ that—
Like the old Clown ust to wear.—
Wouldn’t swop it fer a’ old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o’ gold!—
Keep yer _King_ ef you’ll gim me
Jes the boy I ust to be!
Spill my fishin’-worms! er steal
My best “goggle-eye!”—but you
Can’t lay hands on joys I feel
Nibblin’ like they ust to do!
So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my “cork” and saggin’ line,
Up and down old Brandywine!
There the logs is, round the hill,
Where “Old Irvin” ust to lift
Out sunfish from daylight till
Dewfall—’fore he’d leave “The Drift”
And give _us_ a chance—and then
Kindo’ fish back home again,
Ketchin’ ’em jes left and right
Where _we_ hadn’t got “a bite”!
Er, ’way windin’ out and in,—
Old path th’ough the iurnweeds
And dog-fennel to yer chin—
Then come suddent, th’ough the reeds
And cattails, smack into where
Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare
Us clean ’crosst the County-line,
Up and down old Brandywine!
But the dim roar o’ the dam
It ’ud coax us furder still
To’rds the old race, slow and ca’m,
Slidin’ on to Huston’s mill—
Where, I ’spect, “the Freeport crowd”
Never _warmed_ to us er ’lowed
We wuz quite so overly
Welcome as we aimed to be.
Still it ’peared-like ever’thing—
Fur away from home as _there_—
Had more _relish_-like, i jing!—
Fish in stream, er bird in air!
O them rich old bottom-lands,
Past where Cowden’s School-house stands!
Wortermelons!—_master-mine!_
Up and down old Brandywine!
And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o’ raw
Gold and green,—jes oozy th’ough
With ripe yallar—like you’ve saw
Custard-pie with no crust to:
And jes _gorges_ o’ wild plums
Till a feller’d suck his thumbs
Clean up to his elbows! _My!_—
_Me some more er lem me die!_
Up and down old Brandywine!...
Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—
Flick me with a pizen-vine
And yell “_Yip!_” and lem me loose!
—Old now as I then wuz young,
’F I could sing as I _have_ sung,
Song ’ud shorely ring _dee-vine_
Up and down old Brandywine!
THREE SINGING FRIENDS
I
LEE O. HARRIS
Schoolmaster and Songmaster! Memory
Enshrines thee with an equal love, for thy
Duality of gifts,—thy pure and high
Endowments—Learning rare, and Poesy.
These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee,
Throughout all seasons of the years gone by,
With all enduring joys ’twixt earth and sky—
In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me.
Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on,
Is endless inspiration, fresh and free
As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine;
And musical as then, at dewy dawn,
The robin hailed us, and all twinklingly
Our one path wandered under wood and vine.
II
BENJAMIN S. PARKER
Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light
And shadow mystical as some dreamland
Arched with unfathomed azure—vast and grand
With splendor of the morn; or dazzling bright
With orient noon; or strewn with stars of night
Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned
By odorous midsummer breezes and
Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite.
This is thy voiced beatific art—
To make melodious all things below,
Calling through them, from far, diviner space,
Thy clearer hail to us.—The faltering heart
Thou cheerest; and thy fellow-mortal so
Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face.
III
JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS
Bard of our Western world!—its prairies wide,
With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways;
Its isolated farms, with roundelays
Of orchard warblers heard on every side;
Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide
Thy fondest memories,—since there thy gaze
First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise
Of that, didst find thine own song glorified.
So singing, smite the strings and counterchange
The lucently melodious drippings of
Thy happy harp, from airs of “Tempe Vale,”
To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range,
In praise of our To-day and home and love—
Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale.
A NOON LULL
’Possum in de ’tater-patch;
Chicken-hawk a-hangin’
Stiddy ’bove de stable-lot,
An’ cyarpet-loom a-bangin’!
Hi! Mr. Hoppergrass, chawin’ yo’ terbacker,
Flick ye wid er buggy-whirp yer spit er little blacker!
Niggah in de roas’in’-yeers,
Whiskers in de shuckin’;
Weasel croppin’ mighty shy,
But ole hen a-cluckin’!
—What’s got de matter er de mule-colt now?
Drapt in de turnip-hole, chasin’ f’um de cow!
A WINDY DAY
The dawn was a dawn of splendor,
And the blue of the morning skies
Was as placid and deep and tender
As the blue of a baby’s eyes;
The sunshine flooded the mountain,
And flashed over land and sea
Like the spray of a glittering fountain.—
But the wind—the wind—Ah me!
Like a weird invisible spirit,
It swooped in its airy flight;
And the earth, as the stress drew near it,
Quailed as in mute affright;
The grass in the green fields quivered—
The waves of the smitten brook
Chillily shuddered and shivered,
And the reeds bowed down and shook.
Like a sorrowful miserere
It sobbed, and it blew and blew,
Till the leaves on the trees looked weary,
And my prayers were weary, too;
And then, like the sunshine’s glimmer
That failed in the awful strain,
All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer
In a spatter of spiteful rain.
MY HENRY
He’s jes a great, big, awk’ard, hulkin’
Feller,—humped, and sorto’ sulkin’-
Like, and ruther still-appearin’—
Kind-as-ef he wuzn’t keerin’
Whether school helt out er not—
That’s my Henry, to a dot!
Allus kindo’ liked him—whether
Childern, er growed-up together!
Fifteen year’ ago and better,
’Fore he ever knowed a letter,
Run acrosst the little fool
In my Primer-class at school.
When the Teacher wuzn’t lookin’,
He’d be th’owin’ wads; er crookin’
Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more’n
Likely, on the stove; er borin’
Gimlet-holes up thue his desk—
Nothin’ _that_ boy wouldn’t resk!
But, somehow, as I was goin’
On to say, he seemed so knowin’,
_Other_ ways, and cute and cunnin’—
Allus wuz a notion runnin’
Thue my giddy, fool-head he
Jes had be’n cut out fer me!
Don’t go much on _prophesyin’_,
But last night whilse I wuz fryin’
Supper, with that man a-pitchin’
Little Marthy round the kitchen,
Think-says-I, “Them baby’s eyes
Is my Henry’s, jes p’cise!”
THE SONG I NEVER SING
As when in dreams we sometimes hear
A melody so faint and fine
And musically sweet and clear,
It flavors all the atmosphere
With harmony divine,—
So, often in my waking dreams,
I hear a melody that seems
Like fairy voices whispering
To me the song I never sing.
Sometimes when brooding o’er the years
My lavish youth has thrown away—
When all the glowing past appears
But as a mirage that my tears
Have crumbled to decay,—
I thrill to find the ache and pain
Of my remorse is stilled again,
As, forward bent and listening,
I hear the song I never sing.
A murmuring of rhythmic words,
Adrift on tunes whose currents flow
Melodious with the trill of birds,
And far-off lowing of the herds
In lands of long ago;
And every sound the truant loves
Comes to me like the coo of doves
When first in blooming fields of Spring
I heard the song I never sing.
The echoes of old voices, wound
In limpid streams of laughter where
The river Time runs bubble-crowned,
And giddy eddies ripple round
The lilies growing there;
Where roses, bending o’er the brink,
Drain their own kisses as they drink,
And ivies climb and twine and cling
About the song I never sing.
An ocean-surge of sound that falls
As though a tide of heavenly art
Had tempested the gleaming halls
And crested o’er the golden walls
In showers on my heart....
Thus—thus, with open arms and eyes
Uplifted toward the alien skies,
Forgetting every earthly thing,
I hear the song I never sing.
O nameless lay, sing clear and strong,
Pour down thy melody divine
Till purifying floods of song
Have washed away the stains of wrong
That dim this soul of mine!
O woo me near and nearer thee,
Till my glad lips may catch the key,
And, with a voice unwavering,
Join in the song I never sing.
TO EDGAR WILSON NYE
O “William,”—in thy blithe companionship
What liberty is mine—what sweet release
From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!
Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tip
That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip
That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase
Of merriment! So, pray-thee, do not cease
To cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quip
Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret
Of all distress is stilled—no syllable
Of sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wet
My teeming lids save those that leap to tell
Thee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yet
Only because thou jokest overwell.
LITTLE DAVID
The mother of the little boy that sleeps
Has blest assurance, even as she weeps:
She knows her little boy has now no pain—
No further ache, in body, heart or brain;
All sorrow is lulled for him—all distress
Passed into utter peace and restfulness.—
All health that heretofore has been denied—
All happiness, all hope, and all beside
Of childish longing, now he clasps and keeps
In voiceless joy—the little boy that sleeps.
OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
The land that the Lord’s love rests upon;
Where one may rely on the friends he meets,
And the smiles that greet him along the streets:
Where the mother that left you years ago
Will lift the hands that were folded so,
And put them about you, with all the love
And tenderness you are dreaming of.
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,—
Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you,
Will laugh again as he used to do,
Running to meet you, with such a face
As lights like a moon the wondrous place
Where God is living, and glad to live,
Since He is the Master and may forgive.
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON!—
Stay the hopes we are leaning on—
You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes
Looking down from the far-away skies,—
Smile upon us, and reach and take
Our worn souls Home for the old home’s sake.—
And so Amen,—for our all seems gone
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON.
RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES
Rabbit in the cross-ties.—
Punch him out—quick!
Git a twister on him
With a long prong stick.
Watch him on the south side—
Watch him on the—Hi!—
There he goes! Sic him, Tige!
Yi! Yi!! Yi!!!
SERENADE—TO NORA
The moonlight is failin’—
The sad stars are palin’—
The black wings av night are a-dhroopin’ an’ trailin’;
The wind’s miserere
Sounds lonesome an’ dreary;
The katydid’s dumb an’ the nightingale’s weary.
Troth, Nora! I’m wadin’
The grass an’ paradin’
The dews at your dure, wid my swate serenadin’,
Alone and forsaken,
Whilst you’re never wakin’
To tell me you’re wid me an’ I am mistaken!
Don’t think that my singin’
It’s wrong to be flingin’
Forninst av the dreams that the Angels are bringin’;
For if your pure spirit
Might waken and hear it,
You’d never be draamin’ the Saints could come near it!
Then lave off your slaapin’—
The pulse av me’s laapin’
To have the two eyes av yez down on me paapin’.
Och, Nora! It’s hopin’
Your windy ye’ll open
And light up the night where the heart av me’s gropin’.
THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE
As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
The man on the coal-cart jerked his lines,
And smutted the lid of either eye,
And turned and stared at the business signs;
And the street-car driver stopped and beat
His hands on his shoulders, and gazed up-street
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky—
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
A stranger petted a ragged child
In the crowded walks, and she knew not why,
But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled;
And a boot-black thrilled with a pleasure strange,
As a customer put back his change
With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh,
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
A man looked out of a window dim,
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry,
For a dead child even were dear to him!
And he thought of his empty life, and said:—
“Loveless alive, and loveless dead—
Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!”
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
WHAT REDRESS
I pray you, do not use this thing
For vengeance; but if questioning
What wound, when dealt your humankind,
Goes deepest,—surely he will find
Who wrongs _you_, loving _him_ no less—
There’s nothing hurts like tenderness.
DREAMER, SAY
Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,
Whose border sips of a foaming sea
With lips of coral and silver sand;
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
Or lave themselves in the tearful mist
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
O’er crags of opal and amethyst?
Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,
Where the lily leans o’er an amber stream
That flows like a rill of wasted wine,—
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
Parry the shafts of the Indian sun
Whose splintering vengeance falls between
The reeds below where the waters run?
Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
That lives in a land of sweet perfume,
Where the stars drip down from the skies above
In molten spatters of bud and bloom?
Where never the weary eyes are wet,
And never a sob in the balmy air,
And only the laugh of the paroquet
Breaks the sleep of the silence there?
WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_
When Lide married _him_—w’y, she had to jes dee-fy
The whole popilation!—But she never bat’ an eye!
Her parents begged, and _threatened_—she must give him up—that _he_
Wuz jes “a common drunkard!”—And he _wuz_, appearantly.—
Swore they’d chase him off the place
Ef he ever showed his face—
Long after she’d _eloped_ with him and _married_ him fer shore!—
When Lide married _him_, it wuz “_Katy, bar the door!_”
When Lide married _him_—Well! she had to go and be
A _hired girl_ in town somewheres—while he tromped round to see
What _he_ could git that _he_ could do,—you might say, jes sawed wood
From door to door!—that’s what he done—’cause that wuz best he could!
And the strangest thing, i jing!
Wuz, he didn’t _drink_ a thing,—
But jes got down to bizness, like he someway _wanted_ to,
When Lide married _him_, like they warned her _not_ to do!
When Lide married _him_—er, ruther, _had_ be’n married
A little up’ards of a year—some feller come and carried
That _hired girl_ away with him—a ruther _stylish_ feller
In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:
And he whispered, as they driv
To’rds the country, “_Now we’ll live!_”—
And _somepin’ else_ she _laughed_ to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,
’Bout “_trustin’ Love and Heav’n above_, sence Lide married _him_!”
MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE
O Soul of mine, look out and see
My bride, my bride that is to be!—
Reach out with mad, impatient hands,
And draw aside futurity
As one might draw a veil aside—
And so unveil her where she stands
Madonna-like and glorified—
The queen of undiscovered lands
Of love, to where she beckons me—
My bride, my bride that is to be.
The shadow of a willow-tree
That wavers on a garden-wall
In summer-time may never fall
In attitude as gracefully
As my fair bride that is to be;—
Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown
As lightly flutter to the lawn
As fall her fairy-feet upon
The path of love she loiters down.—
O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet
Not one may stain her sandal wet—
Ay, she might _dance_ upon the way
Nor crush a single drop to spray,
So airy-like she seems to me,—
My bride, my bride that is to be.
I know not if her eyes are light
As summer skies or dark as night,—
I only know that they are dim
With mystery: In vain I peer
To make their hidden meaning clear.
While o’er their surface, like a tear
That ripples to the silken brim,
A look of longing seems to swim
All worn and weary-like to me;
And then, as suddenly, my sight
Is blinded with a smile so bright,
Through folded lids I still may see
My bride, my bride that is to be.
Her face is like a night of June
Upon whose brow the crescent-moon
Hangs pendent in a diadem
Of stars, with envy lighting them.—
And, like a wild cascade, her hair
Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,
Till only through a gleaming mist
I seem to see a Siren there,
With lips of love and melody
And open arms and heaving breast
Wherein I fling myself to rest,
The while my heart cries hopelessly
For my fair bride that is to be.
...
Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!
My bride hath need of no disguise.—
But, rather, let her come to me
In such a form as bent above
My pillow when, in infancy,
I knew not anything but love.—
O let her come from out the lands
Of Womanhood—not fairy isles,—
And let her come with Woman’s hands
And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,—
With Woman’s hopefulness and grace
Of patience lighting up her face:
And let her diadem be wrought
Of kindly deed and prayerful thought,
That ever over all distress
May beam the light of cheerfulness.—
And let her feet be brave to fare
The labyrinths of doubt and care,
That, following, my own may find
The path to Heaven God designed.—
O let her come like this to me—
My bride—my bride that is to be.
“RINGWORM FRANK”
Jest Frank Reed’s his _real_ name—though
Boys all calls him “Ringworm Frank,”
’Cause he allus _runs round_ so.—
No man can’t tell where to bank
_Frank_’ll be,
Next you see
Er _hear_ of him!—Drat his melts!—
That man’s allus _somers else_!
We’re old pards.—But Frank he jest
_Can’t_ stay still!—Wuz _prosper’n’_ here,
But lit out on furder West
Somers on a ranch, last year:
Never heard
Nary a word
_How_ he liked it, tel to-day,
Got this card, reads thisaway:—
“Dad-burn climate out here makes
Me homesick all Winter long,
And when Springtime _comes_, it takes
Two pee-wees to sing one song,—
One sings ‘_pee_,’
And the other one ‘_wee!_’
Stay right where you air, old pard,—
Wisht _I_ wuz this postal card!”
AN EMPTY GLOVE
I
An empty glove—long withering in the grasp
Of Time’s cold palm. I lift it to my lips,—
And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp,
In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips
It reaches from the years that used to be
And proffers back love, life and all, to me.
II
Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief:
Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon’s;
Her eyes—too large for small delight or grief,—
The smiles of them were Laughter’s afternoons;
Their tears were April showers, and their love—
All sweetest speech swoons ere it speaks thereof.
III
White-fruited cocoa shown against the shell
Were not so white as was her brow below
The cloven tresses of the hair that fell
Across her neck and shoulders of nude snow;
Her cheeks—chaste pallor, with a crimson stain—
Her mouth was like a red rose rinsed with rain.
IV
And this was she my fancy held as good—
As fair and lovable—in every wise
As peerless in pure worth of womanhood
As was her wondrous beauty in men’s eyes.—
Yet, all alone, I kiss this empty glove—
The poor husk of the hand I loved—and love.
OUR OWN
They walk here with us, hand-in-hand;
We gossip, knee-by-knee;
They tell us all that they have planned—
Of all their joys to be,—
And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day,
All desolate we cry
Across wide waves of voiceless graves—
Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye!
MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY
_THE FROG_
_Who am I but the Frog—the Frog!_
_My realm is the dark bayou,_
_And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log_
_That the poison-vine clings to—_
_And the black-snakes slide in the slimy tide_
_Where the ghost of the moon looks blue._
_What am I but a King—a King!—_
_For the royal robes I wear—_
_A sceptre, too, and a signet-ring,_
_As vassals and serfs declare:_
_And a voice, god wot, that is equalled not_
_In the wide world anywhere!_
_I can talk to the Night—the Night!—_
_Under her big black wing_
_She tells me the tale of the world outright,_
_And the secret of everything;_
_For she knows you all, from the time you crawl,_
_To the doom that death will bring._
_The Storm swoops down, and he blows—and blows,—_
_While I drum on his swollen cheek,_
_And croak in his angered eye that glows_
_With the lurid lightning’s streak;_
_While the rushes drown in the watery frown_
_That his bursting passions leak._
_And I can see through the sky—the sky—_
_As clear as a piece of glass;_
_And I can tell you the how and why_
_Of the things that come to pass—_
_And whether the dead are there instead,_
_Or under the graveyard grass._
_To your Sovereign lord all hail—all hail!—_
_To your Prince on his throne so grim!_
_Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail_
_Their heads in the dust to him;_
_And the wide world sing: Long live the King,_
_And grace to his royal whim!_
“TWIGGS AND TUDENS”
If my old school-chum and room-mate John Skinner is alive to-day—and
no doubt he _is_ alive, and quite so, being, when last heard from, the
very alert and effective Train Dispatcher at Butler, Indiana,—he will
not have forgotten a certain night in early June (the 8th) of 1870,
in “Old Number ’Leven” of the Dunbar House, Greenfield, when he and I
sat the long night through, getting ready a famous issue of our old
school-paper, “The Criterion.” And he will remember, too, the queer
old man who occupied, but that one night, the room just opposite our
own, Number 13. For reasons wholly aside from any superstitious dread
connected with the numerals, 13 was not a desirable room; its locality
was alien to all accommodations, and its comforts, like its furnishings,
were extremely meagre. In fact, it was the room usually assigned to the
tramp-printer, who, in those days, was an institution; or again, it was
the local habitation of the oft-recurring transient customer who was too
incapacitated to select a room himself when he retired—or rather, when he
was personally retired by “the hostler,” as the gentlemanly night-clerk
of that era was habitually designated.
As both Skinner and myself—between fitful terms of school—had
respectively served as “printer’s devil” in the two rival newspaper
offices of the town, it was natural for us to find a ready interest
in anything pertaining to the newspaper business; and so it was,
perhaps, that we had been selected, by our own approval and that of our
fellow-students of The Graded Schools, to fill the rather exalted office
of editing “The Criterion.” Certain it is that the rather abrupt rise
from the lowly duties of the “roller” to the editorial management of a
paper of our own (even if issued in handwriting) we accepted as a natural
right; and, vested in our new power of office, we were largely “shaping
the whisper of the throne” about our way.
And upon this particular evening it was, as John and I had fairly squared
ourselves for the work of the night, that we heard the clatter and
shuffle of feet on the side-stairs, and, an instant later, the hostler
establishing some poor unfortunate in 13, just across the hall.
“Listen!” said John, as we heard an old man’s voice through the open
transom of our door,—“listen at that!”
It was an utterance peculiarly refined, in language as well as
intonation. A low, mild, rather apologetic voice, gently assuring the
hostler that “everything was very snug and comfortable indeed—so far as
the _compartment_ was concerned—but would not the _attendant_ kindly
supply a better light, together with pen-and-ink—and just a sheet or two
of paper,—if he would be so very good as to find a pardon for so very
troublesome a guest.”
“Hain’t no writin’-paper,” said the hostler, briefly,—“and the big lamps
is all in use. These fellers here in ’Leven might let you have some paper
and—Hain’t _you_ got a lead-pencil?”
“Oh, no matter!” came the impatient yet kindly answer of the old
voice—“no matter at all, my good fellow!—Good night—good night!”
We waited till the sullen, clumpy footsteps down the hall and stair had
died away.
Then Skinner, with a handful of foolscap, opened our door; and, with
an indorsing smile from me, crossed the hall and tapped at 13—was
admitted—entered, and very quietly closed the door behind him, evidently
that I might not be disturbed.
I wrote on in silence for quite a time. It was, in fact, a full half-hour
before John had returned,—and with a face and eye absolutely blazing with
delight.
“An old printer,” whispered John, answering my look,—“and we’re in
luck:—He’s a _genius_, ’y God! and an Englishman, and knows Dickens
_personally_—used to write races with him, and’s got a manuscript of his
in his ‘portmanteau,’ as he calls an old oil-cloth knapsack with one lung
clean gone. Excuse this extra light.—Old man’s lamp’s like a sore eye,
and he’s going to touch up the Dickens sketch for _us_! _Hear?_—_For
us_—for ‘The Criterion.’ Says he can’t sleep—he’s in distress—has
a presentiment—some dear friend is dying—or dead now—and he must
write—_write_!”
This is, in briefest outline, the curious history of the subjoined
sketch, especially curious for the reason that the following morning’s
cablegram announced that the great novelist, Charles Dickens, had been
stricken suddenly and seriously the night previous. On the day of this
announcement—even as “The Criterion” was being read to perfunctorily
interested visitors of The Greenfield Graded Schools—came the further
announcement of Mr. Dickens’s death. The old printer’s manuscript, here
reproduced, is, as originally, captioned—
TWIGGS AND TUDENS
“Now who’d want a more cosier little home than me and Tude’s got here?”
asked Mr. Twiggs, as his twinkling eyes swept caressingly around the
cheery little room in which he, alone, stood one chill December evening
as the great St. Paul’s was drawling six.
“This ain’t no princely hall with all its gorgeous paraphanaly, as the
play-bills says; but it’s what I calls a’ ‘interior,’ which for meller
comfort and cheerful surroundin’s ain’t to be ekalled by no other
‘flat’ on the boundless, never-endin’ stage of this existence!” And
as the exuberant Mr. Twiggs rendered this observation, he felt called
upon to smile and bow most graciously to an invisible audience, whose
wild approval he in turn interpreted by an enthusiastic clapping of his
hands and the cry of “Ongcore!” in a dozen different keys—this strange
acclamation being made the more grotesque by a great green parrot perched
upon the mantel, which, in a voice less musical than penetrating, chimed
in with “Hooray for Twiggs and Tudens!” a very great number of times.
“Tude’s a queer girl,” said Mr. Twiggs, subsiding into a reflective calm,
broken only by the puffing of his pipe, and the occasional articulation
of a thought, as it loitered through his mind. “Tude’s a queer girl!—a
werry queer girl!” repeated Mr. Twiggs, pausing again, with a long whiff
at his pipe, and marking the graceful swoop the smoke made as it dipped
and disappeared up the wide, black-throated chimney; and then, as though
dropping into confidence with the great fat kettle on the coals, that
steamed and bubbled with some inner paroxysm, he added, “And queer and
nothink short, is the lines for Tude, eh?
“Now s’posin’,” he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a tone
whose careful intonation might have suggested a more than ordinary depth
of wisdom and sagacity,—“s’posin’ a pore chap like me, as ain’t no
property only this-’ere ‘little crooked house,’ as Tude calls it, and
some o’ the properties I ’andles at the Drury—as I was a-sayin’,—s’posin’
now a’ old rough chap like me was jest to tell her all about herself, and
who she is and all, and not no kith or kin o’ mine, let alone a daughter,
as _she_ thinks—What do you reckon now ’ud be the upshot, eh?” And as Mr.
Twiggs propounded this mysterious query he jabbed the poker prankishly
in the short-ribs of the grate, at which the pot, as though humoring a
joke it failed to comprehend wholly, set up a chuckling of such asthmatic
violence that its smothered cachinnations tilted its copper lid till Mr.
Twiggs was obliged to dash a cup of water in its face.
“And Tude’s a-comin’ of a’ age, too,” continued Mr. Twiggs, “when a more
tenderer pertecter than a father, so to speak, wouldn’t be out o’ keepin’
with the nat’ral order o’ things, seein’ as how she’s sorto’ startin’
for herself-like now. And it’s a question in my mind, if it ain’t my
bounden duty as her father—or ruther, who has been a father to her all
her life—to kindo’ tell her jest how things is, and all—and how _I_ am,
and everythink,—and how I feel as though I ort’o stand by her, as I allus
have, and allus _have_ had her welfare in view, and kindo’ feel as how I
allus—ort’o kindo’—ort’o kindo’”—and here Mr. Twiggs’s voice fell into
silence so abruptly that the drowsy parrot started from its trance-like
quiet and cried “Ortokindo! Ortokindo!” with such a strength of seeming
mockery that it was brushed violently to the floor by the angry hand of
Mr. Twiggs and went backing awkwardly beneath the table.
“Blow me,” said Mr. Twiggs, “if the knowin’ impidence of that-’ere bird
ain’t astonishin’!” And then, after a serious controversy with the
draught of his pipe, he went on with his deliberations.
“Lor! it were jest scrumptious to see Tude in ‘The Iron Chest’ last
night! Now, I ain’t no actur myself,—I’ve been on, of course, a thousand
times as ‘fillin’,’ ‘sogers’ and ‘peasants’ and the like, where I never
had no lines, on’y in the ‘choruses’; but if I don’t know nothin’ but
‘All hail!—All hail!’ I’ve had the experience of bein’ under the baleful
hinfluence of the hoppery-glass, and I’m free to say it air a ticklish
position and no mistake. But _Tude_! w’y, bless you, she warn’t the
first bit flustered, was she? ’Peared-like she jest felt perfectly at
home-like—like her mother afore her! And I’m dashed if I didn’t feel the
cold chills a-creepin’ and a-crawlin’ when she was a-singin’ ‘Down by the
river there grows a green willer and a-weepin’ all night with the bank
for her piller’; and when she come to the part about wantin’ to be buried
there ’while the winds was a-blowin’ close by the stream where her tears
was a-flowin’, and over her corpse to keep the green willers growin’,’
I’m d—d if I didn’t blubber right out!” And as the highly sympathetic Mr.
Twiggs delivered this acknowledgment, he stroked the inner corners of his
eyes, and rubbed his thumb and finger on his trousers.
“It were a tryin’ thing, though,” he went on, his mellow features
settling into a look not at all in keeping with his shiny complexion—“it
were a tryin’ thing, and it _air_ a tryin’ thing to see them lovely arms
o’ hern a-twinin’ so lovin’-like around that-’ere Stanley’s neck and
a-kissin’ of him—as she’s obleeged to do, of course—as the ‘properties’
of the play demands; but I’m blowed if she wouldn’t do it quite so
nat’ral-like I’d feel easier. Blow me!” he broke off savagely, starting
up and flinging his pipe in the ashes, “I’m about a-comin’ to the
conclusion I ain’t got no more courage’n a blasted school-boy! Here I am
old enough to be her father—mighty nigh it—and yet I’m actually afeard to
speak up and tell her jest how things is, and all, and how I feel like
I—like I—ort’o—ort’o—”
“_Ortokindo! Ortokindo!_” shrieked the parrot, clinging in a reversed
position to the under-round of a chair.—“_Ortokindo! Ortokindo! Tude’s
come home!—Tude’s come home!_” And as though in happy proof of this
latter assertion, the gentle Mr. Twiggs found his chubby neck encircled
by a pair of rosy arms, and felt upon his cheek the sudden pressure of
a pair of lips that thrilled his old heart to the core. And then the
noisy bird dropped from its perch and marched pompously from its place of
concealment, trailing its rusty wings and shrieking, “Tude’s come home!”
at the top of its brazen voice.
“Shet up!” screamed Mr. Twiggs, with a pretended gust of rage, kicking
lamely at the feathered oracle; “I’ll ‘Tude’s-come-home’ ye! W’y, a
feller can’t hear his _ears_ for your infernal squawkin’!” And then,
turning toward the serious eyes that peered rebukingly into his own, his
voice fell gentle as a woman’s: “Well, there, Tudens, I beg parding;
I do indeed. Don’t look at me thataway. I know I’m a great, rough,
good-for—”But a warm, swift kiss cut short the utterance; and as the girl
drew back, still holding the bright old face between her tender palms, he
said simply, “You’re a queer girl, Tudens; a queer girl.”
“Ha! am I?” said the girl, in quite evident heroics and quotation,
starting back with a theatrical flourish and falling into a fantastic
attitude.—“‘Troth, I am sorry for it; me poor father’s heart is bursting
with gratichude, and he would fain ease it by pouring out his thanks to
his benefactor.’”
“Werry good! Werry good, indeed!” said Mr. Twiggs, gazing wistfully upon
the graceful figure of the girl. “You’re a-growin’ more wonderful’ clever
in your ‘presence’ every day, Tude. You don’t think o’ nothink else but
your actin’, do ye, now?” And, as Mr. Twiggs concluded his observations,
a something very like a sigh came faltering from his lips.
“Why, listen there! Ah-ha!” laughed Tude, clapping her hands and
dancing gayly around his chair.—“Why, you old melancholy Dane, you!
are you actually _sighing_?” Then, dropping into a tragic air of deep
contrition, she continued: “‘But, believe me, I would not question you,
but to console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any one’s grief,
much more yours, Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity.’”
“Oh, don’t, Tude; don’t _rehearse_ like that at me!—I can’t a-bear it.”
And the serious Mr. Twiggs held out his hand as though warding off a
blow. At this appeal the girl’s demeanor changed to one of tenderest
solicitude.
“Why, Pop’m,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, “I did not
mean to vex you—forgive me. I was only trying to be happy, as I ought,
although my own heart is this very minute heavy—very heavy—very.—No, no;
I don’t mean that—but, Father, Father, I have not been dutiful.”
“W’y, yes, you have,” broke in Mr. Twiggs, smothering the heavy
exclamation in his handkerchief. “You ain’t been ondutiful, nor nothink
else. You’re jest all and everythink that heart could wish. It’s all
my own fault, Tudens; it’s all my fault. You see, I git to thinkin’
sometimes like I was a-goin’ to _lose_ you; and now that you are a-comin’
on in years, and gittin’ such a fine start, and all, and position and
everythink.—Yes-sir! _position_, ’cause everybody likes you, Tudens. You
know that; and I’m that proud of you and all, and that selfish, that
it’s onpossible I could ever, ever give you up;—never, never, _ever_ give
you up!” And Mr. Twiggs again stifled his voice in his handkerchief and
blew his nose with prolonged violence.
It may have been the melancholy ticking of the clock, as it grated on the
silence following, it may have been the gathering darkness of the room,
or the plaintive sighing of the rising wind without, that caused the girl
to shudder as she stooped to kiss the kind old face bent forward in the
shadows, and turned with feigned gayety to the simple task of arranging
supper. But when, a few minutes later, she announced that Twiggs and
Tudens’s tea was waiting, the two smilingly sat down, Mr. Twiggs
remarking that if he only knew a blessing, he’d ask it upon that occasion
most certainly.
“—For on’y look at these-’ere ’am and eggs,” he said, admiringly: “I’d
like to know if the Queen herself could cook ’em to a nicer turn, or
serve ’em up more tantaliz’in’er to the palate. And this-’ere soup,—or
whatever it is, is rich as gravy; and these boughten rolls ain’t a bad
thing either, split in two and toasted as you do ’em, air they, Tude?”
And as Mr. Twiggs glanced inquiringly at his companion, he found her
staring vacantly at her plate. “I was jest a-sayin’, Tudens—” he went on,
pretending to blow his tea and glancing cautiously across his saucer.
“Yes, Pop’m, I heard you;—we really _ought_ to have a blessing, by all
means.”
Mr. Twiggs put down his tea without tasting it. “Tudens,” he said, after
a long pause, in which he carefully buttered a piece of toast for the
second time,—“Tudens, I’m ’most afeard you didn’t grasp that last remark
of mine: I was a-sayin’—”
“Well—” said Tudens, attentively.
“I was a-sayin’,” said Mr. Twiggs, averting his face and staring
stoically at his toast—“I was a-sayin’ that you was a-gittin’ now to be
quite a young woman.”
“Oh, so you were,” said Tudens, with charming naïveté.
“Well,” said Mr. Twiggs, repentantly, but with a humorous twinkle, “if I
wasn’t a-sayin’ of it, I was _a-thinkin’_ it.”—And then, running along
hurriedly, “And I’ve been a-thinkin’ it for days and days—ever sence
you left the ‘balley’ and went in ‘chambermaids,’ and last in leadin’
rôles. Maybe _you_ ain’t noticed it, but I’ve had my eyes on you from the
‘flies’ and the ‘wings’; and jest betwixt us, Tudens, and not for me as
ort to know better, and does know better, to go a-flatterin’, at my time
o’—or to go a-flatterin’ anybody, as I said, after you’re a-gittin’ to
be a young woman—and what’s more, a werry _’andsome_ young woman!”
“_Why, Pop’m!_” exclaimed Tudens, blushing.
“Yes, you are, Tudens, and I mean it, every word of it; and as I was
a-goin’ on to say, I’ve been a-watchin’ of you, and a-layin’ off a long
time jest to tell you summat that will make your eyes open wider ’an
that! What I mean,” said Mr. Twiggs, coughing vehemently and pushing his
chair back from the table—“what I mean is, you’ll soon be old enough to
be a-settin’ up for yourself-like, and a-marry’—W’y, Tudens, what _ails_
you?” The girl had risen to her feet, and, with a face dead white and
lips all tremulous, stood clinging to her chair for support. “What ails
you, Tudens?” repeated Mr. Twiggs, rising to his feet and gazing on her
with a curious expression of alarm and tenderness.
“Nothing serious, dear Pop’m,” said Tudens, with a flighty little
laugh,—“only it just flashed on me all at once that I’d clean forgotten
poor ‘Dick’s’ supper.” And as she turned abruptly to the parrot, cooing
and clucking to him playfully,—up, up from some hitherto undreamed-of
depth within the yearning heart of Mr. Twiggs mutely welled the old
utterance, “Tude’s a queer girl!”
“Whatever made you think of such a thing, Father?” called Tudens,
gayly; and then, without waiting for an answer, went on cooing to the
parrot,—“Hey, old dicky-bird! do _you_ think Tudens is a handsome young
woman? and do _you_ think Tudens is old enough to marry, eh?” This query
delivered, she broke into a fit of merriment which so wrought upon the
susceptibilities of the bird that he was heard repeatedly to declare and
affirm, in most positive and unequivocal terms, that Tude had actually
come home.
“Yes—_sir_, Tudens!” broke in Mr. Twiggs at last, lighting a fresh
churchwarden and settling into his old position at the grate; “have your
laugh out over it now, but it’s a werry serious fact, for all that.”
“I know it, Father,” said the girl, recovering her gravity, turning her
large eyes lovingly upon him and speaking very tenderly. “I know it—oh, I
know it; and many, many times when I have thought of it, and then again
of your old kindly faith; all the warm wealth of your love; and our old
home here, and all the happiness it ever held for me and you alike—oh, I
have tried hard—indeed, indeed I have—to put all other thought away and
live for you alone! But, Pop’m! dear old Pop’m—”And even as the great
strong breast made shelter for her own, the woman’s heart within her
flowed away in mists of gracious tears.
“Couldn’t live without old Pop’m, could her?” half cried and laughed
the happy Mr. Twiggs, tangling his clumsy fingers in the long dark hair
that fell across his arm, and bending till his glad face touched her
own.—“Couldn’t live without old Pop’m?”
“Never! never!” sobbed the girl, lifting her brimming eyes and
gazing in the kind old face. “Oh, may I always live with you, Pop’m?
Always?—Forever?—”
“—And a day!” said Mr. Twiggs, emphatically.
“Even after I’m—” and she hid her face again.
“Even after—_what_, Tudens?”
“After I’m—after I’m—married?” murmured Tudens, with a longing pressure.
“Nothink short!” said Mr. Twiggs;—“perwidin’,” he added, releasing one
hand and smoothing back his scanty hair—“perwidin’, of course, that your
man is a’ honest, straitforrerd feller, as ain’t no lordly notions nor
nothink o’ that sort.”
“Nor rich?”
“Well, I ain’t so p’ticklar about his bein’ _pore_, adzackly.—Say a
feller as works for his livin’, and knows how to ’usband his earnin’s
thrifty-like, and allus ’as a hextry crown or two laid up against a rainy
day—and a good perwider, of course,” said Mr. Twiggs, with a comfortable
glance around the room.—“’Ll blow me if I didn’t see a face there
a-peerin’ in the winder!”
“Oh, no, you didn’t,” said the girl, without raising her head. “Go
on—‘and a good provider—’”
“—A good perwider,” continued Mr. Twiggs; “and a feller, of course, as
has a’ eye out for the substantials of this life, and ain’t afeard o’
work—that’s the idear! that’s the idear!” said Mr. Twiggs, by way of
sweeping conclusion.
“And that’s all old Pop’m asks, after all?” queried the girl, with her
radiant face wistful as his own.
“W’y, certainly!” said Mr. Twiggs, with heartiness. “Ain’t that all and
everythink to make home happy?”—catching her face between his great brown
hands and kissing her triumphantly.
“Hooray for Twiggs-and Twiggs-and Twiggs-and—” cootered the drowsy bird,
disjointedly.
The girl had risen.—“And you’ll forgive me for marrying such a man?”
“Won’t I?” said Mr. Twiggs, with a rapturous twinkle.
As he spoke, she flung her arms about his neck and pressed her lips
close, close against his cheek, her own glad face now fronting the little
window.... She heard the clicking of the latch, the opening of the door,
and the step of the intruder ere she loosed her hold.
“God bless you, Pop’m, and forgive me!—This is my husband.”
The newcomer, Mr. Stanley, reached and grasped the hand of Mr. Twiggs,
eagerly, fervidly, albeit the face he looked on then will haunt him to
the hour of his death.—Yet haply, some day, when the Master takes the
selfsame hand within his own and whispers, “Tude’s come home,” the old
smile will return.
DOLORES
Lithe-armed, and with satin-soft shoulders
As white as the cream-crested wave;
With a gaze dazing every beholder’s,
She holds every gazer a slave:
Her hair, a fair haze, is outfloated
And flared in the air like a flame;
Bare-breasted, bare-browed and bare-throated—
Too smooth for the soothliest name.
She wiles you with wine, and wrings for you
Ripe juices of citron and grape;
She lifts up her lute and sings for you
Till the soul of you seeks no escape;
And you revel and reel with mad laughter,
And fall at her feet, at her beck,
And the scar of her sandal thereafter
You wear like a gyve round your neck.
WHEN I DO MOCK
When I do mock the blackness of the night
With my despair—outweep the very dews
And wash my wan cheeks stark of all delight,
Denying every counsel of dear use
In mine embittered state; with infinite
Perversity, mine eyes drink in no sight
Of pleasance that nor moon nor stars refuse
In silver largess and gold twinklings bright;—
I question me what mannered brain is mine
That it doth trick me of the very food
It panteth for—the very meat and wine
That yet should plump my starved soul with good
And comfortable plethora of ease,
That I might drowse away such rhymes as these.
MY MARY
My Mary, O my Mary!
The simmer skies are blue:
The dawnin’ brings the dazzle,
An’ the gloamin’ brings the dew,—
The mirk o’ nicht the glory
O’ the moon, an’ kindles, too,
The stars that shift aboon the lift.—
But naething brings me you!
Where is it, O my Mary,
Ye are biding a’ the while?
I ha’ wended by your window—
I ha’ waited by the stile,
An’ up an’ down the river
I ha’ won for mony a mile,
Yet never found, adrift or drown’d,
Your lang-belated smile.
Is it forgot, my Mary,
How glad we used to be?—
The simmer-time when bonny bloomed
The auld trysting-tree,—
How there I carved the name for you,
An’ you the name for me;
An’ the gloamin’ kenned it only
When we kissed sae tenderly.
Speek ance to me, my Mary!—
But whisper in my ear
As light as ony sleeper’s breath,
An’ a’ my soul will hear;
My heart shall stap its beating,
An’ the soughing atmosphere
Be hushed the while I leaning smile
An’ listen to you, dear!
My Mary, O my Mary!
The blossoms bring the bees;
The sunshine brings the blossoms,
An’ the leaves on a’ the trees;
The simmer brings the sunshine
An’ the fragrance o’ the breeze,—
But O wi’out you, Mary,
I care naething for these!
We were sae happy, Mary!
O think how ance we said—
Wad ane o’ us gae fickle,
Or are o’ us lie dead,—
To feel anither’s kisses
We wad feign the auld instead,
An’ ken the ither’s footsteps
In the green grass owerhead.
My Mary, O my Mary!
Are ye dochter o’ the air,
That ye vanish aye before me
As I follow everywhere?—
Or is it ye are only
But a mortal, wan wi’ care,
Sin’ I search through a’ the kirkyird
An’ I dinna find ye there?
_EROS_
_The storm of love has burst at last_
_Full on me: All the world, before,_
_Was like an alien, unknown shore_
_Along whose verge I laughing passed.—_
_But now—I laugh not any more,—_
_Bowed with a silence vast in weight_
_As that which falls on one who stands_
_For the first time on ocean sands,_
_Seeing and feeling all the great_
_Awe of the waves as they wash the lands_
_And billow and wallow and undulate._
ORLIE WILDE
A goddess, with a siren’s grace,—
A sun-haired girl on a craggy place
Above a bay where fish-boats lay
Drifting about like birds of prey.
Wrought was she of a painter’s dream,—
Wise only as are artists wise,
My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem,
With deep sad eyes of oversize,
And face of melancholy guise.
I pressed him that he tell to me
This masterpiece’s history.
He turned—_re_turned—and thus beguiled
Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde:—
“We artists live ideally:
We breed our firmest facts of air;
We make our own reality—
We dream a thing and it is so.
The fairest scenes we ever see
Are mirages of memory;
The sweetest thoughts we ever know
We plagiarize from Long Ago:
And as the girl on canvas there
Is marvellously rare and fair,
’Tis only inasmuch as she
Is dumb and may not speak to me!”
He tapped me with his mahlstick—then
The picture,—and went on again:
“Orlie Wilde, the fisher’s child—
I see her yet, as fair and mild
As ever nursling summer day
Dreamed on the bosom of the bay:
For I was twenty then, and went
Alone and long-haired—all content
With promises of sounding name
And fantasies of future fame,
And thoughts that now my mind discards
As editor a fledgling bard’s.
“At evening once I chanced to go,
With pencil and portfolio,
Adown the street of silver sand
That winds beneath this craggy land,
To make a sketch of some old scurf
Of driftage, nosing through the surf
A splintered mast, with knarl and strand
Of rigging-rope and tattered threads
Of flag and streamer and of sail
That fluttered idly in the gale
Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds.
The while I wrought, half listlessly,
On my dismantled subject, came
A sea-bird, settling on the same
With plaintive moan, as though that he
Had lost his mate upon the sea;
And—with my melancholy trend—
It brought dim dreams half understood—
It wrought upon my morbid mood,—
I thought of my own voyagings
That had no end—that have no end.—
And, like the sea-bird, I made moan
That I was loveless and alone.
And when at last with weary wings
It went upon its wanderings,
With upturned face I watched its flight
Until this picture met my sight:
A goddess, with a siren’s grace,—
A sun-haired girl on a craggy place
Above a bay where fish-boats lay
Drifting about like birds of prey.
“In airy poise she, gazing, stood
A matchless form of womanhood,
That brought a thought that if for me
Such eyes had sought across the sea,
I could have swum the widest tide
That ever mariner defied,
And, at the shore, could on have gone
To that high crag she stood upon,
To there entreat and say, ‘My Sweet,
Behold thy servant at thy feet.’
And to my soul I said: ‘Above,
There stands the idol of thy love!’
“In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state
I gazed—till lo! I was aware
A fisherman had joined her there—
A weary man, with halting gait,
Who toiled beneath a basket’s weight:
Her father, as I guessed, for she
Had run to meet him gleefully
And ta’en his burden to herself,
That perched upon her shoulder’s shelf
So lightly that she, tripping, neared
A jutting crag and disappeared;
But left the echo of a song
That thrills me yet, and will as long
As I have being!...
... “Evenings came
And went,—but each the same—the same:
She watched above, and even so
I stood there watching from below;
Till, grown so bold at last, I sung,—
(What matter now the theme thereof!)—
It brought an answer from her tongue—
Faint as the murmur of a dove,
Yet all the more the song of love....
“I turned and looked upon the bay,
With palm to forehead—eyes a-blur
In the sea’s smile—meant but for her!—
I saw the fish-boats far away
In misty distance, lightly drawn
In chalk-dots on the horizon—
Looked back at her, long, wistfully,—
And, pushing off an empty skiff,
I beckoned her to quit the cliff
And yield me her rare company
Upon a little pleasure-cruise.—
She stood, as loathful to refuse,
To muse for full a moment’s time,—
Then answered back in pantomime
‘She feared some danger from the sea
Were she discovered thus with me.’
I motioned then to ask her if
I might not join her on the cliff;
And back again, with graceful wave
Of lifted arm, she answer gave
‘She feared some danger from the sea.’
“Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I
Sprang in the boat, and flung ‘Good-bye’
From pouted mouth with angry hand,
And madly pulled away from land
With lusty stroke, despite that she
Held out her hands entreatingly:
And when far out, with covert eye
I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly
In reckless haste adown the crag,
Her hair a-flutter like a flag
Of gold that danced across the strand
In little mists of silver sand.
All curious I, pausing, tried
To fancy what it all implied,—
When suddenly I found my feet
Were wet; and, underneath the seat
On which I sat, I heard the sound
Of gurgling waters, and I found
The boat aleak alarmingly....
I turned and looked upon the sea,
Whose every wave seemed mocking me;
I saw the fishers’ sails once more—
In dimmer distance than before;
I saw the sea-bird wheeling by,
With foolish wish that _I_ could fly:
I thought of firm earth, home and friends—
I thought of everything that tends
To drive a man to frenzy and
To wholly lose his own command;
I thought of all my waywardness—
Thought of a mother’s deep distress;
Of youthful follies yet unpurged—
Sins, as the seas, about me surged—
Thought of the printer’s ready pen
To-morrow drowning me again;—
A million things without a name—
I thought of everything but—Fame....
“A memory yet is in my mind,
So keenly clear and sharp-defined,
I picture every phase and line
Of life and death, and neither mine,—
While some fair seraph, golden-haired,
Bends over me,—with white arms bared,
That strongly plait themselves about
My drowning weight and lift me out—
With joy too great for words to state
Or tongue to dare articulate!
“And this seraphic ocean-child
And heroine was Orlie Wilde:
And thus it was I came to hear
Her voice’s music in my ear—
Ay, thus it was Fate paved the way
That I walk desolate to-day!” ...
The artist paused and bowed his face
Within his palms a little space,
While reverently on his form
I bent my gaze and marked a storm
That shook his frame as wrathfully
As some typhoon of agony,
And fraught with sobs—the more profound
For that peculiar laughing sound
We hear when strong men weep.... I leant
With warmest sympathy—I bent
To stroke with soothing hand his brow,
He murmuring—“’Tis over now!—
And shall I tie the silken thread
Of my frail romance?” “Yes,” I said.—
He faintly smiled; and then, with brow
In kneading palm, as one in dread—
His tasselled cap pushed from his head;—
“‘Her voice’s music,’ I repeat,”
He said,—“’twas sweet—O passing sweet!—
Though she herself, in uttering
Its melody, proved not the thing
Of loveliness my dreams made meet
For me—there, yearning, at her feet—
Prone at her feet—a worshipper,—
For lo! she spake a tongue,” moaned he,
“Unknown to me;—unknown to me
As mine to her—as mine to her.”
LEONAINIE
Leonainie—Angels named her;
And they took the light
Of the laughing stars and framed her
In a smile of white;
And they made her hair of gloomy
Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy
Moonshine, and they brought her to me
In the solemn night.—
In a solemn night of summer,
When my heart of gloom
Blossomed up to greet the comer
Like a rose in bloom;
All forebodings that distressed me
I forgot as Joy caressed me—
(_Lying_ Joy! that caught and pressed me
In the arms of doom!)
Only spake the little lisper
In the Angel-tongue;
Yet I, listening, heard her whisper,—
“Songs are only sung
Here below that they may grieve you—
Tales but told you to deceive you,—
So must Leonainie leave you
While her love is young.”
Then God smiled and it was morning.
Matchless and supreme
Heaven’s glory seemed adorning
Earth with its esteem:
Every heart but mine seemed gifted
With the voice of prayer, and lifted
Where my Leonainie drifted
From me like a dream.
TO A JILTED SWAIN
Get thee back neglected friends;
And repay, as each one lends,
Tithes of shallow-sounding glee
Or keen-ringing raillery:
Get thee from lone vigils; be
But in jocund company,
Where is laughter and acclaim
Boisterous above the name.—
Get where sulking husbands sip
Ale-house cheer, with pipe at lip;
And where Mol the barmaid saith
Curst is she that marrieth.
THE VOICES
Down in the night I hear them:
The Voices—unknown—unguessed,—
That whisper, and lisp, and murmur,
And will not let me rest.—
Voices that seem to question,
In unknown words, of me,
Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreams
Of this and the World to be.
Voices of mirth and music,
As in sumptuous homes; and sounds
Of mourning, as of gathering friends
In country burial-grounds.
Cadence of maiden voices—
Their lovers’ blent with these;
And of little children singing,
As under orchard trees.
And often, up from the chaos
Of my deepest dreams, I hear
Sounds of their phantom laughter
Filling the atmosphere:
They call to me from the darkness;
They cry to me from the gloom,
Till I start sometimes from my pillow
And peer through the haunted room;
When the face of the moon at the window
Wears a pallor like my own,
And seems to be listening with me
To the low, mysterious tone,—
The low, mysterious clamor
Of voices that seem to be
Striving in vain to whisper
Of secret things to me;—
Of a something dread to be warned of;
Of a rapture yet withheld;
Or hints of the marvellous beauty
Of songs unsyllabled.
But ever and ever the meaning
Falters and fails and dies,
And only the silence quavers
With the sorrow of my sighs.
And I answer:—O Voices, ye may not
Make me to understand
Till my own voice, mingling with you,
Laughs in the Shadow-land.
_A BAREFOOT BOY_
_A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play—_
_For May is here once more, and so is he,—_
_His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,_
_And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:_
_Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array_
_Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me_
_Of woody pathways winding endlessly_
_Along the creek, where even yesterday_
_He plunged his shrinking body—gasped and shook—_
_Yet called the water “warm,” with never lack_
_Of joy. And so, half enviously I look_
_Upon this graceless barefoot and his track,—_
_His toe stubbed—ay, his big toe-nail knocked back_
_Like unto the clasp of an old pocket-book._
THE YOUTHFUL PATRIOT
O what did the little boy do
’At nobody wanted him to?
Didn’t do nothin’ but romp an’ run,
An’ whoop an’ holler an’ bang his gun
An’ bu’st fire-crackers, an’ ist have fun—
An’ _’at’s_ all the little boy done!
PONCHUS PILUT
Ponchus Pilut _ust_ to be
Ist a _Slave_, an’ now he’s _free_.
Slaves wuz on’y ist before
The War wuz—an’ _ain’t_ no more.
He works on our place fer us,—
An’ comes here—_sometimes_ he does.
He shocks corn an’ shucks it.—An’
He makes hominy “by han’!”—
Wunst he bringed us some, one trip,
Tied up in a piller-slip:
Pa says, when Ma cooked it, “MY!
This-here’s gooder’n you _buy_!”
Ponchus _pats_ fer me an’ sings;
An’ he says _funny_ things!
Ponchus calls a dish a “_deesh_”—
Yes, an’ _he_ calls fishes “_feesh_”!
When Ma want him eat wiv us
He says, “’Skuse me—’deed you mus’!—
Ponchus know’ good manners, Miss.—
He ain’ eat wher’ White-folks is!”
’Lindy takes _his_ dinner out
Wher’ he’s workin’—roun’ about.—
Wunst he et his dinner spread
In our ole wheelborry-bed.
_Ponchus Pilut_ says “_’at’s_ not
His _right_ name,—an’ done fergot
What his _sho’-’nuff_ name is now—
An’ don’ matter none _no_how!”
Yes, an’ Ponchus he’ps Pa, too,
When our _butcherin’s_ to do,
An’ scalds hogs—an’ says, “Take care
’Bout it, er you’ll _set the hair_!”
Yes, an’ out in our back-yard
He he’ps ’Lindy rendur lard;
An’, wite in the fire there, he
Roast’ a pigtail wunst fer me.—
An’ ist nen th’ole tavurn-bell
Rung, down-town, an’ he says, “Well!—
Hear dat! _Lan’ o’ Caanan_, Son,
Ain’t dat bell say ‘_Pigtail done!_’
—‘_Pigtail done!_
_Go call Son!—_
_Tell dat_
_Chile dat_
_Pigtail done!_’”
A TWINTORETTE
Ho! my little maiden
With the glossy tresses,
Come thou and dance with me
A measure all divine;
Let my breast be laden
With but thy caresses—
Come thou and glancingly
Mate thy face with mine.
Thou shalt trill a rondel,
While my lips are purling
Some dainty twitterings
Sweeter than the birds’;
And, with arms that fondle
Each as we go twirling,
We will kiss, with titterings,
Lisps and loving words.
SLUMBER-SONG
Sleep, little one! The Twilight folds her gloom
Full tenderly about the drowsy Day,
And all his tinselled hours of light and bloom
Like toys are laid away.
Sleep! sleep! The noon-sky’s airy cloud of white
Has deepened wide o’er all the azure plain;
And, trailing through the leaves, the skirts of Night
Are wet with dews as rain.
But rest thou sweetly, smiling in thy dreams,
With round fists tossed like roses o’er thy head,
And thy tranc’d lips and eyelids kissed with gleams
Of rapture perfected.
THE CIRCUS PARADE
The Circus!—The Circus!—The throb of the drums,
And the blare of the horns, as the Band-wagon comes;
The clash and the clang of the cymbals that beat,
As the glittering pageant winds down the long street!
In the Circus parade there is glory clean down
From the first spangled horse to the mule of the Clown,
With the gleam and the glint and the glamour and glare
Of the days of enchantment all glimmering there!
And there are the banners of silvery fold
Caressing the winds with their fringes of gold,
And their high-lifted standards, with spear-tips aglow,
And the helmeted knights that go riding below.
There’s the Chariot, wrought of some marvellous shell
The Sea gave to Neptune, first washing it well
With its fabulous waters of gold, till it gleams
Like the galleon rare of an Argonaut’s dreams.
And the Elephant, too, (with his undulant stride
That rocks the high throne of a king in his pride,)
That in jungles of India shook from his flanks
The tigers that leapt from the Jujubee-banks.
Here’s the long, ever-changing, mysterious line
Of the Cages, with hints of their glories divine
From the barred little windows, cut high in the rear,
Where the close-hidden animals’ noses appear.
Here’s the Pyramid-car, with its splendor and flash,
And the Goddess on high, in a hot-scarlet sash
And a pen-wiper skirt!—O the rarest of sights
Is this “Queen of the Air” in cerulean tights!
Then the far-away clash of the cymbals, and then
The swoon of the tune ere it wakens again
With the capering tones of the gallant cornet
That go dancing away in a mad minuet.
The Circus!—The Circus!—The throb of the drums,
And the blare of the horns, as the Band-wagon comes;
The clash and the clang of the cymbals that beat,
As the glittering pageant winds down the long street.
FOLKS AT LONESOMEVILLE
Pore-folks lives at Lonesomeville—
Lawzy! but they’re pore!
Houses with no winders in,
And hardly any door:
Chimbly all tore down, and no
Smoke in that at all—
Ist a stovepipe through a hole
In the kitchen-wall!
Pump ’at’s got no handle on;
And no woodshed—And, _wooh!_—
Mighty cold there, choppin’ wood,
Like pore-folks has to do!—
Winter-time, and snow and sleet
Ist fairly fit to kill!—
Hope to goodness _Santy Claus_
Goes to Lonesomeville!
THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS
O there were three jolly hunters;
And a-hunting they did go,
With a spaniel-dog, and a pointer-dog,
And a setter-dog also.
Looky there!
And they hunted and they hal-looed;
And the first thing they did find
Was a dingling-dangling hornet’s-nest
A-swinging in the wind.
Looky there!
And the first one said—“What is it?”
Said the next, “We’ll punch and see”:
And the next one said, a mile from there,
“I wish we’d let it be!”
Looky there!
And they hunted and they hal-looed;
And the next thing they did raise
Was a bobbin’ bunny cottontail
That vanished from their gaze.
Looky there!
One said it was a hot base-ball,
Zipped through the brambly thatch,
But the others said ’twas a note by post,
Or a telegraph-dispatch.
Looky there!
So they hunted and they hal-looed;
And the next thing they did sight
Was a great big bulldog chasing them,
And a farmer, hollerin’ “Skite!”
Looky there!
And the first one said, “Hi-jinktum!”
And the next, “Hi-jinktum-jee!”
And the last one said, “Them very words
Had just occurred to me!”
Looky there!
THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY
A Little Dog-Woggy
Once walked round the World:
So he shut up his house; and, forgetting
His two puppy-children
Locked in there, he curled
Up his tail in pink bombazine netting,
And set out
To walk round
The World.
He walked to Chicago,
And heard of the Fair—
Walked on to New York, where he _never_,—
In fact, he discovered
That many folks there
Thought less of Chicago than ever,
As he musing-
Ly walked round
The World.
He walked on to Boston,
And round Bunker Hill,
Bow-wowed, but no citizen heerd him—
Till he ordered his baggage
And called for his bill,
And then, bless their souls! how they cheered him,
As he gladly
Walked on round
The World.
He walked and walked on
For a year and a day—
Dropped down at his own door and panted,
Till a teamster came driving
Along the highway
And told him that house there was ha’nted
By the two starve-
Dest pups in
The World.
CHARMS
I
FOR CORNS AND THINGS
Prune your corn in the gray of the morn
With a blade that’s shaved the dead,
And barefoot go and hide it so
The rain will rust it red:
Dip your foot in the dew and put
A print of it on the floor,
And stew the fat of a brindle cat,
And say this o’er and o’er:—
Corny! morny! blady! dead!
Gory! sory! rusty! red!
Footsy! putsy! floory! stew!
Fatsy! catsy!
Mew!
Mew!
Come grease my corn
In the gray of the morn!
Mew! Mew! Mew!
II
TO REMOVE FRECKLES—SCOTCH ONES
Gae the mirkest night an’ stan’
’Twixt twa graves, ane either han’;
Wi’ the right han’ fumblin’ ken
Wha the deid mon’s name’s ance be’n,—
Wi’ the ither han’ sae read
Wha’s neist neebor o’ the deid;
An it be or wife or lass,
Smoor tha twa han’s i’ the grass,
Weshin’ either wi’ the ither,
Then tha faice wi’ baith thegither;
Syne ye’ll seeket at cockcraw—
Ilka freeckle’s gang awa!
A FEW OF THE BIRD-FAMILY
The Old Bob-white, and Chipbird;
The Flicker, and Chewink,
And little hopty-skip bird
Along the river-brink.
The Blackbird, and Snowbird,
The Chicken-hawk, and Crane;
The glossy old black Crow-bird,
And Buzzard down the lane.
The Yellowbird, and Redbird,
The Tomtit, and the Cat;
The Thrush, and that Red_head_-bird
The rests all pickin’ at!
The Jay-bird, and the Bluebird,
The Sapsuck, and the Wren—
The Cockadoodle-doo-bird,
And our old Settin’-hen!
THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND
Where do you go when you go to sleep,
Little Boy! Little Boy! where?
’Way—’way in where’s Little Bo-Peep,
And Little Boy Blue, and the Cows and Sheep
A-wandering ’way in there—in there—
A-wandering ’way in there!
And what do you see when lost in dreams,
Little Boy, ’way in there?
Firefly-glimmers and glow-worm gleams,
And silvery, low, slow-sliding streams,
And mermaids, smiling out—’way in where
They’re a-hiding—’way in there!
Where do you go when the Fairies call,
Little Boy! Little Boy! where?
Wade through the dews of the grasses tall,
Hearing the weir and the waterfall
And the Wee Folk—’way in there—in there—
And the Kelpies—’way in there!
And what do you do when you wake at dawn,
Little Boy! Little Boy! what?
Hug my Mommy and kiss her on
Her smiling eyelids, sweet and wan,
And tell her everything I’ve forgot,
A-wandering ’way in there—in there—
Through the blind-world ’way in there!
THE TRESTLE AND THE BUCK-SAW
The Trestle and the Buck-Saw
Went out a-walking once,
And staid away and staid away
For days and weeks and months:
And when they got back home again,
Of all that had occurred,
The neighbors said the gossips said
They never said a word.
THE KING OF OO-RINKTUM-JING
Dainty Baby Austin!
Your Daddy’s gone to Boston
To see the King
Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing
And the whale he rode acrost on!
Boston Town’s a city:
But O it’s such a pity!—
They’ll greet the King
Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing
With never a nursery ditty!
But me and you and Mother
Can stay with Baby-brother,
And sing of the King
Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing
And laugh at one another!
So what cares Baby Austin
If Daddy _has_ gone to Boston
To see the King
Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing
And the whale he rode acrost on?
THE TOY PENNY-DOG
Ma put my Penny-Dog
Safe on the shelf,
An’ left no one home but him,
Me an’ myself;
So I clumbed a big chair
I pushed to the wall—
But the Toy Penny-Dog
Ain’t there at all!
I went back to Dolly—
An’ _she_ ’uz gone too,
An’ little Switch ’uz layin’ there;—
An’ Ma says “_Boo!_”—
An’ there she wuz a-peepin’
Through the front-room door:
An’ I ain’t goin’ to be a bad
Little girl no more!
JARGON-JINGLE
Tawdery!—faddery! Feathers and fuss!
Mummery!—flummery! wusser and wuss!
All o’ Humanity—Vanity Fair!—
Heaven for nothin’, and—nobody there!
THE GREAT EXPLORER
He sailed o’er the weltery watery miles
For a tabular year-and-a-day,
To the kindless, kinkable Cannibal Isles
He sailed and he sailed away!
He captured a loon in a wild lagoon,
And a yak that weeps and smiles,
And a bustard-bird, and a blue baboon,
In the kindless Cannibal Isles
And wilds
Of the kinkable Cannibal Isles.
He swiped in bats with his butterfly-net,
In the kinkable Cannibal Isles,
And got short-waisted and over-het
In the haunts of the crocodiles;
And nine or ten little Pygmy Men
Of the quaintest shapes and styles
He shipped back home to his old Aunt Jenn,
From the kindless Cannibal Isles
And wilds
Of the kinkable Cannibal Isles.
THE SCHOOL-BOY’S FAVORITE
_“Over the river and through the wood_
_Now Grandmother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah for the fun!—Is the pudding done?_
_Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!”_
SCHOOL READER.
Fer any boy ’at’s little as me,
Er any little girl,
That-un’s the goodest poetry-piece
In any book in the worl’!
An’ ef grown-peoples wuz little ag’in
I bet they’d say so, too,
Ef _they’d_ go see _their_ ole Gran’ma,
Like our Pa lets _us_ do!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
An’ ’ll tell you _why_ ’at’s the goodest piece:—
’Cause it’s ist like _we_ go
To _our_ Gran’ma’s, a-visitun there,
When our Pa he says so;
An’ Ma she fixes my little cape-coat
An’ little fuzz-cap; an’ Pa
He tucks me away—an’ yells “_Hoo-ray!_”—
An’ whacks Ole Gray, an’ drives the sleigh
Fastest you ever saw!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
An’ Pa ist snuggles me ’tween his knees—
An’ I he’p hold the lines,
An’ peek out over the buffalo-robe;—
An’ the wind ist _blows_!—an’ the snow ist _snows_!—
An’ the sun ist shines! an’ shines!—
An’ th’ ole horse tosses his head an’ coughs
The frost back in our face.—
An’ I ruther go to my Gran’ma’s
Than any other place!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
An’ all the peoples they is in town
Watches us whizzin’ past
To go a-visitun _our_ Gran’ma’s,
Like we all went there last;—
But _they_ can’t go, like ist _our_ folks
An’ Johnny an’ Lotty, an’ three
Er four neighber-childerns, an’ Rober-ut Volney,
An’ Charley an’ Maggy an’ me!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
ALBUMANIA
_Some certain misty yet tenable signs_
_Of the oracular Raggedy Man,_
_Happily found in these fugitive lines_
_Culled from the album of ’Lizabuth Ann._
FRIENDSHIP
O Friendship, when I muse on you,
As thoughtful minds, O Friendship, do,
I muse, O Friendship, o’er and o’er,
O Friendship—as I said before.
LIFE
“What is Life?” If the _Dead_ might say,
’Spect they’d answer, under breath,
Sorry-like yet a-laughin’:—A
Poor pale yesterday of Death!
LIFE’S HAPPIEST HOURS
Best, I guess,
Was the old “_Recess_.”—
’Way back there’s where I’d love to be—
Shet of each lesson and hateful rule,
When the whole round World was as sweet to me
As the big ripe apple I brung to School.
MARION-COUNTY MAN HOMESICK ABROAD
I, who had hobnobbed with the shades of kings,
And canvassed grasses from old masters’ graves,
And in cathedrals stood and looked at things
In niches, crypts and naves;—
My heavy heart was sagging with its woe,
Nor Hope to prop it up, nor Promise, nor
One woman’s hands—and O I wanted so
To be felt sorry for!
BIRDY! BIRDY!
The Redbreast loves the blooming bough—
The Bluebird loves it same as he;—
And as they sit and sing there now,
So do I sing to thee—
Only, dear heart, unlike the birds,
I do not climb a tree
To sing—
I do not climb a tree.
When o’er this page, in happy years to come,
Thou jokest on these lines and on my name,
Doubt not my love and say, “Though he lies dumb,
He’s lying, just the same!”
THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs—
He mocks the lady’s horse ’at rares
At bi-sickles an’ things,—
He mocks the mens ’at rides ’em, too;
An’ mocks the Movers, drivin’ through.
An’ hollers, “Here’s the way _you_ do
With them-air hitchin’-strings!”
“Ho! ho!” he’ll say,
Ole Settlers’ Day,
When they’re all jogglin’ by,—
“You look like _this_,”
He’ll say, an’ twis’
His mouth an’ squint his eye
An’ ’tend-like _he_ wuz beat the bass
Drum at both ends—an’ toots an’ blares
Ole dinner-horn an’ puffs his face—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs
Mocks all the peoples all he cares
’At passes up an’ down!
He mocks the chickens round the door,
An’ mocks the girl ’at scrubs the floor,
An’ mocks the rich, an’ mocks the pore,
An’ ever’thing in town!
“Ho! ho!” says he,
To you er me;
An’ ef we turns an’ looks,
He’s all cross-eyed
An’ mouth all wide
Like Giunts is, in books.—
“Ho! ho!” he yells, “look here at _me_,”
An’ rolls his fat eyes roun’ an’ glares,—
“_You_ look like _this_!” he says, says he—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!
_The Little Mock—_
_The Little Mock—_
_The Little Mock-man on the Stairs,_
_He mocks the music-box an’ clock,_
_An’ roller-sofy an’ the chairs;_
_He mocks his Pa, an’ specs he wears;_
_He mocks the man ’at picks the pears_
_An’ plums an’ peaches on the shares;_
_He mocks the monkeys an’ the bears_
_On picture-bills, an’ rips an’ tears_
_’Em down,—an’ mocks ist all he cares,_
_An’ EVER’body EVER’wheres!_
SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME
In the golden noon-shine,
Or in the pink of dawn;
In the silver moonshine,
Or when the moon is gone;
Open eyes, or drowsy lids,
’Wake or ’most asleep,
I can hear the katydids,—
“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!”
Only in the winter-time
Do they ever stop,
In the chip-and-splinter-time,
When the backlogs pop,—
Then it is, the kettle-lids,
While the sparkles leap,
Lisp like the katydids,—
“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!”
HOME-MADE RIDDLES—ALL BUT THE ANSWERS
I
No one ever saw it
Till I dug it from the ground;
I found it when I lost it,
And lost it when I found:
I washed it, and dressed it,
And buried it once more—
Dug it up, and loved it then
Better than before.
I was paid for finding it—
I don’t know why or how,—
But I lost, found, and kept it,
And haven’t got it now.
II
Sometimes it’s all alone—
Sometimes in a crowd;
It says a thousand bright things,
But never talks aloud.
Everybody loves it,
And likes to have it call,
But if you shouldn’t happen to,
It wouldn’t care at all.
First you see or hear of it,
It’s a-singing,—then
You may look and listen,
But it never sings again.
THE LOVELY CHILD
Lilies are both pure and fair,
Growing ’midst the roses there—
Roses, too, both red and pink,
Are quite beautiful, I think.
But of all bright blossoms—best—
Purest—fairest—loveliest,—
Could there be a sweeter thing
Than a primrose, blossoming?
THE YELLOWBIRD
Hey! my little Yellowbird,
What you doing there?
Like a flashing sun-ray,
Flitting everywhere:
Dangling down the tall weeds
And the hollyhocks,
And the lordly sunflowers
Along the garden-walks.
Ho! my gallant Golden-bill,
Pecking ’mongst the weeds,
You must have for breakfast
Golden flower-seeds:
Won’t you tell a little fellow
What you have for _tea_?—
’Spect a peck o’ yellow, mellow
Pippin on the tree.
ENVOY
When but a little boy, it seemed
My dearest rapture ran
In fancy ever, when I dreamed
I was a man—a man!
Now—sad perversity!—my theme
Of rarest, purest joy
Is when, in fancy blest, I dream
I am a little boy.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Armazindy - The Poems and Prose Sketches of James Whitcomb Riley" ***
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