Part 3 — CHAPTER XI HOW TO READ POETRY

All that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too, My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

And the humming-bird that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle-horns, They mesmerized and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away And left him hanging there.

Good, to forgive: Best, to forget! Living, we fret; Dying, we live. Fretless and free, Soul, clap thy pinion! Earth have dominion, Body, o’er thee! Wander at will, Day after day,— Wander away, Wandering still— Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more. Waft of soul’s wing! What lies above? Sunshine and Love, Skyblue and Spring! Body hides—where? Ferns of all feather, Mosses and heather, Yours be the care!

An angel, robed in spotless white, Bent down and kissed the sleeping night. Night woke to blush: the sprite was gone; Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.

Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower—but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.

Expect nor fame, nor gold, nor any praise— The world puts not its meed in every hand; Work on and still be thankful all thy days If even one shall see and understand!

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

Four score and seven years ago Our fathers brought forth upon this continent A new nation conceived in liberty And dedicated to the proposition That all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, Testing whether that nation, or any nation So conceived and so dedicated Can long endure. We are met On a great battle field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of That field as a final resting place For those who here gave their lives That this nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper That we should do this But in a larger sense We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, We cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, Living and dead, who struggled here, Have consecrated it far above our power To add or detract. The world will little note Nor long remember what we say here, But it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here To the unfinished work which they who fought here Have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated To the great task remaining before us; That from these honored dead we take Increased devotion to that cause for which They gave the last full measure of devotion; That we here highly resolve that these dead Shall not have died in vain, that this nation, Under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; And that the government of the people, By the people, and for the people, Shall not perish from the earth.

Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude. Nothing to breathe but air; Quick as a flash ’tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on. Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead. Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back. Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we’ve got; Thus through life we are cursed. Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

’Twas three an’ thirty year ago, When I was ruther young, you know, I had my last an’ only fight About a gal one summer night. ’Twas me an’ Zekel Johnson; Zeke ’N’ me ’d be’n spattin’ ’bout a week, Each of us tryin’ his best to show That he was Liza Jones’s beau. We couldn’t neither prove the thing, Fur she was fur too sharp to fling One over fur the other one An’ by so doin’ stop the fun That we chaps didn’t have the sense To see she got at our expense. But that’s the way a feller does, Fur boys is fools an’ allus was; An’ when they’s females in the game I reckon men’s about the same. Well, Zeke an’ me went on that way An’ fussed an’ quarreled day by day; While Liza, mindin’ not the fuss, Jest kep’ a-goin’ with both of us, Tell we pore chaps, that’s Zeke an’ me, Was jest plum mad with jealousy. Well, fur a time we kep’ our places, An’ only showed by frownin’ faces An’ looks ’at well our meanin’ boded How full o’ fight we both was loaded. At last it come, the thing broke out, An’ this is how it come about. One night (’twas fair, you’ll all agree) I got Eliza’s company, An’ leavin’ Zekel in the lurch, Went trottin’ off with her to church. An’ jest as we had took our seat, (Eliza lookin’ fair an’ sweet), Why, I jest couldn’t help but grin When Zekel come a-bouncin’ in As furious as the law allows. He’d jest be’n up to Liza’s house, To find her gone, then come to church To have this end put to his search. I guess I laffed that meetin’ through, An’ not a mortal word I knew Of what the preacher preached er read Er what the choir sung er said. Fur every time I’d turn my head I couldn’t skeercely help but see ’At Zekel had his eye on me. An’ he ’ud sort o’ turn an’ twist An’ grind his teeth an’ shake his fist. I laughed, fur la! the hull church seen us, An’ knowed that suthin’ was between us. Well, meetin’ out, we started hum, I sorter feelin’ what would come. We’d jest got out, when up stepped Zeke, An’ said, “Scuse me, I’d like to speak To you a minute.” “Cert,” said I— A-nudgin’ Liza on the sly An’ laughin’ in my sleeve with glee, I asked her, please, to pardon me. We walked away a step er two, Jest to git out o’ Liza’s view, An’ then Zeke said, “I want to know Ef you think you’re Eliza’s beau, An’ ’at I’m goin’ to let her go Hum with sich a chap as you?” An’ I said bold, “You bet I do.” Then Zekel, sneerin’, said ’at he Didn’t want to hender me, But then he ’lowed the gal was his An’ ’at he guessed he knowed his biz, An’ wasn’t feared o’ all my kin With all my friends an’ chums throwed in. Some other things he mentioned there That no born man could no ways bear Er think o’ ca’mly tryin’ to stan’ Ef Zeke had be’n the bigges’ man In town, an’ not the leanest runt ’At time an’ labor ever stunt. An’ so I let my fist go “bim.” I thought I’d mos’ nigh finished him. But Zekel didn’t take it so. He jest ducked down an’ dodged my blow An’ then come back at me so hard, I guess I must ’a’ hurt the yard, Er spilet the grass plot where I fell, An’ sakes alive it hurt me; well, It wouldn’t be’n so bad you see, But he jest kep’ a-hittin’ me. An’ I hit back an’ kicked an’ pawed, But ’t seemed ’twas mostly air I clawed, While Zekel used his science well A-makin’ every motion tell. He punched an’ hit, why, goodness lands, Seemed like he had a dozen hands. Well, afterwhile, they stopped the fuss, An’ some one kindly parted us. All beat an’ cuffed an’ clawed an’ scratched, An’ needin’ both our faces patched, Each started hum a different way; An’ what o’ Liza, do you say, Why, Liza—little humbug—darn her, Why, she’d gone home with Hiram Turner.

Don’t you ever feel a yearnin’, ’long about this time o’ year, For a robin’s song to tell you that the summer time is near? Don’t you ever sort o’ hanker for the blackbird’s whistlin’ call, Echoin’ through the hillside orchard, where the blossoms used to fall? Don’t you wish that you were out there, breathin’ in the April air, Full o’ glad an’ careless boyhood, an’ with strength an’ health to spare? Don’t it hurt you to remember, when the springtime comes around, How the first, long, rollin’ furrow used to wake the sleepy ground? How’d you like to take the children, born to dirty city streets, Out to where the brook goes pulsin’ when the heart o’ nature beats? How’d you like to watch ’em wonder at the boomin’ of the bees, Or to see ’em dodge the petals that are snowin’ from the trees? How’d you like to see their faces catch the color o’ the rose, As they raced across the meadow where the earliest crocus grows? Wouldn’t it be joy to watch ’em follow on behind the plow, As it cut the first brown furrow, like it’s doin’ out there now?

Some people have the sunshine, While others have the rain; But God don’t change the weather Because the folks complain. Don’t waste your time in grumbling, Nor wrinkle up your brow; Some other soul has trouble, Most likely has it now. When nature lies in shadow, On damp and cloudy days, Don’t blame the sun, good people, But loan a few bright rays. The sun is always shining Above the misty shroud, And if your world be murky, The fault lies in the cloud. Take sunshine to your neighbor, In all you do and say; Have sunshine in your labor, And sunshine in your play. Where’er the storm-cloud lowers, Take in the sunlight glow, And Heaven will show what flowers From seeds of kindness grow.

Cicely says you’re a poet: maybe; I ain’t much on rhyme: I reckon you’d give me a hundred, and beat me every time. Poetry!—that’s the way some chaps puts up an idee, But I takes mine “straight without sugar,” and that’s what’s the matter with me. Poetry!—just look round you,—alkali, rock, and sage; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali; ain’t it a pretty page! Sun in the east at mornin’, sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this ’yer station the on’y thing moves in sight. Poetry!—Well now—Polly! Polly run to your mam; Run right away, my pooty! By by! Ain’t she a lamb? Poetry!—that reminds me o’ suthin’ right in that suit: Jest shet that door thar, will yer?—for Cicely’s ears is cute. Ye noticed Polly,—the baby? A month afore she was born, Cicely—my old woman—was moody-like and forlorn; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees; Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what a woman be’s. Narvous she was, and restless,—said that she “couldn’t stay,” Stay,—and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o’ land. One night,—the tenth of October,—I woke with a chill and fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn’t in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which said that she “couldn’t stay,” But had gone to visit her neighbor,—seventeen miles away. When and how she stampeded, I didn’t wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she: Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent, For there warn’t no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went. I’ve had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot,— Lost on the plains in ’50, drowned almost, and shot; But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife, Was ra’ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. “Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” I called, and I held my breath, And “Cicely!” came from the canyon,—and all was as still as death. And “Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of “Cicely!” down from them peaks of snow. I ain’t what you call religious,—but I jest looked up to the sky, And—this ’yer’s to what I’m coming, and maybe ye think I lie: But up away to the east’ard, yaller and big and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star. Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me: Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see: Big and yaller and dancing,—I never saw such a star, And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar. Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead: Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh, Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby’s cry. Listen! thar’s the same music; but her lungs they are stronger now Than the day I packed her and her mother,—I’m derned if I jest know how. But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o’ the whole thing is That Cis. never knew what happened from that very night to this! But Cicely says you’re a poet, and maybe you might, some day, Jest sling her a rhyme ’bout a baby that was born in a curious way, And see what she says; but, old fellow, when you speak of the star, don’t tell As how ’twas the doctor’s lantern,—for maybe ’twon’t sound so well.

O good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw? Ay? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields, a little brown,— The picture must not be over-bright,— Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room Under their tassels,—cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around,— (Ah, good painter, you can’t paint sound)— These and the house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide,— Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush: Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Roses crowding the selfsame way, Out of a wilding, wayside bush. Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me; Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman’s soul, and the angel’s face That are beaming on me all the while!— I need not speak these foolish words: Yet one word tells you all I would say,— She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir: one like me,— The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flashing with boldest enterprise: At ten years old he went to sea,— God knoweth if he be living now,— He sailed in the good ship Commodore,— Nobody ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, ’tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck; I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother’s knee: That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea. Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn leaves rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so far and still,— Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the haystack’s pointed top, All of a tremble, and ready to drop, The first half-hour, the great yellow star That we with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,— Dead at the top—just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day:— Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,— The other, a bird held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn’t eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still.

It was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy who was half-past three, And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see. She couldn’t go running and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee. They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree; And the game that they played I’ll tell you, Just as it was told to me. It was hide-and-go-seek they were playing, Though you’d never have known it to be— With an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy with a twisted knee. The boy would bend his face down On his one little sound right knee, And he’d guess where she was hiding, In guesses One, Two, Three. “You are in the china closet!” He would cry, and laugh with glee. It wasn’t the china closet; But he still had Two and Three. “You are up in papa’s big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key!” And she said: “You are warm and warmer; But you’re not quite right,” said she. “It can’t be the little cupboard Where Mamma’s things used to be, So it must be the clothespress, Gran’ma!” And he found her with his Three. Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three. And they never had stirred from their places, Right under the maple tree— This old, old, old, old lady, And the boy with a lame little knee; This dear, dear, dear old lady, And the boy who was half-past three.

Would you have men play square with you, Play fair with you, and bear with you In all the little weaknesses so easy to condemn? Then simply try to do the same— Hold up your head and play the game, And when the others are to blame Be sure to bear with them! Would you have men, when new to you, Be true to you and do to you The things that faith and brother-love and nothing else impel? Then give them faith and brother-love And set sincerity above All other things—and it will prove That you have builded well!

Hello, thar, stranger! Whar yer frum? Come in and make yerself ter hum! We’re common folks, ain’t much on style; Come in and stop a little while; ’Twon’t do no harm ter rest yer some. Youngster, yer pale, and don’t look well! What, way from Bosting? Naow, dew tell! Why, that’s a hundred mile or so; What started yer, I’d like ter know, On sich a tramp; got goods ter sell? No home, no friends? Naow that’s too bad! Wall, cheer up, boy, and don’t be sad,— Wife, see what yer can find ter eat, And put the coffee on ter heat,— We’ll fix yer up all right, my lad. Willing ter work, can’t git a job, And not a penny in yer fob? Wall, naow, that’s rough, I dew declare! What, tears? Come, youngster, I can’t bear Ter see yer take on so, and sob. How came yer so bad off, my son? Father was killed? ’Sho’; whar? Bull Run? Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad, And got used up, too, pretty bad; I shan’t forgit old ’sixty-one! So yer were left in Bosting, hey! A baby when he went away? Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife, Yer know one of ’em saved my life, Else I would not be here to-day. ’Twas when the “Black Horse Cavalcade” Swept down on our small brigade, I got the shot that made me lame, When down on me a trooper came, And this ’ere chap struck up his blade. Poor feller! He was stricken dead; The trooper’s sabre cleaved his head. Joe Billings was my comrade’s name, He was a Bosting boy, and game! I almost wished I’d died, instead. Why, lad! what makes yer tremble so? Your father! what, my comrade Joe? And you his son? Come ter my heart. My home is yours; I’ll try in part, Ter pay his boy the debt I owe.

When you see a man in woe, Walk straight up and say, “Hullo!” Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do? How’s the world been using you?” Slap the fellow on his back, Bring your hand down with a whack! Waltz straight up and don’t go slow, Shake his hand and say “Hullo!” Is he clothed in rags? Oh, ho. Walk straight up and say “Hullo!” Rags are but a cotton roll Just for wrapping up a soul; And a soul is worth a true Hale and hearty “How d’ye do?” Don’t wait for the crowd to go. Walk straight up and say “Hullo!” When big vessels meet, they say, They salute and sail away; Just the same as you and me, Lonely ships upon the sea, Each one sailing his own jog For a port beyond the fog; Let your speaking trumpet blow, Lift your horn and cry, “Hullo!” Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do?” Other folks are good as you. When you leave your house of clay, Wandering in the far away, When you travel through the strange Country far beyond the range, Then the souls you’ve cheered will know Who you be, and say “Hullo!”

How in heaven’s name did Columbus get over, Is a pure wonder to me, I protest, Cabot, and Raleigh, too, that well-read rover, Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest; Bad enough all the same, For them that after came; But in great heaven’s name, How he should think That on the other brink Of this wild waste, terra firma should be, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me. How a man should ever hope to get thither, E’en if he knew that there was another side; But to suppose he should come any whither, Sailing straight on into chaos untried, In spite of the motion, Across the whole ocean, To stick to the notion That in some nook or bend Of a sea without end, He should find North and South America, Was a pure madness, indeed, I must say. What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy, Judged that the earth like an orange was round, None of them ever said, Come along, follow me, Sail to the West, and the East will be found. Many a day before Ever they’d come ashore Sadder and wiser men, They’d have turned back again; And that he did not, but did cross the sea, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, “I’ll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook.” And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met—in the usual way. Then he sat down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; “I thought,” she shyly whispered, “you’d be fishing all the day!” And he was—in the usual way. So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; And he said, “Sweetheart, I love you,” but she said she could not stay, But she did—in the usual way. Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by; “We must say good-by,” she whispered by the alders old and gray. And they did—in the usual way. And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much—in the usual way. And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey? Well, they do—in the usual way.

Little Miss Study and little Miss Play, Each came to the school from an opposite way; While little Miss Study could always recite, This little Miss Play hardly ever was right; For little Miss Study found she could do more By learning her lessons the evening before; But, fond of a frolic, this little Miss Play Would put off her lessons until the next day. At the head of her class Miss Study was put, While little Miss Play had to stay at the foot! Thus little Miss Study and little Miss Play Went onward through life—in an opposite way.

Jack, I hear you’ve gone and done it,— Yes, I know; most fellows will; Went and tried it once myself, sir, Though you see I’m single still. And you met her—did you tell me— Down at Newport, last July, And resolved to ask the question At a soiree?—So did I. I suppose you left the ball-room, With its music and its light; For they say Love’s flame is brightest In the darkness of the night. Well, you walked along together, Overhead, the starlit sky; And I’ll bet—old man, confess it— You were frightened.—So was I. So you strolled along the terrace, Saw the summer moonlight pour, All its radiance on the waters, As they rippled on the shore, Till at length you gathered courage, When you saw that none was nigh— Did you draw her close and tell her, That you loved her?—So did I. Well, I needn’t ask you further, And I’m sure I wish you joy, Think I’ll wander down and see you When you’re married,—eh, my boy? When the honeymoon is over And you’re settled down, we’ll try— What? The deuce you say! Rejected? You rejected?—So was I.

“Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire; Maybe in its embers good luck we might see; But don’t come too near, or your glances so shining, Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree! “Just look ’twixt the sods, where so brightly they’re burning, There’s a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees, And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire’s— Who knows but some day we’ll have something like these? “And now there’s a coach and four galloping horses, A coachman to drive, and a footman behind; That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind.” As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney, Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth-stone: While mansion and carriage, in smoke-wreaths evanished, And left the poor dreamer dejected and lone. Then Norah to Dermot, these words softly whispered: “’Tis better to strive than to vainly desire: And our little hut by the roadside is better Than palace, and servants, and coach—in the fire!” ’Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming— Since Norah’s sweet counsel effected its cure; For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir.

Good Deacon Jones, although a pious man, Was not constructed on the meager plan; And he so loved the Sabbath day of rest, Of all the seven deemed it far the best; Could he have made the year’s allotment o’er, He would have put in many rest-days more. One Sunday morn, on sacred matters bent, With his good wife, to church the deacon went. And since there was no fear of being late, The horse slow jogged along his Sunday gait. This horse he got by trading with a Jew, And called him Moses,—nothing else would do. He’d been a race-horse in his palmy days, But now had settled down, to pious ways,— Save now and then backsliding from his creed, When overtempted to a burst of speed. ’Twas early, and the deacon’s wife was driving, While from the book the deacon hard was striving On sacred things to concentrate his mind— The sound of clattering hoofs is heard behind; Old Mose pricked up his ears and sniffed the air; The deacon mused: “Some racers, I declare! Fast horse, fast man, fast speeds the life away, While sluggish blood is slow to disobey!” He closed the book; he’d read enough of psalms— And, looking backward, spat upon his palms, Then grabbed the sagging reins: “Land sakes alive! It’s late, Jerushee, guess I’d better drive!” The wife suspects there’s something on his mind; Adjusts her spectacles and looks behind: “Pull out, good Silas, let that sinner past Who breaks the Sabbath day by drivin’ fast! What pretty horses; he’s some city chap; My, how he drives; he’ll meet with some mishap! Be quick thar, Silas; further to the side; He’s comin’; thank the Lord the road is wide! Jes’ look at Mose; if he ain’t in fer war! Say, Silas, what on earth you bracin’ for? Old man, have you forgot what day it is?” “Git up thar, Mose! Jerushee, mind yer biz!” “Upon my soul, look how that nag’s a-pacin’; Why, Silas, dear, I do believe you’re racin’! Land sakes alive, what will the people say? Good Deacon Jones a-racin’, Sabbath day!” “Jerushee, now you hold yer pious tongue, And save yer voice until the hymns are sung! ‘Make haste unto the Lord;’ that’s the command; We’re bound fer church—I trust you understand!” “But goin’ to church, good Silas, racin’ so, Will bring us into heaven mighty slow!” “Hush up, Jerushee, else you’ll make us late; Gelong thar, Moses—strike yer winnin’ gait! God gave him speed and now’s his time to show it; If that’s a sin, I never want to know it.” A loving wife to acquiescence used, Jerusha soon begins to get enthused. Said she: “Don’t leave the church folk disappointed, Nor let the ungodly beat the Lord’s anointed!” “You’re right, Jerushee, thar yer head is level, In life’s long race the saint must beat the devil; Though on this Hebrew horse depend we must To keep the Christian from the sinner’s dust. That’s right, Jerushee, give old Mose the birch, Fer here’s a race: The world ag’in’ the church; Both Testaments are at it fer their lives— The Old one pacin’ while the New one drives; And Satan’s found at last all he can do To tackle both the Gentile and the Jew.” The stranger’s horses come at such a pace They dash ahead as if to take the race. “The jig is up, Jerushee; guess he’ll beat; He’s in the lead, and Mose is off his feet.” “What talk is that? Now, Silas, don’t you scoff; How can he jig if all his feet are off? And now you say he’s struck his gait at last, I feared he’d strike on suthin’, goin’ so fast.” The stranger cries: “Come on, old Sanctimony, Old wife, old wagon, and old rack-a-bony!” Jerusha’s dander’s up; Jerusha’s mad; She grabs her bonnet and applies the gad. And Mose at last has struck his old-time speed; For once the Jew and Gentile are agreed. Around the church the gathered country folk Observe: “The Sabbath day is bein’ broke.” With eager eye and half-averted face, Though some condemn, yet all observe the race. “Land sakes!” cries one, “I’ll bet ye ten t’ tew It’s Deacon Jones a-drivin’ that ar Jew.” “I can’t bet much, but here’s my life upon it— That thar’s Jerushee—I know her by the bonnet!” Along the dusty road the horses speed, And inch by inch old Moses takes the lead. Jerusha gets excited, now she’s winning, And all her former anger dies a-grinning. “Come on, old Disbelief, old Satan’s crony, Don’t lag behind on any ceremony! Take my advice: Before you give much sass Jes’ turn yer horses out on Sunday grass.” Old Mose had forged ahead at such a rate The Deacon couldn’t stop him at the gate; The more he pulled the faster Mose would go; Jerusha grabbed one line and hollered: “Whoa!” Which swung him in; the buggy with a crash, Swinging against the horse-block, went to smash. The pastor said: “I hope you broke no bones, Although you broke the Sabbath, Deacon Jones.” “Don’t blame this onto Sile,” Jerusha said: “But on that hoss; you know he’s Jewish bred, An’ won’t do nothin’ Saturday but rest; On Sunday he breaks loose like all possessed. At least we’re here and safe, therefore rejoice, But I shall sing no more, I’ve strained my voice!” “I thought ’twould break,” they heard the pastor say, “It has been cracked for many, many a day.”

May was pretty, plump and pretty, and with such a lovely soul That a smile lit up her features like a mental aureole. People gazed in admiration—always listened—when she talked Always made you think of roses, but she limped whene’er she walked. Nothing crippled, nothing shriveled, nothing of the withered sort; Just a perfect human being, save one leg a trifle short; As though nature had intended her the rarest of her kind But fell short of precious matter and no substitute could find. Fair as polished alabaster that had wakened from its dream; But so modest and retiring she held every one’s esteem. Though her imperfection grieved her more than anybody knew, Yet her life was like the heavens when the stars are peeping through. At first sight of her you’d fancy as you blinked your startled eyes You had chanced upon a seraph who had taken human guise: As a man will gaze in wonder at a jewel on the ground Ere he quite believes his senses that a treasure had been found. Enter handsome, kindly David: comes a stranger to the place, Searching for the soul of beauty hid behind a maiden face; Not among the belles of fashion, not among the aimless kind, Could he find the perfect woman he had pictured in his mind. Thought to find a truer sweetheart in some pretty village lass; Find his lily of the valley in the higher middle class; Out among the quiet people where his riches were unknown, Some fair maid whose homely virtues would appreciate his own. It was at a social function where he met the charming May And her sister, Belle, the elder, quite as handsome in her way. May was sunny, sweet and gentle—Belle was haughty and austere; While ambition strode beside her just a little bit too near. As a gentleman of leisure, David played the friendly rôle, As contented as a youngster when he’s at a sugar-bowl. David laid no special favor upon either Belle or May, But he whispered things to Cupid—told him all he had to say. Yet he played the gallant nobly, exercising all his art: Hid behind the cunning Cupid he deployed to hide his heart. May grew ever more unselfish, giving way to Sister Belle, Till Dan Cupid felt like starting in a raucous college yell. Belle had been the child of favor—May the daughter of regret; One the Mount of Delectation, one the Mount of Olivet. That a man preferred her sister was to Belle almost absurd: She took everything for granted—simply waiting David’s word. Custom bids one ask the parents—though he heed not what they say— If a lover love a lover love will get her anyway. So when David sought permission he was just a bit obscure— Which was laid to nervous tension such as lovers must endure. May I win your noblest daughter? Both fond parents gave consent; Thinking Belle the one intended—straight to her the father went. Belle, too vain to hold the secret, poured it in the ears of May: How the heart grows disappointed when a hope has gone astray. As a graduate from college, David had excuse for staying, But he gave the pair no inkling of the love-game he was playing. Through the summer and the autumn David studied well his art: Read up Cupid on devotion and the psychics of the heart. At the Church on Christmas evening David played the Santa Claus: Telling stories to the children; gaining laughter and applause; Handed out the many presents till the tree was stripped and bare; Gave to Belle a jewel-sunburst which she fastened in her hair. With no special gift from David, May was getting trouble-hearted, But by dint of constant smiling kept the tears from getting started. In the midst of the excitement David cast off his disguise; Gave a rousing speech of greeting, closing up with this surprise: “Friends, I have an extra present, ’tis the last one on the tree, For the Queen of Love and Beauty, choice of all the world to me: One with that angelic nature, Heaven only can bestow; But with just enough of human to detain her here below. I have read her secret often as the star man reads the skies, Till the horoscope got tangled in the flashlight of her eyes. With a love beyond endurance and a wealth beyond control, I have come to claim my sweetheart with the treasures of my soul. As a symbol of devotion I have brought this solitaire— For my heart is in the girdle and her name is graven there.” All are thrilled with expectation; every neck is craned to see Who possesses all these virtues; whom the wonder maid can be. Down the aisle our David hastened—passing Belle upon the way, Till he paused to place the jewel on the pretty hand of May. With her bosom over-flowing, May could utter not a word, But her eyes and lips gave answer in the silence David heard. And the tear that sorrow started changing quick to love’s employ, Trembled on her heavy lashes like a messenger of joy. While her cheek has turned to crimson, down the drop of rapture goes, Stopping there awhile to glisten like a dewdrop on a rose. Can you measure love’s emotion when a sorrow turns to bliss, When a maid whose heart is broken has it mended with a kiss? It is said the first known lovers—and I think they do it yet, As first aid in pressing cases, used their arms as tourniquet. David kissed her there in public, and he hugged her all he could; May had half-way hoped he wouldn’t, then she half-way hoped he would. Though they broke a social custom, none was there to make ado, And the pastor’s benediction, just for once, was just for two.

T’other day, as I was twining Roses for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, midst the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf,— The tiny traitor,—Love himself! By the wings I pinched him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, And d’ye think I did?—I drank him! Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with ten-fold glee; And now this moment, with his wings, I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

The crazy old Vinegar Man is dead! He never had missed a day before! Somebody went to his tumble-down shed, by the Haunted House, and forced the door. There in the litter of his pungent pans, the murky mess of his mixing place,— Deep, sticky spiders and empty cans—with the same old frown on his sour old face. “Vinegar-Vinegar-Vinegar Man! Face-us-and-chase-us-and-catch-if-you-can! Pepper for a tongue! Pickle for a nose! Stick a pin in him and vinegar flows! Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can! Ketch-up-and-chow-chow-and-Vinegar-Man!” Nothing but recipes and worthless junk; greasy old records of paid and due; But, down in the depths of a battered old trunk, a queer, quaint valentine torn in two— Red hearts and arrows, and silver lace, and a prim, dim, ladylike script that said— (Oh, Vinegar Man, with the sour old face!)—“With dearest love, from Ellen to Ned!” “Steal-us-and-peel-us-and-drown-us-in-brine! He pickles his heart in”—a valentine! “Vinegar for blood! Pepper for tongue! Stick a pin in him and”—once he was young! “Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can!” “With dearest love”—to the Vinegar Man! Dingy little books of profit and loss (died about Saturday, so they say) And a queer, quaint valentine, torn across ... torn, but it never was thrown away! “With dearest love from Ellen to Ned”—“Old Pepper Tongue! Pickles his heart in brine!” The Vinegar Man is a long time dead: he died when he tore his valentine.

She was a dainty little maid, And he was very tall; They gathered all the flowers That grew by the garden wall. “My favorite is the rose,” said she, “Do you prefer the pink? Perhaps you’re fond of hollyhocks, You’re just like them, I think. “You’re rather stiff and very tall And nod your head just so For all the world like hollyhocks When summer breezes blow. “But won’t you tell me what Your favorites are? For if I only knew,” (The words were soft and low), “I’d try to raise a few.” “My favorites,” he answered, “This moment I can see. I’m looking at your two lips,— Will you raise tulips for me?”

There was a little yellow man whose name it was Ah Cheu, And every time that Mongol sneezed he told his name to you. This funny little yellow man had wedded Tish Ah Chee, And they, when certain time had passed, had children one, two, three. There was little Ah Cheu And Tish Ah Tsu, And the baby was named Ker Chee, And their Uncle Ker Chawl And his wife were all Of the Snee Zee fam-i-lee, And when the mamma stood and called her children from the door, You would laugh and laugh for an hour and a half if never you laughed before. “Ah Cheu,” she’d say in her feminine way, “bring in little Ker Chee, And Tish Ah Tsu, bring him in, too, to the Snee Zee fam-i-lee.” Alas and alack! but my voice will crack as the mournful tale I tell. To that sweet little band in the Mongol land a terrible fate befell. On a summer day in a sportive way they called one another all, And over and o’er the names they bore they would call and call and call. They called Ah Cheu And Tish Ah Tsu And the baby Ker Chee, Ker Chee, And their Uncle Ker Chawl, They called them all, Till they’re dead as dead can be. Ah Cheu was tough, and was used to snuff, so he lived at his fate to scoff, But the rest are dead, as I’ve heretofore said, for their heads they were all sneezed off. And this is the tale I have tried to wail of Ah Cheu and his little Ker Chee And Tish Ah Tsu and Ah Chee, too, of the Snee Zee fam-i-lee.

Aha! a traitor in the camp, A rebel strangely bold,— A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, Not more than four years old! To think that I, who’ve ruled alone So proudly in the past, Should be ejected from my throne By my own son at last! He trots his treason to and fro, As only babies can, And says he’ll be his mamma’s beau When he’s a “Gweat, big man!” You stingy boy! you’ve always had A share in mamma’s heart; Would you begrudge your poor old dad The tiniest little part? That mamma, I regret to see, Inclines to take your part,— As if a dual monarchy Should rule her gentle heart! But when the years of youth have sped, The bearded man, I trow, Will quite forget he ever said He’d be his mamma’s beau. Renounce your treason, little son, Leave mamma’s heart to me; For there will come another one To claim your loyalty. And when that other comes to you, God grant her love may shine Through all your life, as fair and true As mamma’s does through mine!

I go to concert, party, ball— What profit is in these? I sit alone against the wall And strive to look at ease. The incense that is mine by right They burn before her shrine; And that’s because I’m seventeen And she is forty-nine. I cannot check my girlish blush, My color comes and goes; I redden to my finger-tips, And sometimes to my nose. And she is white where white should be, And red where red should shine. The blush that flies at seventeen Is fixed at forty-nine. I wish I had her constant cheek: I wish that I could sing All sorts of funny little songs, Not quite the proper thing. I’m very gauche and very shy, Her jokes aren’t in my line; And worst of all, I’m seventeen While she is forty-nine. The young men come, the young men go, Each pink and white and neat, She’s older than their mothers, but They grovel at her feet. They walk beside her rickshaw wheels— None ever walk by mine; And that’s because I’m seventeen And she is forty-nine. She rides with half a dozen men, (She calls them “boys” and “mashers”) I trot along the Mall alone; My prettiest frocks and sashes Don’t help to fill my programme-card, And vainly I repine From 10 to 2 A. M. Ah me! Would I were forty-nine! She calls me “darling,” “pet,” and “dear,” And sweet “retiring maid.” I’m always at the back, I know, She puts me in the shade. She introduces me to men, “Cast” lovers I opine, For sixty takes to seventeen, Nineteen to forty-nine. But even she must older grow, And end her dancing days, She can’t go on forever so At concerts, balls and plays. One ray of priceless hope I see Before my footsteps shine; Just think, that she’ll be eighty-one When I am forty-nine.

Two jolly, boyish chums were we For I loved Jim and Jim loved me, We played together—went to school, And learned the selfsame Golden Rule. Jim kissed the girls and so did I; But Jim got married on the sly. The sweetest girl I ever knew Her cheeks like roses wet with dew. I kept my secret through the years And tried to drown my love in tears. Though oft I thought of suicide The more I tried the less I died. Refrain: But every night I watched the sky To see the moon and stars go by And wondered how the angels fly And thought of Jim—My lucky Jim— And what I’d give to have her mine That I might worship at her shrine, But she was his, I’d not repine— Oh, how I envied—envied him. Some secret grief Jim sought to hide; Grew weak and weaker till he died And though I grieved that it was so, I could not weep to see him go, For joy, not sorrow, filled my bowl: ’Twas mine the widow to console. Though Jim was dead, I was alive To bring sweet honey to the hive. I married her, and in my glee Was happy as a honey-bee: I called her “kitten”—In nine days My eyes were opened to her ways. Refrain: Now every night I watch the sky To see the moon and stars go by And wonder how the angels fly And think of Jim—my lucky Jim: Deep lines of sorrow mar my face As time goes on with lagging pace Oh, how I long to take his place Oh, how I envy—envy him.

What music like the whistle of a well-contented boy,— That rhythmic exhalation of an ever-present joy? Though the fragmentary cadence of a plain, untutored art, ’Tis the melody of childhood, ’tis a psalm from out the heart. You will never find a criminal behind an honest smile; And the boy ne’er grows a villain who keeps whistling all the while,— Though he whistle out of tune. What cares he for fickle fortune,—what the fashion may bestow? In his little barefoot kingdom royalty in rags may go. With an apple in his pocket and another in his mouth, Cares not how the wind is blowing, whether north or whether south; For he has no crops a-growing, has no ships upon the sea; And he keeps right on a-whistling, whate’er the tune may be,— For he whistles out of tune. ’Tis the early smile of Summer creeping o’er the face of June, Even though this crude musician many times is off the tune, Till it bears the same resemblance to the melody that’s meant, That his garments do to trousers little matter how they’re rent. When he’s very patriotic then his tune is sure to be— Although a bit rebellious—“My Country, ’Tis of Thee!” Which he whistles out of tune: (America.) Such a vision of good nature in his cheery, smiling face; Better clothes would check his freedom, rob him of his rustic grace; So he feels a trifle awkward in his brand-new Sunday clothes, While repeating to his teacher all the Scripture that he knows. Out of Sunday school he rushes, takes his shoes off on the sly; Says: “The angels all go barefoot in the sweeter by and by!” Which he whistles out of tune: (Sweet By and By.) Sometimes whistling for his playmate; sometimes whistling for his dog, On the quiet, in the schoolhouse, to perplex the pedagogue; Sometimes whistling up his courage; often whistling just because. In the South he whistles “Dixie” o’er and o’er, without a pause, Till he’s out of breath completely, when it seems to be, perchance, But a knickerbocker whistle, since it comes in little pants,— For he whistles out of tune: (Dixie.) Should he hail from old New England you may safely bet your life He can whittle out a whistle with his broken-bladed knife. He will play his cornstalk fiddle, and his dog will never fail To show appreciation, beating tempo with his tail; Then he whistles “Yankee Doodle” like the tunes you often hear On the old farmhouse piano when the sister plays by ear,— For he whistles out of tune: (Yankee Doodle.) There is many a weeping mother longing, morning, night, and noon, For her boy to come back whistling just the fragment of a tune; But he’s yonder entertaining all the angels unaware With a melody so human they’re bound to keep him there; For all that heavenly music nothing sounds to them so sweet As that cheery, boyish whistle and the patter of his feet,— For he whistles all in tune: (Nearer, My God, to Thee.)

A little peach in the orchard grew,— A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew. One day, passing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue— Them two. Up at that peach a club they threw— Down from the stem on which it grew Fell that peach of emerald hue. Mon Dieu! John took a bite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,— Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue. Too true! Under the turf where the daisies grew They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew,— Boo hoo! What of that peach of the emerald hue, Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu!

There were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain’s biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got as far as the Equator They’d nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “I am extremely hungaree.” To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, “We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.” Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “With one another we shouldn’t agree! There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he. “Oh! Billy we’re going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie.” When Bill received this information He used his pocket-handkerchie. “First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mammy taught me.” “Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled off his snickersnee. So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, And down he fell, on his bended knee. He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment When up he jumps. “There’s land I see: “Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee; There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K. C. B.” So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; But as for little Bill he made him The Captain of a seventy-three.

A wooer, a maid and the moon, And a starry night, you’ll allow, Let’s say in August or June, Though it hardly matters just now. The man in the moon peered down With a jealous eye on the pair, And his face was dark with a frown, For the girl was bewitchingly fair. “Just one,” begged the lover. “Please, dear, Don’t you see I love only you? And nobody’s looking, don’t fear; And you know that I’ll ever be true.” But the maid saw the man in the moon, And she hardly knew how to reply; Maybe she might pretty soon; Yet maybe she oughtn’t to try. But the chap in the sky was a brick, And he saw that he shouldn’t be seen, So he gathered a cloud, black and thick, And set it up quick as a screen.

There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed more Because it hung behind him. He mused upon this curious case, And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him. Says he, “The mystery I’ve found, I’ll turn me round.” He turned him round; But still it hung behind him. Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain it mattered not a pin, The pigtail hung behind him. And right, and left, and round about, And up, and down, and in and out, He turned; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him. And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back The pigtail hangs behind him.

The poor little birdies that sleep in the trees, Going rockaby, rockaby, lulled by the breeze; The poor little birdies, they make me feel bad, Oh, terribly, dreadfully, dismally sad, For—think of it, little one; ponder and weep— The birdies must stand when they sleep, when they sleep; And their poor little legs— I am sure it is so— They ache, and they ache, For they’re weary, you know. And that is the reason that far in the night You may hear them say “Dear-r-r!” if you listen just right, For the poor little birdies must sleep on the bough, And they want to lie down, but they do not know how. Just think of it, darling; suppose you must stand On those little brown legs, all so prettily planned; Suppose you must stand when you wanted to sleep, I am sure you would call for your mamma and weep, And your poor little legs, they would cramp, I have guessed, And your poor little knees, they would call for a rest; And you’d cry, I am sure, For so weary you’d be; And you’d want to lie down, But you couldn’t, you see. And that is the reason why we should feel bad For the poor little birdies, who ought to be glad; For they want to lie down as they sleep on the bough; They want to lie down, but they don’t know how.

Which I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name; And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand: It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye’s sleeve: Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, “Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,”— And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game “he did not understand.” In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers—that’s wax. Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar— Which the same I am free to maintain.

Did ye hear of the haythen Ah Sin, Maginn? The bouldest of bould Chaneymin, Maginn? Oh. He was the bye Who could play it on Nye And strip him as aisy as sin, To the skin. Oh. ’Twas he was the gossoon to win. It was euchre we’d play, me and Nye, Me bye! An’ the stakes was uproariously high, Me bye! Nye’s sleeves they was stocked, An’ me feelin’s was shocked, But never a whisper said I— You know why! For Bill is outrageously sly! The game to the haythen was new, Aboo! He didn’t quite know what to do, Aboo! With the cyards in his hand He smiled childlike and bland, And asked us of questions a few, Wirrastheu! Which we answered as bad as we knew. We tuk it the game was our own, Ochone! We’d pick him as cleane as a bone, Ochone! But the hands that he played An’ the p’ints that he made, Made me feel like a babby ungrown, I must own! An’ dull as I’d shwallowed a stone! Nye wud give him a three or a four, Asthore! But niver a better cyard more. Asthore! Yet he’d dhrop down a king Just the aisest thing, An’ jokers an’ bowers galore By the score! You may lay he’d been there before! He was happy as haythen cud be, Machree! His manner surprisingly free, Machree! But William looked sour When he played the right bower Which William had dealt out to me, Do ye see! For to euchre the haythen Chinee. Then William got up in a stew, Hurroo! An’ shlated Ah Sin black and blue, Hurroo! An’ shuk out of his sleeve, I’m not makin’ believe, Of picture cyards quite a good few! It is thrue— This shtory I’m tellin’ to you. We had danced to the haythen’s own tune. Aroon! Oh! It’s lucky we got out so soon, Aroon! He had twenty-four packs, On his fingers was wax— An’ this in Tim Casey’s saloon! The ould coon! How he played us that warm afternoon, Aroon!