A BACKWARD LOOK.

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, And lazily leaning back in my chair, Enjoying myself in a general way— Allowing my thoughts a holiday From weariness, toil and care,— My fancies—doubtless, for ventilation— Left ajar the gates of my mind,— And Memory, seeing the situation, Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne." Wandering ever with tireless feet Through scenes of silence, and jubilee Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet Were thronging the shadowy side of the street As far as the eye could see; Dreaming again, in anticipation, The same old dreams of our boyhood's days That never come true, from the vague sensation Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways. Away to the house where I was born! And there was the selfsame clock that ticked From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn And helped when the apples were picked. And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf, With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself Sound asleep with the dear surprise. And down to the swing in the locust tree, Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground, And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three Or four such other boys used to be Doin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round:" And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest, And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed, The old ghosts romp through the best days dead! And again I gazed from the old school-room With a wistful look of a long June day, When on my cheek was the hectic bloom Caught of Mischief, as I presume— He had such a "partial" way, It seemed, toward me.—And again I thought Of a probable likelihood to be Kept in after school—for a girl was caught Catching a note from me. And down through the woods to the swimming-hole— Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,— And we never cared when the water was cold, And always "ducked" the boy that told On the fellow that tied the clothes.— When life went so like a dreamy rhyme, That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time Than it ever will have again.

A was an elegant Ape Who tied up his ears with red tape, And wore a long veil Half revealing his tail Which was trimmed with jet bugles and crape. B was a boastful old Bear Who used to say,—"Hoomh! I declare I can eat—if you'll get me The children, and let me— Ten babies, teeth, toenails and hair!" C was a Codfish who sighed When snatched from the home of his pride, But could he, embrined, Guess this fragrance behind, How glad he would be that he died! D was a dandified Dog Who said,—"Though it's raining like fog I wear no umbrellah, Me boy, for a fellah Might just as well travel incog!" E was an elderly Eel Who would say,—"Well, I really feel— As my grandchildren wriggle And shout 'I should giggle'— A trifle run down at the heel!" F was a Fowl who conceded Some hens might hatch more eggs than she did,— But she'd children as plenty As eighteen or twenty, And that was quite all that she needed. G was a gluttonous Goat Who, dining one day, table-d'hote, Ordered soup-bone, au fait, And fish, papier-mache, And a filet of Spring overcoat. H was a high-cultured Hound Who could clear forty feet at a bound, And a coon once averred That his howl could be heard For five miles and three-quarters around. I was an Ibex ambitious To dive over chasms auspicious; He would leap down a peak And not light for a week, And swear that the jump was delicious. J was a Jackass who said He had such a bad cold in his head, If it wasn't for leaving The rest of us grieving, He'd really rather be dead. K was a profligate Kite Who would haunt the saloons every night; And often he ust To reel back to his roost Too full to set up on it right. L was a wary old Lynx Who would say,—"Do you know wot I thinks?— I thinks ef you happen To ketch me a-nappin' I'm ready to set up the drinks!" M was a merry old Mole, Who would snooze all the day in his hole, Then—all night, a-rootin' Around and galootin'— He'd sing "Johnny, Fill up the Bowl!" N was a caustical Nautilus Who sneered, "I suppose, when they've caught all us, Like oysters they'll serve us, And can us, preserve us, And barrel, and pickle, and bottle us!" O was an autocrat Owl— Such a wise—such a wonderful fowl! Why, for all the night through He would hoot and hoo-hoo, And hoot and hoo-hooter and howl! P was a Pelican pet, Who gobbled up all he could get; He could eat on until He was full to the bill, And there he had lodgings to let! Q was a querulous Quail, Who said: "It will little avail The efforts of those Of my foes who propose To attempt to put salt on my tail!" R was a ring-tailed Raccoon, With eyes of the tinge of the moon, And his nose a blue-black, And the fur on his back A sad sort of sallow maroon. S is a Sculpin—you'll wish Very much to have one on your dish, Since all his bones grow On the outside, and so He's a very desirable fish. T was a Turtle, of wealth, Who went round with particular stealth,— "Why," said he, "I'm afraid Of being waylaid When I even walk out for my health!" U was a Unicorn curious, With one horn, of a growth so luxurious, He could level and stab it— If you didn't grab it— Clean through you, he was so blamed furious! V was a vagabond Vulture Who said: "I don't want to insult yer, But when you intrude Where in lone solitude I'm a-preyin', you're no man o' culture!" W was a wild Woodchuck, And you can just bet that he could "chuck" He'd eat raw potatoes, Green corn, and tomatoes, And tree roots, and call it all "good chuck!" X was a kind of X-cuse Of a some-sort-o'-thing that got loose Before we could name it, And cage it, and tame it, And bring it in general use. Y is the Yellowbird,—bright As a petrified lump of star-light, Or a handful of lightning- Bugs, squeezed in the tight'ning Pink fist of a boy, at night. Z is the Zebra, of course!— A kind of a clown-of-a-horse,— Each other despising, Yet neither devising A way to obtain a divorce! & here is the famous—what-is-it? Walk up, Master Billy, and quiz it: You've seen the rest of 'em— Ain't this the best of 'em, Right at the end of your visit?

O your hands—they are strangely fair! Fair—for the jewels that sparkle there,— Fair—for the witchery of the spell That ivory keys alone can tell; But when their delicate touches rest Here in my own do I love them best, As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans My glorious treasure of beautiful hands! Marvelous—wonderful—beautiful hands! They can coax roses to bloom in the strands Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine, Under mysterious touches of thine, Into such knots as entangle the soul, And fetter the heart under such a control As only the strength of my love understands— My passionate love for your beautiful hands. As I remember the first fair touch Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, Kissing the glove that I found unfilled— When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow, As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!" And dazed and alone in a dream I stand Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand. When first I loved, in the long ago, And held your hand as I told you so— Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss, And said "I could die fora hand like this!" Little I dreamed love's fulness yet Had to ripen when eyes were wet, And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands! Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, Only a touch—were it ever so light— My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again; For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands.