Volume 1 — THE OLD TIMES WERE THE BEST

Friends, my heart is half aweary Of its happiness to-night: Though your songs are gay and cheery, And your spirits feather-light, There's a ghostly music haunting Still the heart of every guest And a voiceless chorus chanting That the Old Times were the best.

CHORUS

All about is bright and pleasant With the sound of song and jest, Yet a feeling's ever present That the Old Times were the best.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze, With labored respiration, moves the wheat From distant reaches, till the golden seas Break in crisp whispers at my feet.

My book, neglected of an idle mind, Hides for a moment from the eyes of men; Or lightly opened by a critic wind, Affrightedly reviews itself again.

Off through the haze that dances in the shine The warm sun showers in the open glade, The forest lies, a silhouette design Dimmed through and through with shade.

A dreamy day; and tranquilly I lie At anchor from all storms of mental strain; With absent vision, gazing at the sky, "Like one that hears it rain."

The Katydid, so boisterous last night, Clinging, inverted, in uneasy poise, Beneath a wheat-blade, has forgotten quite If "Katy DID or DIDN'T" make a noise.

The twitter, sometimes, of a wayward bird That checks the song abruptly at the sound, And mildly, chiding echoes that have stirred, Sink into silence, all the more profound.

And drowsily I hear the plaintive strain Of some poor dove . . . Why, I can scarcely keep My heavy eyelids—there it is again— "Coo-coo!"—I mustn't—"Coo-coo!"—fall asleep!

AT LAST

A dark, tempestuous night; the stars shut in With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot The firmament; and where the moon has been An hour agone seems like the darkest spot. The weird wind—furious at its demon game— Rattles one's fancy like a window-frame.

A care-worn face peers out into the dark, And childish faces—frightened at the gloom— Grow awed and vacant as they turn to mark The father's as he passes through the room: The gate latch clatters, and wee baby Bess Whispers, "The doctor's tummin' now, I dess!"

The father turns; a sharp, swift flash of pain Flits o'er his face: "Amanda, child! I said A moment since—I see I must AGAIN— Go take your little sisters off to bed! There, Effie, Rose, and CLARA MUSTN'T CRY!" "I tan't he'p it—I'm fyaid 'at mama'll die!"

What are his feelings, when this man alone Sits in the silence, glaring in the grate That sobs and sighs on in an undertone As stoical—immovable as Fate, While muffled voices from the sick one's room Come in like heralds of a dreaded doom?

The door-latch jingles: in the doorway stands The doctor, while the draft puffs in a breath— The dead coals leap to life, and clap their hands, The flames flash up. A face as pale as death Turns slowly—teeth tight clenched, and with a look The doctor, through his specs, reads like a book.

"Come, brace up, Major!"—"Let me know the worst!" "W'y you're the biggest fool I ever saw— Here, Major—take a little brandy first— There! She's a BOY—I mean HE is—hurrah!" "Wake up the other girls—and shout for joy— Eureka is his name—I've found A BOY!"

FARMER WHIPPLE—BACHELOR

It's a mystery to see me—a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more— A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day!

I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate A little in beginnin', so's to set the matter straight As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife— Kindo' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life!

I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five— Three brothers and a sister—I'm the only one alive,— Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise.

The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat— We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! But someway we sort a' SUITED-like! and Mother she'd declare She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair

Than WE was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!— W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve!

I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride In thinkin' all depended on ME now to pervide Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place With sleeves rolled up—and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.—

Fer SOMEPIN' ELSE was workin'! but not a word I said Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,— "Some day I'd maybe marry, and a BROTHER'S love was one Thing—a LOVER'S was another!" was the way the notion run!

I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in' " was done, (When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one), I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day— A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way!

And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane: I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain. Well—when she turned and KISSED ME, WITH HER ARMS AROUND ME—LAW! I'd a bigger load o' Heaven than I had a load o' straw!

I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fac', They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a' almanac— Er SOMERS—'bout "puore happiness"—perhaps some folks'll laugh At the idy—"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."—

But it's jest as true as preachin'!—fer that was a SISTER'S kiss, And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:— "SHE was happy, BEIN' PROMISED TO THE SON O' FARMER BROWN."— And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down!

I don't know HOW I acted, and I don't know WHAT I said,— Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; And the hosses kind o'glimmered before me in the road, And the lines fell from my fingers—And that was all I knowed—

Fer—well, I don't know HOW long—They's a dim rememberence Of a sound o' snortin' horses, and a stake-and-ridered fence A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where

I was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a-whirlin' roun'! And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague Sort o' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg.

Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, And wonder what was left ME worth livin' fer below, When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know!

And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind When Brown and Mary married—Railly must 'a' been my MIND Was kind o' out o' kilter!—fer I hated Brown, you see, Worse'n PIZEN—and the feller whittled crutches out fer ME—

And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respec'— And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one.

Then I went to work in airnest—I had nothin' much in view But to drownd out rickollections—and it kep' me busy, too! But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day.

Then I'd think how little MONEY was, compared to happiness— And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near!

Well!—A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand Astin' how I'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land— "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"—

And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."— I'd never been West, anyhow—a'most too wild fer ME, I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town Said I'd find myself mistakend when I come to look around.

So I bids good-by to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again— And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, I think it's more'n likely she'd 'a' went along with me!

Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! But finally they called out my stoppin'-place at last: And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train O' cars, and SKEERED at somepin', runnin' down a country lane!

Well, in the morning airly—after huntin' up the man— The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land— We started fer the country; and I ast the history Of the farm—its former owner—and so forth, etcetery!

And—well—it was interESTin'—I su'prised him, I suppose, By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!— But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder more, When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!—

IT WAS MARY: . . . They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here— Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.— It was with us in that meetin', I don't want you to fergit! And it makes me kind o'nervous when I think about it yit!

I BOUGHT that farm, and DEEDED it, afore I left the town With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! And fu'thermore, I took her and the CHILDERN—fer you see, They'd never seed their Grandma—and I fetched 'em home with me.

So NOW you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!—And I've jest come into town To git a pair o' license fer to MARRY Mary Brown.

MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET

Ah, friend of mine, how goes it, Since you've taken you a mate?— Your smile, though, plainly shows it Is a very happy state! Dan Cupid's necromancy! You must sit you down and dine, And lubricate your fancy With a glass or two of wine.

And as you have "deserted," As my other chums have done, While I laugh alone diverted, As you drop off one by one— And I've remained unwedded, Till—you see—look here—that I'm, In a manner, "snatched bald-headed" By the sportive hand of Time!

I'm an "old 'un!" yes, but wrinkles Are not so plenty, quite, As to cover up the twinkles Of the BOY—ain't I right? Yet, there are ghosts of kisses Under this mustache of mine My mem'ry only misses When I drown 'em out with wine.

From acknowledgment so ample, You would hardly take me for What I am—a perfect sample Of a "jolly bachelor"; Not a bachelor has being When he laughs at married life But his heart and soul's agreeing That he ought to have a wife!

Ah, ha I old chum, this claret, Like Fatima, holds the key Of the old Blue-Beardish garret Of my hidden mystery! Did you say you'd like to listen? Ah, my boy! the "SAD NO MORE!" And the tear-drops that will glisten— TURN THE CATCH UPON THE DOOR,

And sit you down beside me, And put yourself at ease— I'll trouble you to slide me That wine decanter, please; The path is kind o' mazy Where my fancies have to go, And my heart gets sort o' lazy On the journey—don't you know?

Let me see—when I was twenty— It's a lordly age, my boy, When a fellow's money's plenty, And the leisure to enjoy— And a girl—with hair as golden As—THAT; and lips—well—quite As red as THIS I'm holdin' Between you and the light.

And eyes and a complexion— Ah, heavens!—le'-me-see— Well,—just in this connection,— DID YOU LOCK THAT DOOR FOR ME? Did I start in recitation My past life to recall? Well, THAT'S an indication I am purty tight—that's all!

THE SPEEDING OF THE KING'S SPITE

A king—estranged from his loving Queen By a foolish royal whim— Tired and sick of the dull routine Of matters surrounding him— Issued a mandate in this wise.— "THE DOWER OF MY DAUGHTER'S HAND I WILL GIVE TO HIM WHO HOLDS THIS PRIZE, THE STRANGEST THING IN THE LAND."

But the King, sad sooth! in this grim decree Had a motive low and mean;— 'Twas a royal piece of chicanery To harry and spite the Queen; For King though he was, and beyond compare, He had ruled all things save one— Then blamed the Queen that his only heir Was a daughter—not a son.

The girl had grown, in the mother's care, Like a bud in the shine and shower That drinks of the wine of the balmy air Till it blooms into matchless flower; Her waist was the rose's stem that bore The flower—and the flower's perfume— That ripens on till it bulges o'er With its wealth of bud and bloom.

And she had a lover—lowly sprung,— But a purer, nobler heart Never spake in a courtlier tongue Or wooed with a dearer art: And the fair pair paled at the King's decree; But the smiling Fates contrived To have them wed, in a secrecy That the Queen HERSELF connived—

While the grim King's heralds scoured the land And the countries roundabout, Shouting aloud, at the King's command, A challenge to knave or lout, Prince or peasant,—"The mighty King Would have ye understand That he who shows him the strangest thing Shall have his daughter's hand!"

And thousands flocked to the royal throne, Bringing a thousand things Strange and curious;—One, a bone— The hinge of a fairy's wings; And one, the glass of a mermaid queen, Gemmed with a diamond dew, Where, down in its reflex, dimly seen, Her face smiled out at you.

One brought a cluster of some strange date, With a subtle and searching tang That seemed, as you tasted, to penetrate The heart like a serpent's fang; And back you fell for a spell entranced, As cold as a corpse of stone, And heard your brains, as they laughed and danced And talked in an undertone.

One brought a bird that could whistle a tune So piercingly pure and sweet, That tears would fall from the eyes of the moon In dewdrops at its feet; And the winds would sigh at the sweet refrain, Till they swooned in an ecstacy, To waken again in a hurricane Of riot and jubilee.

One brought a lute that was wrought of a shell Luminous as the shine Of a new-born star in a dewy dell,— And its strings were strands of wine That sprayed at the Fancy's touch and fused, As your listening spirit leant Drunken through with the airs that oozed From the o'ersweet instrument.

One brought a tablet of ivory Whereon no thing was writ,— But, at night—and the dazzled eyes would see Flickering lines o'er it,— And each, as you read from the magic tome, Lightened and died in flame, And the memory held but a golden poem Too beautiful to name.

Till it seemed all marvels that ever were known Or dreamed of under the sun Were brought and displayed at the royal throne, And put by, one by one Till a graybeard monster came to the King— Haggard and wrinkled and old— And spread to his gaze this wondrous thing,— A gossamer veil of gold.—

Strangely marvelous—mocking the gaze Like a tangle of bright sunshine, Dipping a million glittering rays In a baptism divine: And a maiden, sheened in this gauze attire— Sifting a glance of her eye— Dazzled men's souls with a fierce desire To kiss and caress her and—die.

And the grim King swore by his royal beard That the veil had won the prize, While the gray old monster blinked and leered With his lashless, red-rimmed eyes, As the fainting form of the princess fell, And the mother's heart went wild, Throbbing and swelling a muffled knell For the dead hopes of her child.

But her clouded face with a faint smile shone, As suddenly, through the throng, Pushing his way to the royal throne, A fair youth strode along, While a strange smile hovered about his eyes, As he said to the grim old King:— "The veil of gold must lose the prize; For I have a stranger thing."

He bent and whispered a sentence brief; But the monarch shook his head, With a look expressive of unbelief— "It can't be so," he said; "Or give me proof; and I, the King, Give you my daughter's hand,— For certes THAT IS a stranger thing— THE STRANGEST THING IN THE LAND!"

Then the fair youth, turning, caught the Queen In a rapturous caress, While his lithe form towered in lordly mien, As he said in a brief address:— "My fair bride's mother is this; and, lo, As you stare in your royal awe, By this pure kiss do I proudly show A LOVE FOR A MOTHER-IN-LAW!"

Then a thaw set in the old King's mood, And a sweet Spring freshet came Into his eyes, and his heart renewed Its love for the favored dame: But often he has been heard to declare That "he never could clearly see How, in the deuce, such a strange affair Could have ended so happily!"

JOB WORK

"Write me a rhyme of the present time". And the poet took his pen And wrote such lines as the miser minds Hide in the hearts of men.

He grew enthused, as the poets used When their fingers kissed the strings Of some sweet lyre, and caught the fire True inspiration brings,

And sang the song of a nation's wrong— Of the patriot's galling chain, And the glad release that the angel, Peace, Has given him again.

He sang the lay of religion's sway, Where a hundred creeds clasp hands And shout in glee such a symphony That the whole world understands.

He struck the key of monopoly, And sang of her swift decay, And traveled the track of the railway back With a blithesome roundelay—

Of the tranquil bliss of a true love kiss; And painted the picture, too, Of the wedded life, and the patient wife, And the husband fond and true;

And sang the joy that a noble boy Brings to a father's soul, Who lets the wine as a mocker shine Stagnated in the bowl.

And he stabbed his pen in the ink again, And wrote with a writhing frown, "This is the end." "And now, my friend, You may print it—upside down!"

PRIVATE THEATRICALS

A quite convincing axiom Is, "Life is like a play"; For, turning back its pages some Few dog-eared years away, I find where I Committed my Love-tale—with brackets where to sigh.

I feel an idle interest To read again the page; I enter, as a lover dressed, At twenty years of age, And play the part With throbbing heart, And all an actor's glowing art.

And she who plays my Lady-love Excels!—Her loving glance Has power her audience to move— I am her audience.— Her acting tact, To tell the fact, "Brings down the house" in every act.

And often we defy the curse Of storms and thunder-showers, To meet together and rehearse This little play of ours— I think, when she "Makes love" to me, She kisses very naturally!

. . . . . .

Yes; it's convincing—rather— That "Life is like a play": I am playing "Heavy Father" In a "Screaming Farce" to-day, That so "brings down The house," I frown, And fain would "ring the curtain down."

PLAIN SERMONS

I saw a man—and envied him beside— Because of this world's goods he had great store; But even as I envied him, he died, And left me envious of him no more.

I saw another man—and envied still— Because he was content with frugal lot; But as I envied him, the rich man's will Bequeathed him all, and envy I forgot.

Yet still another man I saw, and he I envied for a calm and tranquil mind That nothing fretted in the least degree— Until, alas! I found that he was blind.

What vanity is envy! for I find I have been rich in dross of thought, and poor In that I was a fool, and lastly blind For never having seen myself before!

"TRADIN' JOE"

I'm one o' these cur'ous kind o' chaps You think you know when you don't, perhaps! I hain't no fool—ner I don't p'tend To be so smart I could rickommend Myself fer a CONGERSSMAN my friend!— But I'm kind o' betwixt-and-between, you know,— One o' these fellers 'at folks call "slow." And I'll say jest here I'm kind o' queer Regardin' things 'at I SEE and HEAR,— Fer I'm THICK o' hearin' SOMETIMES, and It's hard to git me to understand; But other times it hain't, you bet! Fer I don't sleep with both eyes shet!

I've swapped a power in stock, and so The neighbers calls me "Tradin' Joe"— And I'm goin' to tell you 'bout a trade,— And one o' the best I ever made:

Folks has gone so fur's to say 'At I'm well fixed, in a WORLDLY way, And BEIN' so, and a WIDOWER, It's not su'prisin', as you'll infer, I'm purty handy among the sect— Widders especially, rickollect! And I won't deny that along o' late I've hankered a heap fer the married state— But some way o' 'nother the longer we wait The harder it is to discover a mate.

Marshall Thomas,—a friend o' mine, Doin' some in the tradin' line, But a'most too YOUNG to know it all— On'y at PICNICS er some BALL!— Says to me, in a banterin' way, As 'we was a-loadin' stock one day,— "You're a-huntin' a wife, and I want you to see My girl's mother, at Kankakee!— She hain't over forty—good-lookin' and spry, And jest the woman to fill your eye! And I'm a-goin' there Sund'y,—and now," says he, "I want to take you along with ME; And you marry HER, and," he says, "by 'shaw I You'll hev me fer yer son-in-law!" I studied a while, and says I, "Well, I'll First have to see ef she suits my style; And ef she does, you kin bet your life Your mother-in-law will be my wife!"

Well, Sundy come; and I fixed up some— Putt on a collar—I did, by gum!— Got down my "plug," and my satin vest— (You wouldn't know me to see me dressed!— But any one knows ef you got the clothes You kin go in the crowd wher' the best of 'em goes!) And I greeced my boots, and combed my hair Keerfully over the bald place there; And Marshall Thomas and me that day Eat our dinners with Widder Gray And her girl Han'! * * *

Well, jest a glance O' the widder's smilin' countenance, A-cuttin' up chicken and big pot-pies, Would make a man hungry in Paradise! And passin' p'serves and jelly and cake 'At would make an ANGEL'S appetite ACHE!— Pourin' out coffee as yaller as gold— Twic't as much as the cup could hold— La! it was rich!—And then she'd say, "Take some o' THIS!' in her coaxin' way, Tell ef I'd been a hoss I'd 'a' FOUNDERED, shore, And jest dropped dead on her white-oak floor!

Well, the way I talked would 'a' done you good, Ef you'd 'a' been there to 'a' understood; Tel I noticed Hanner and Marshall, they Was a-noticin' me in a cur'ous way; So I says to myse'f, says I, "Now, Joe, The best thing fer you is to jest go slow!" And I simmered down, and let them do The bulk o' the talkin' the evening through.

And Marshall was still in a talkative gait When he left, that evening—tolable late. "How do you like her?" he says to me; Says I, "She suits, to a 'T-Y-TEE'! And then I ast how matters stood With him in the OPPOSITE neighberhood? "Bully!" he says; "I ruther guess I'll finally git her to say the 'yes.' I named it to her to-night, and she Kind o' smiled, and said 'SHE'D SEE'— And that's a purty good sign!" says he: "Yes" says I, "you're ahead o' ME!" And then he laughed, and said, "GO IN! And patted me on the shoulder ag'in.

Well, ever sense then I've been ridin' a good Deal through the Kankakee neighberhood; And I make it convenient sometimes to stop And hitch a few minutes, and kind o' drop In at the widder's, and talk o' the crop And one thing o' 'nother. And week afore last The notion struck me, as I drove past, I'd stop at the place and state my case— Might as well do it at first as last!

I felt first-rate; so I hitched at the gate, And went up to the house; and, strange to relate, MARSHALL THOMAS had dropped in, TOO.— "Glad to see you, sir, how do you do?" He says, says he! Well—it SOUNDED QUEER:

And when Han' told me to take a cheer, Marshall got up and putt out o' the room— And motioned his hand fer the WIDDER to come. I didn't say nothin' fer quite a spell, But thinks I to myse'f, "There's a dog in the well!" And Han' SHE smiled so cur'ous at me— Says I, "What's up?" And she says, says she, "Marshall's been at me to marry ag'in, And I told him 'no,' jest as you come in." Well, somepin' o' 'nother in that girl's voice Says to me, "Joseph, here's your choice!" And another minute her guileless breast Was lovin'ly throbbin' ag'in my vest!— And then I kissed her, and heerd a smack Come like a' echo a-flutterin' back, And we looked around, and in full view Marshall was kissin' the widder, too! Well, we all of us laughed, in our glad su'prise, Tel the tears come A-STREAMIN' out of our eyes! And when Marsh said "'Twas the squarest trade That ever me and him had made," We both shuck hands, 'y jucks! and swore We'd stick together ferevermore. And old Squire Chipman tuck us the trip: And Marshall and me's in pardnership!

DOT LEEDLE BOY

Ot's a leedle Gristmas story Dot I told der leedle folks— Und I vant you stop dot laughin' Und grackin' funny jokes!— So help me Peter-Moses! Ot's no time for monkey-shine, Ober I vast told you somedings Of dot leedle boy of mine!

Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder, Ven der snow vas all about— Dot you have to chop der hatchet Eef you got der sauerkraut! Und der cheekens on der hind leg Vas standin' in der shine Der sun shmile out dot morning On dot leedle boy of mine.

He vas yoost a leedle baby Not bigger as a doll Dot time I got acquaintet— Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!— I grackys! dot's der moosic Ot make me feel so fine Ven first I vas been marriet— Oh, dot leedle boy of mine!

He look yoost like his fader!— So, ven der vimmen said, "Vot a purty leedle baby!" Katrina shake der head. . . . I dink she must 'a' notice Dot der baby vas a-gryin', Und she cover up der blankets Of dot leedle boy of mine.

Vel, ven he vas got bigger, Dot he grawl und bump his nose, Und make der table over, Und molasses on his glothes— Dot make 'im all der sveeter,— So I say to my Katrine, "Better you vas quit a-shpankin' Dot leedle boy of mine!"

No more he vas older As about a dozen months He speak der English language Und der German—bote at vonce! Und he dringk his glass of lager Like a Londsman fon der Rhine— Und I klingk my glass togeder Mit dot leedle boy of mine!

I vish you could 'a' seen id— Ven he glimb up on der chair Und shmash der lookin'-glasses Ven he try to comb his hair Mit a hammer!—Und Katrina Say, "Dot's an ugly sign!" But I laugh und vink my fingers At dot leedle boy of mine.

But vonce, dot Vinter morning, He shlip out in der snow Mitout no stockin's on 'im.— He say he "vant to go Und fly some mit der birdies!" Und ve give 'im medi-cine Ven he catch der "parrygoric"— Dot leedle boy of mine!

Und so I set und nurse 'im, Vile der Gristmas vas come roun', Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle," How he come der chimbly down: Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im Eef he bring 'im someding fine? "Nicht besser as mein fader," Say dot leedle boy of mine.—

Und he put his arms aroun' me Und hug so close und tight, I hear der gclock a-tickin' All der balance of der night! . . . Someding make me feel so funny Ven I say to my Katrine, "Let us go und fill der stockin's Of dot leedle boy of mine."

Vell.—Ve buyed a leedle horses Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, Und a leedle fancy jay-bird— Eef you vant to hear 'im sing You took 'im by der topknot Und yoost blow in behine— Und dot make much spectakel For dot leedle boy of mine!

Und gandies, nuts und raizens— Und I buy a leedle drum Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle Ven der Gristmas morning come! Und a leedle shmall tin rooster Dot vould crow so loud und fine Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning, Dot leedle boy of mine!

Und—vile ve vas a-fixin'— Dot leedle boy vake out! I t'ought he been a-dreamin' "Kriss Kringle" vas about,— For he say—"DOT'S HIM!—I SEE 'IM MIT DER SHTARS DOT MAKE DER SHINE!" Und he yoost keep on a-gryin'— Dot leedle boy of mine,— Und gottin' vorse und vorser— Und tumble on der bed! So—ven der doctor seen id, He kindo' shake his head, Und feel his pulse—und visper, "Der boy is a-dyin'." You dink I could BELIEVE id?— DOT LEEDLE BOY OF MINE?

I told you, friends—dot's someding, Der last time dot he speak Und say, "GOOT-BY, KRISS KRINGLE!" —Dot make me feel so veak I yoost kneel down und drimble, Und bur-sed out a-gryin', "MEIN GOTT, MEIN GOTT IN HIMMEL!— DOT LEEDLE BOY OF MINE!" . . . . . . . . . .

Der sun don't shine DOT Gristmas! . . . Eef dot leedle boy vould LIFF'D— No deefer-en'! for HEAVEN vas His leedle Gristmas gift! Und der ROOSTER, und der GANDY, Und me—und my Katrine— Und der jay-bird—is awaiting For dot leedle boy of mine.

I SMOKE MY PIPE

I can't extend to every friend In need a helping hand— No matter though I wish it so, 'Tis not as Fortune planned; But haply may I fancy they Are men of different stripe Than others think who hint and wink,— And so—I smoke my pipe!

A golden coal to crown the bowl— My pipe and I alone,— I sit and muse with idler views Perchance than I should own:— It might be worse to own the purse Whose glutted bowels gripe In little qualms of stinted alms; And so I smoke my pipe.

And if inclined to moor my mind And cast the anchor Hope, A puff of breath will put to death The morbid misanthrope That lurks inside—as errors hide In standing forms of type To mar at birth some line of worth; And so I smoke my pipe.

The subtle stings misfortune flings Can give me little pain When my narcotic spell has wrought This quiet in my brain: When I can waste the past in taste So luscious and so ripe That like an elf I hug myself; And so I smoke my pipe.

And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds, I watch the phantom's flight, Till alien eyes from Paradise Smile on me as I write: And I forgive the wrongs that live, As lightly as I wipe Away the tear that rises here; And so I smoke my pipe.

RED RIDING-HOOD

Sweet little myth of the nursery story— Earliest love of mine infantile breast, Be something tangible, bloom in thy glory Into existence, as thou art addressed! Hasten! appear to me, guileless and good— Thou are so dear to me, Red Riding-Hood!

Azure-blue eyes, in a marvel of wonder, Over the dawn of a blush breaking out; Sensitive nose, with a little smile under Trying to hide in a blossoming pout— Couldn't be serious, try as you would, Little mysterious Red Riding-Hood!

Hah! little girl, it is desolate, lonely, Out in this gloomy old forest of Life!— Here are not pansies and buttercups only— Brambles and briers as keen as a knife; And a Heart, ravenous, trails in the wood For the meal have he must,—Red Riding-Hood!

IF I KNEW WHAT POETS KNOW

If I knew what poets know, Would I write a rhyme Of the buds that never blow In the summer-time? Would I sing of golden seeds Springing up in ironweeds? And of rain-drops turned to snow, If I knew what poets know?

Did I know what poets do, Would I sing a song Sadder than the pigeon's coo When the days are long? Where I found a heart in pain, I would make it glad again; And the false should be the true, Did I know what poets do.

If I knew what poets know, I would find a theme Sweeter than the placid flow Of the fairest dream: I would sing of love that lives On the errors it forgives; And the world would better grow If I knew what poets know.

AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE

An old sweetheart of mine!—Is this her presence here with me, Or but a vain creation of a lover's memory? A fair, illusive vision that would vanish into air Dared I even touch the silence with the whisper of a prayer?

Nay, let me then believe in all the blended false and true— The semblance of the OLD love and the substance of the NEW,— The THEN of changeless sunny days—the NOW of shower and shine— But Love forever smiling—as that old sweetheart of mine.

This ever-restful sense of HOME, though shouts ring in the hall.— The easy chair—the old book-shelves and prints along the wall; The rare HABANAS in their box, or gaunt church-warden-stem That often wags, above the jar, derisively at them.

As one who cons at evening o'er an album, all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till, in shadowy design, I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low—to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.

'Tis a FRAGRANT retrospection,—for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine— When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart of mine.

Though I hear beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children and the mother as she sings— I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream—

In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm,— For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.

O Childhood-days enchanted! O the magic of the Spring!— With all green boughs to blossom white, and all bluebirds to sing! When all the air, to toss and quaff, made life a jubilee And changed the children's song and laugh to shrieks of ecstasy.

With eyes half closed in clouds that ooze from lips that taste, as well, The peppermint and cinnamon, I hear the old School bell, And from "Recess" romp in again from "Black-man's" broken line, To smile, behind my "lesson," at that old sweetheart of mine.

A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the Genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.

I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew 'round the stump," she loved me—that old sweetheart of mine.

Again I made her presents, in a really helpless way,— The big "Rhode Island Greening"—I was hungry, too, that day!— But I follow her from Spelling, with her hand behind her—so— And I slip the apple in it—and the Teacher doesn't know!

I give my TREASURES to her—all,—my pencil—blue-and-red;— And, if little girls played marbles, MINE should all be HERS, instead! But SHE gave me her PHOTOGRAPH, and printed "Ever Thine" Across the back—in blue-and-red—that old sweet-heart of mine!

And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned,— When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to . . .

When we should live together in a cozy little cot Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine.

When I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.

But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and—my wife is standing there: Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign,— To greet the LIVING presence of that old sweetheart of mine.

SQUIRE HAWKINS'S STORY

I hain't no hand at tellin' tales, Er spinnin' yarns, as the sailors say; Someway o' 'nother, language fails To slide fer me in the oily way That LAWYERS has; and I wisht it would, Fer I've got somepin' that I call good; But bein' only a country squire, I've learned to listen and admire, Ruther preferrin' to be addressed Than talk myse'f—but I'll do my best:—

Old Jeff Thompson—well, I'll say, Was the clos'test man I ever saw!— Rich as cream, but the porest pay, And the meanest man to work fer—La! I've knowed that man to work one "hand"— Fer little er nothin', you understand— From four o'clock in the morning light Tel eight and nine o'clock at night, And then find fault with his appetite! He'd drive all over the neighberhood To miss the place where a toll-gate stood, And slip in town, by some old road That no two men in the county knowed, With a jag o' wood, and a sack o' wheat, That wouldn't burn and you couldn't eat! And the trades he'd make, 'll I jest de-clare, Was enough to make a preacher swear! And then he'd hitch, and hang about Tel the lights in the toll-gate was blowed out, And then the turnpike he'd turn in And sneak his way back home ag'in!

Some folks hint, and I make no doubt, That that's what wore his old wife out— Toilin' away from day to day And year to year, through heat and cold, Uncomplainin'—the same old way The martyrs died in the days of old; And a-clingin', too, as the martyrs done, To one fixed faith, and her ONLY one,— Little Patience, the sweetest child That ever wept unrickonciled, Er felt the pain and the ache and sting That only a mother's death can bring.

Patience Thompson!—I think that name Must 'a' come from a power above, Fer it seemed to fit her jest the same As a GAITER would, er a fine kid glove! And to see that girl, with all the care Of the household on her—I de-clare It was OUDACIOUS, the work she'd do, And the thousand plans that she'd putt through;

And sing like a medder-lark all day long, And drowned her cares in the joys o' song; And LAUGH sometimes tel the farmer's "hand," Away fur off in the fields, would stand A-listenin', with the plow half drawn, Tel the coaxin' echoes called him on; And the furries seemed, in his dreamy eyes, Like foot-paths a-leadin' to Paradise, As off through the hazy atmosphere The call fer dinner reached his ear.

Now LOVE'S as cunnin'a little thing As a hummin'-bird upon the wing, And as liable to poke his nose Jest where folks would least suppose,— And more'n likely build his nest Right in the heart you'd leave unguessed, And live and thrive at your expense— At least, that's MY experience. And old Jeff Thompson often thought, In his se'fish way, that the quiet John Was a stiddy chap, as a farm-hand OUGHT To always be,—fer the airliest dawn Found John busy—and "EASY," too, Whenever his wages would fall due!— To sum him up with a final touch, He EAT so little and WORKED so much, That old Jeff laughed to hisse'f and said, "He makes ME money and airns his bread!—

But John, fer all of his quietude, Would sometimes drap a word er so That none but PATIENCE understood, And none but her was MEANT to know!— Maybe at meal-times John would say, As the sugar-bowl come down his way, "Thanky, no; MY coffee's sweet Enough fer ME!" with sich conceit, SHE'D know at once, without no doubt, HE meant because she poured it out; And smile and blush, and all sich stuff, And ast ef it was "STRONG enough?" And git the answer, neat and trim, "It COULDN'T be too 'strong' fer HIM!"

And so things went fer 'bout a year, Tel John, at last, found pluck to go And pour his tale in the old man's ear— And ef it had been HOT LEAD, I know It couldn't 'a' raised a louder fuss, Ner 'a' riled the old man's temper wuss! He jest LIT in, and cussed and swore, And lunged and rared, and ripped and tore, And told John jest to leave his door, And not to darken it no more! But Patience cried, with eyes all wet, "Remember, John, and don't ferget, WHATEVER comes, I love you yet!" But the old man thought, in his se'fish way, "I'll see her married rich some day; And THAT," thinks he, "is money fer ME— And my will's LAW, as it ought to be!"

So when, in the course of a month er so, A WIDOWER, with a farm er two, Comes to Jeff's, w'y, the folks, you know, Had to TALK—as the folks'll do: It was the talk of the neighberhood— PATIENCE and JOHN, and THEIR affairs;— And this old chap with a few gray hairs Had "cut John out," it was understood. And some folks reckoned "Patience, too, Knowed what SHE was a-goin' to do— It was LIKE her—la! indeed!— All she loved was DOLLARS and CENTS— Like old JEFF—and they saw no need Fer JOHN to pine at HER negligence!"

But others said, in a KINDER way, They missed the songs she used to sing— They missed the smiles that used to play Over her face, and the laughin' ring Of her glad voice—that EVERYthing Of her OLD se'f seemed dead and gone, And this was the ghost that they gazed on!

Tel finally it was noised about There was a WEDDIN' soon to be Down at Jeff's; and the "cat was out" Shore enough!—'Ll the JEE-MUN-NEE! It RILED me when John told me so,— Fer I WAS A FRIEND O' JOHN'S, you know; And his trimblin' voice jest broke in two— As a feller's voice'll sometimes do.— And I says, says I, "Ef I know my biz— And I think I know what JESTICE is,— I've read SOME law—and I'd advise A man like you to wipe his eyes And square his jaws and start AGIN, FER JESTICE IS A-GOIN' TO WIN!" And it wasn't long tel his eyes had cleared As blue as the skies, and the sun appeared In the shape of a good old-fashioned smile That I hadn't seen fer a long, long while.

So we talked on fer a' hour er more, And sunned ourselves in the open door,— Tel a hoss-and-buggy down the road Come a-drivin' up, that I guess John KNOWED,— Fer he winked and says, "I'll dessappear— THEY'D smell a mice ef they saw ME here!" And he thumbed his nose at the old gray mare, And hid hisse'f in the house somewhere.

Well.—The rig drove up: and I raised my head As old Jeff hollered to me and said That "him and his old friend there had come To see ef the squire was at home." . . . I told 'em "I was; and I AIMED to be At every chance of a weddin'-fee!" And then I laughed—and they laughed, too,— Fer that was the object they had in view. "Would I be on hands at eight that night?" They ast; and 's-I, "You're mighty right, I'LL be on hand!" And then I BU'ST Out a-laughin' my very wu'st,— And so did they, as they wheeled away And drove to'rds town in a cloud o' dust. Then I shet the door, and me and John Laughed and LAUGHED, and jest LAUGHED on, Tel Mother drapped her specs, and BY JEEWHILLIKERS! I thought she'd DIE!— And she couldn't 'a' told, I'll bet my hat, What on earth she was laughin' at!

But all o' the fun o' the tale hain't done!— Fer a drizzlin' rain had jest begun, And a-havin' 'bout four mile' to ride, I jest concluded I'd better light Out fer Jeff's and save my hide,— Fer IT WAS A-GOIN' TO STORM, THAT NIGHT! So we went down to the barn, and John Saddled my beast, and I got on; And he told me somepin' to not ferget, And when I left, he was LAUGHIN' yet.

And, 'proachin' on to my journey's end, The great big draps o' the rain come down, And the thunder growled in a way to lend An awful look to the lowerin' frown The dull sky wore; and the lightnin' glanced Tel my old mare jest MORE'N pranced, And tossed her head, and bugged her eyes To about four times their natchurl size, As the big black lips of the clouds 'ud drap Out some oath of a thunderclap, And threaten on in an undertone That chilled a feller clean to the bone!

But I struck shelter soon enough To save myse'f. And the house was jammed With the women-folks, and the weddin'stuff:— A great, long table, fairly CRAMMED With big pound-cakes—and chops and steaks— And roasts and stews—and stumick-aches Of every fashion, form, and size, From twisters up to punkin-pies! And candies, oranges, and figs, And reezins,—all the "whilligigs" And "jim-cracks" that the law allows On sich occasions!—Bobs and bows Of gigglin' girls, with corkscrew curls, And fancy ribbons, reds and blues, And "beau-ketchers" and "curliques" To beat the world! And seven o'clock Brought old Jeff;-and brought—THE GROOM,— With a sideboard-collar on, and stock That choked him so, he hadn't room To SWALLER in, er even sneeze, Er clear his th'oat with any case Er comfort—and a good square cough Would saw his Adam's apple off!

But as fer PATIENCE—MY! Oomh-OOMH!— I never saw her look so sweet!— Her face was cream and roses, too; And then them eyes o' heavenly blue Jest made an angel all complete! And when she split 'em up in smiles And splintered 'em around the room, And danced acrost and met the groom, And LAUGHED OUT LOUD—It kind o' spiles My language when I come to that— Fer, as she laid away his hat, Thinks I, "THE PAPERS HID INSIDE OF THAT SAID HAT MUST MAKE A BRIDE A HAPPY ONE FER ALL HER LIFE, Er else a WRECKED AND WRETCHED WIFE!" And, someway, then, I thought of JOHN,— Then looked towards PATIENCE. . . . She was GONE!— The door stood open, and the rain Was dashin' in; and sharp and plain Above the storm we heerd a cry— A ringin', laughin', loud "Good-by!" That died away, as fleet and fast A hoss's hoofs went splashin' past! And that was all. 'Twas done that quick! . . . You've heerd o' fellers "lookin' sick"? I wisht you'd seen THE GROOM jest then— I wisht you'd seen them two old men, With starin' eyes that fairly GLARED At one another, and the scared And empty faces of the crowd,— I wisht you could 'a' been allowed To jest look on and see it all,— And heerd the girls and women bawl And wring their hands; and heerd old Jeff A-cussin' as he swung hisse'f Upon his hoss, who champed his bit As though old Nick had holt of it: And cheek by jowl the two old wrecks Rode off as though they'd break their necks.

And as we all stood starin' out Into the night, I felt the brush Of some one's hand, and turned about, And heerd a voice that whispered, "HUSH!— THEY'RE WAITIN' IN THE KITCHEN, AND YOU'RE WANTED. DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" Well, ef my MEMORY serves me now, I think I winked.—Well, anyhow, I left the crowd a-gawkin' there, And jest slipped off around to where The back door opened, and went in, And turned and shet the door ag'in, And maybe LOCKED it—couldn't swear,— A woman's arms around me makes Me liable to make mistakes.— I read a marriage license nex', But as I didn't have my specs I jest INFERRED it was all right, And tied the knot so mortal-tight That Patience and my old friend John Was safe enough from that time on!

Well, now, I might go on and tell How all the joke at last leaked out, And how the youngsters raised the yell And rode the happy groom about Upon their shoulders; how the bride Was kissed a hunderd times beside The one I give her,—tel she cried And laughed untel she like to died! I might go on and tell you all About the supper—and the BALL.— You'd ought to see me twist my heel Through jest one old Furginny reel Afore you die! er tromp the strings Of some old fiddle tel she sings Some old cowtillion, don't you know, That putts the devil in yer toe!

We kep' the dancin' up tel FOUR O'clock, I reckon—maybe more.— We hardly heerd the thunders roar, ER THOUGHT about the STORM that blowed— AND THEM TWO FELLERS ON THE ROAD! Tel all at onc't we heerd the door Bu'st open, and a voice that SWORE,— And old Jeff Thompson tuck the floor. He shuck hisse'f and looked around Like some old dog about half-drowned— HIS HAT, I reckon, WEIGHED TEN POUND To say the least, and I'll say, SHORE, HIS OVERCOAT WEIGHED FIFTY more— THE WETTEST MAN YOU EVER SAW, TO HAVE SO DRY A SON-IN-LAW!

He sized it all; and Patience laid Her hand in John's, and looked afraid, And waited. And a stiller set O' folks, I KNOW, you never met In any court room, where with dread They wait to hear a verdick read.

The old man turned his eyes on me: "And have you married 'em?" says he. I nodded "Yes." "Well, that'll do," He says, "and now we're th'ough with YOU,— YOU jest clear out, and I decide And promise to be satisfied!" He hadn't nothin' more to say. I saw, of course, how matters lay, And left. But as I rode away I heerd the roosters crow fer day.

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

I come upon it suddenly, alone— A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, I take the path that leads me as it may— Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare— A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and—is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips—dwindles—broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian file, Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night O years of nights as vain!—Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes!

So—on, with quickened breaths, I follow still— My avant-courier must be obeyed! Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there a while.

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said— "You dog our country walks

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick!— We will not suffer tamely what you do, And warn you at your peril,—for we'll sick Our bumblebees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,— The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast—

Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth— Erratic wanderings through dead'ning lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands:

Or the path climbs a boulder—wades a slough— Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook— The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed— Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge, And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my somber way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows—till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, Where, like a gem in costly setting held, The old log cabin gleams.

. . . . . . .

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on Adown your valley-way, and run before Among the roses crowding up the lawn And thronging at the door,—

And carry up the echo there that shall Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay The household out to greet the prodigal That wanders home to-day.

THE OLD GUITAR

Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver star In its silent lips to-day.

The keys hold only nerveless strings— The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears.

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony.

Music sweeter than words confess, Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument.

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them— Alas for the heart's regrets!—

Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar!

"FRIDAY AFTERNOON"

TO WILLIAM MORRIS PIERSON

[1868-1870]

Of the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, The old school-day romances Are the dearest, after all!—. When some sweet thought revises The half-forgotten tune That opened "Exercises" On "Friday Afternoon."

We seem to hear the clicking Of the pencil and the pen, And the solemn, ceaseless ticking Of the timepiece ticking then; And we note the watchful master, As he waves the warning rod, With our own heart beating faster Than the boy's who threw the wad.

Some little hand uplifted, And the creaking of a shoe:— A problem left unsifted For the teacher's hand to do: The murmured hum of learning— And the flutter of a book; The smell of something burning, And the school's inquiring look.

The bashful boy in blushes; And the girl, with glancing eyes, Who hides her smiles, and hushes The laugh about to rise,— Then, with a quick invention, Assumes a serious face, To meet the words, "Attention! Every scholar in his place!"

The opening song, page 20.— Ah! dear old "Golden Wreath," You willed your sweets in plenty; And some who look beneath The leaves of Time will linger, And loving tears will start, As Fancy trails her finger O'er the index of the heart.

"Good News from Home"—We hear it Welling tremulous, yet clear And holy as the spirit Of the song we used to hear— "Good news for me" (A throbbing And an aching melody)— "Has come across the"—(sobbing, Yea, and salty) "dark blue sea!"

Or the paean "Scotland's burning!" With its mighty surge and swell Of chorus, still returning To its universal yell— Till we're almost glad to drop to Something sad and full of pain— And "Skip verse three," and stop, too, Ere our hearts are broke again.

Then "the big girls'" compositions, With their doubt, and hope, and glow Of heart and face,—conditions Of "the big boys"—even so,— When themes of "Spring," and "Summer" And of "Fall," and "Winter-time" Droop our heads and hold us dumber Than the sleigh-bell's fancied chime.

Elocutionary science— (Still in changeless infancy!)— With its "Cataline's Defiance," And "The Banner of the Free": Or, lured from Grandma's attic, A ramshackle "rocker" there, Adds a skreek of the dramatic To the poet's "Old Arm-Chair."

Or the "Speech of Logan" shifts us From the pathos, to the fire; And Tell (with Gessler) lifts us Many noble notches higher.— Till a youngster, far from sunny, With sad eyes of watery blue, Winds up with something "funny," Like "Cock-a-doodle-do!"

Then a dialogue—selected For its realistic worth:— The Cruel Boy detected With a turtle turned to earth Back downward; and, in pleading, The Good Boy—strangely gay At such a sad proceeding— Says, "Turn him over, pray!"

So the exercises taper Through gradations of delight To the reading of "The Paper," Which is entertaining—quite! For it goes ahead and mentions "If a certain Mr. O. Has serious intentions That he ought to tell her so."

It also "Asks permission To intimate to 'John' The dubious condition Of the ground he's standing on"; And, dropping the suggestion To "mind what he's about," It stuns him with the question: "Does his mother know he's out?"

And among the contributions To this "Academic Press" Are "Versified Effusions" By—"Our lady editress"— Which fact is proudly stated By the CHIEF of the concern,— "Though the verse communicated Bears the pen-name 'Fanny Fern.' "

. . . . . . When all has been recited, And the teacher's bell is heard, And visitors, invited, Have dropped a kindly word, A hush of holy feeling Falls down upon us there, As though the day were kneeling, With the twilight for the prayer.

. . . . . . Midst the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, Thus the old school-day romances Are the dearest, after all!— When some sweet thought revises The half-forgotten tune That opened "Exercises," On "Friday Afternoon."

"JOHNSON'S BOY"

The world is turned ag'in' me, And people says, "They guess That nothin' else is in me But pure maliciousness!" I git the blame for doin' What other chaps destroy, And I'm a-goin' to ruin Because I'm "Johnson's boy."

THAT ain't my name—I'd ruther They'd call me IKE or PAT— But they've forgot the other— And so have I, for that! I reckon it's as handy, When Nibsy breaks his toy, Or some one steals his candy, To say 'twas "JOHNSON'S BOY!"

You can't git any water At the pump, and find the spout So durn chuck-full o' mortar That you have to bore it out; You tackle any scholar In Wisdom's wise employ, And I'll bet you half a dollar He'll say it's "Johnson's boy!"

Folks don't know how I suffer In my uncomplainin' way— They think I'm gittin' tougher And tougher every day. Last Sunday night, when Flinder Was a-shoutin' out for joy, And some one shook the winder, He prayed for "Johnson's boy."

I'm tired of bein' follered By farmers every day, And then o' bein' collared For coaxin' hounds away; Hounds always plays me double— It's a trick they all enjoy— To git me into trouble, Because I'm "Johnson's boy."

But if I git to Heaven, I hope the Lord'll see SOME boy has been perfect, And lay it on to me; I'll swell the song sonorous, And clap my wings for joy, And sail off on the chorus— "Hurrah for 'Johnson's boy!'"

HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS

Your hands—they are strangely fair! O 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 for a hand like this!" Little I dreamed love's fullness 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.

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 over well, 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 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, Renowned 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 untrammeled 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.

SCRAPS

There's a habit I have nurtured, From the sentimental time When my life was like a story, And my heart a happy rhyme,— Of clipping from the paper, Or magazine, perhaps, The idle songs of dreamers, Which I treasure as my scraps.

They hide among my letters, And they find a cozy nest In the bosom of my wrapper, And the pockets of my vest; They clamber in my fingers Till my dreams of wealth relapse In fairer dreams than Fortune's Though I find them only scraps.

Sometimes I find, in tatters Like a beggar, form as fair As ever gave to Heaven The treasure of a prayer; And words all dim and faded, And obliterate in part, Grow into fadeless meanings That are printed on the heart.

Sometimes a childish jingle Flings an echo, sweet and clear, And thrills me as I listen To the laughs I used to hear; And I catch the gleam of faces, And the glimmer of glad eyes That peep at me expectant O'er the walls of Paradise.

O syllables of measure! Though you wheel yourselves in line, And await the further order Of this eager voice of mine; You are powerless to follow O'er the field my fancy maps, So I lead you back to silence Feeling you are only scraps.

AUGUST

A day of torpor in the sullen heat Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, With drowsy eyes, and dream.

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; The sun glares ever like an evil eye, And withers flower and leaf.

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote The thresher lies deserted, like some old Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat Upon a sea of gold.

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird Above an empty nest, and truant boys Along the river's shady margin heard— A harmony of noise—

A melody of wrangling voices blent With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent To mimic waterfalls.

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, The sifted glances of the sun appear In splinterings of spray.

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on His journey to the sky.

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade.

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes:

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases—reaches—passes fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night.

DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME

DIED—Early morning of September 5, 1876, and in the gleaming dawn of "name and fame," Hamilton J. Dunbar.

Dead! Dead! Dead! We thought him ours alone; And were so proud to see him tread The rounds of fame, and lift his head Where sunlight ever shone; But now our aching eyes are dim, And look through tears in vain for him.

Name! Name! Name! It was his diadem; Nor ever tarnish-taint of shame Could dim its luster—like a flame Reflected in a gem, He wears it blazing on his brow Within the courts of Heaven now.

Tears! Tears! Tears! Like dews upon the leaf That bursts at last—from out the years The blossom of a trust appears That blooms above the grief; And mother, brother, wife and child Will see it and be reconciled.

IN THE DARK

O In the depths of midnight What fancies haunt the brain! When even the sigh of the sleeper Sounds like a sob of pain.

A sense of awe and of wonder I may never well define,— For the thoughts that come in the shadows Never come in the shine.

The old clock down in the parlor Like a sleepless mourner grieves, And the seconds drip in the silence As the rain drips from the eaves.

And I think of the hands that signal The hours there in the gloom, And wonder what angel watchers Wait in the darkened room.

And I think of the smiling faces That used to watch and wait, Till the click of the clock was answered By the click of the opening gate.—

They are not there now in the evening— Morning or noon—not there; Yet I know that they keep their vigil, And wait for me Somewhere.

THE IRON HORSE

No song is mine of Arab steed— My courser is of nobler blood, And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, And greater strength and hardihood Than ever cantered wild and free Across the plains of Araby.

Go search the level desert land From Sana on to Samarcand— Wherever Persian prince has been, Or Dervish, Sheik, or Bedouin, And I defy you there to point Me out a steed the half so fine— From tip of ear to pastern-joint— As this old iron horse of mine.

You do not know what beauty is— You do not know what gentleness His answer is to my caress!— Why, look upon this gait of his,— A touch upon his iron rein— He moves with such a stately grace The sunlight on his burnished mane Is barely shaken in its place; And at a touch he changes pace, And, gliding backward, stops again.

And talk of mettle—Ah! my friend, Such passion smolders in his breast That when awakened it will send A thrill of rapture wilder than E'er palpitated heart of man When flaming at its mightiest. And there's a fierceness in his ire— A maddened majesty that leaps Along his veins in blood of fire, Until the path his vision sweeps Spins out behind him like a thread Unraveled from the reel of time, As, wheeling on his course sublime, The earth revolves beneath his tread.

Then stretch away, my gallant steed! Thy mission is a noble one: Thou bear'st the father to the son, And sweet relief to bitter need; Thou bear'st the stranger to his friends; Thou bear'st the pilgrim to the shrine, And back again the prayer he sends That God will prosper me and mine,— The star that on thy forehead gleams Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.

Then speed thee on thy glorious race! The mother waits thy ringing pace; The father leans an anxious ear The thunder of thy hooves to hear; The lover listens, far away, To catch thy keen exultant neigh; And, where thy breathings roll and rise, The husband strains his eager eyes, And laugh of wife and baby-glee Ring out to greet and welcome thee. Then stretch away! and when at last The master's hand shall gently check Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, The world will pat thee on the neck.

DEAD LEAVES

DAWN

As though a gipsy maiden with dim look, Sat crooning by the roadside of the year, So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here To read dark fortunes for us from the book Of fate; thou flingest in the crinkled brook The trembling maple's gold, and frosty-clear Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere, And drifting on its current calls the rook To other lands. As one who wades, alone, Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk Of distant melody, and finds the tone, In some wierd way compelling him to stalk The paths of childhood over,—so I moan, And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk.

DUSK

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day Into the dusky forest-lands of gray And somber twilight. Far, and faint, and high The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry Sad as the wail of some poor castaway Who sees a vessel drifting far astray Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. The children, riotous from school, grow bold And quarrel with the wind, whose angry gust Plucks off the summer hat, and flaps the fold Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

NIGHT

Funereal Darkness, drear and desolate, Muffles the world. The moaning of the wind Is piteous with sobs of saddest kind; And laughter is a phantom at the gate Of memory. The long-neglected grate Within sprouts into flame and lights the mind With hopes and wishes long ago refined To ashes,—long departed friends await Our words of welcome: and our lips are dumb And powerless to greet the ones that press Old kisses there. The baby beats its drum, And fancy marches to the dear caress Of mother-arms, and all the gleeful hum Of home intrudes upon our loneliness.

OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS

"The voice of One hath spoken, And the bended reed is bruised— The golden bowl is broken, And the silver cord is loosed."

Over the eyes of gladness The lids of sorrow fall, And the light of mirth is darkened Under the funeral pall.

The hearts that throbbed with rapture In dreams of the future years, Are wakened from their slumbers, And their visions drowned in tears.

. . . . . . . Two buds on the bough in the morning— Twin buds in the smiling sun, But the frost of death has fallen And blighted the bloom of one.

One leaf of life still folded Has fallen from the stem, Leaving the symbol teaching There still are two of them,—

For though—through Time's gradations, The LIVING bud may burst,— The WITHERED one is gathered, And blooms in Heaven first.

ONLY A DREAM

Only a dream! Her head is bent Over the keys of the instrument, While her trembling fingers go astray In the foolish tune she tries to play. He smiles in his heart, though his deep, sad eyes Never change to a glad surprise As he finds the answer he seeks confessed In glowing features, and heaving breast.

Only a dream! Though the fete is grand, And a hundred hearts at her command, She takes no part, for her soul is sick Of the Coquette's art and the Serpent's trick,— She someway feels she would like to fling Her sins away as a robe, and spring Up like a lily pure and white, And bloom alone for HIM to-night.

Only a dream That the fancy weaves. The lids unfold like the rose's leaves, And the upraised eyes are moist and mild As the prayerful eyes of a drowsy child. Does she remember the spell they once Wrought in the past a few short months? Haply not—yet her lover's eyes Never change to the glad surprise.

Only a dream! He winds her form Close in the coil of his curving arm, And whirls her away in a gust of sound As wild and sweet as the poets found In the paradise where the silken tent Of the Persian blooms in the Orient,— While ever the chords of the music seem Whispering sadly,—"Only a dream!"

OUR LITTLE GIRL

Her heart knew naught of sorrow, Nor the vaguest taint of sin— 'Twas an ever-blooming blossom Of the purity within: And her hands knew only touches Of the mother's gentle care, And the kisses and caresses Through the interludes of prayer.

Her baby-feet had journeyed Such a little distance here, They could have found no briers In the path to interfere; The little cross she carried Could not weary her, we know, For it lay as lightly on her As a shadow on the snow.

And yet the way before us— O how empty now and drear!— How ev'n the dews of roses Seem as dripping tears for her! And the song-birds all seem crying, As the winds cry and the rain, All sobbingly,—"We want—we want Our little girl again!"

THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW

'Twas a Funny Little Fellow Of the very purest type, For he had a heart as mellow As an apple over ripe; And the brightest little twinkle When a funny thing occurred, And the lightest little tinkle Of a laugh you ever heard!

His smile was like the glitter Of the sun in tropic lands, And his talk a sweeter twitter Than the swallow understands; Hear him sing—and tell a story— Snap a joke—ignite a pun,— 'Twas a capture—rapture—glory, An explosion—all in one!

Though he hadn't any money— That condiment which tends To make a fellow "honey" For the palate of his friends;— Sweet simples he compounded— Sovereign antidotes for sin Or taint,—a faith unbounded That his friends were genuine.

He wasn't honored, maybe— For his songs of praise were slim,— Yet I never knew a baby That wouldn't crow for him; I never knew a mother But urged a kindly claim Upon him as a brother, At the mention of his name.

The sick have ceased their sighing, And have even found the grace Of a smile when they were dying As they looked upon his face; And I've seen his eyes of laughter Melt in tears that only ran As though, swift-dancing after, Came the Funny Little Man.

He laughed away the sorrow And he laughed away the gloom We are all so prone to borrow From the darkness of the tomb; And he laughed across the ocean Of a happy life, and passed, With a laugh of glad emotion, Into Paradise at last.

And I think the Angels knew him, And had gathered to await His coming, and run to him Through the widely opened Gate, With their faces gleaming sunny For his laughter-loving sake, And thinking, "What a funny Little Angel he will make!"

SONG OF THE NEW YEAR

I heard the bells at midnight Ring in the dawning year; And above the clanging chorus Of the song, I seemed to hear A choir of mystic voices Flinging echoes, ringing clear, From a band of angels winging Through the haunted atmosphere: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

And I thought of all the trials The departed years had cost, And the blooming hopes and pleasures That are withered now and lost; And with joy I drank the music Stealing o'er the feeling there As the spirit song came pealing On the silence everywhere: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

And I listened as a lover To an utterance that flows In syllables like dewdrops From the red lips of a rose, Till the anthem, fainter growing, Climbing higher, chiming on Up the rounds of happy rhyming, Slowly vanished in the dawn: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

Then I raised my eyes to Heaven, And with trembling lips I pled For a blessing for the living And a pardon for the dead; And like a ghost of music Slowly whispered—lowly sung— Came the echo pure and holy In the happy angel tongue: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, And the dawn of every morrow Will in peace be ushered in."

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The past is like a story I have listened to in dreams That vanished in the glory Of the Morning's early gleams; And—at my shadow glancing— I feel a loss of strength, As the Day of Life advancing Leaves it shorn of half its length.

But it's all in vain to worry At the rapid race of Time— And he flies in such a flurry When I trip him with a rhyme, I'll bother him no longer Than to thank you for the thought That "my fame is growing stronger As you really think it ought."

And though I fall below it, I might know as much of mirth To live and die a poet Of unacknowledged worth; For Fame is but a vagrant— Though a loyal one and brave, And his laurels ne'er so fragrant As when scattered o'er the grave.

LINES FOR AN ALBUM

I would not trace the hackneyed phrase Of shallow words and empty praise, And prate of "peace" till one might think My foolish pen was drunk with ink. Nor will I here the wish express Of "lasting love and happiness," And "cloudless skies"—for after all "Into each life some rain must fall." —No. Keep the empty page below, In my remembrance, white as snow— Nor sigh to know the secret prayer My spirit hand has written there.

TO ANNIE

When the lids of dusk are falling O'er the dreamy eyes of day, And the whippoorwills are calling, And the lesson laid away,— May Mem'ry soft and tender As the prelude of the night, Bend over you and render As tranquil a delight.

FAME

I

Once, in a dream, I saw a man With haggard face and tangled hair, And eyes that nursed as wild a care As gaunt Starvation ever can; And in his hand he held a wand Whose magic touch gave life and thought Unto a form his fancy wrought And robed with coloring so grand, It seemed the reflex of some child Of Heaven, fair and undefiled— A face of purity and love— To woo him into worlds above: And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, A gleaming smile lit up his lips As his bright soul from its eclipse Went flashing into Paradise. Then tardy Fame came through the door And found a picture—nothing more.

II

And once I saw a man, alone, In abject poverty, with hand Uplifted o'er a block of stone That took a shape at his command And smiled upon him, fair and good— A perfect work of womanhood, Save that the eyes might never weep, Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. And as in awe I gazed on her, I saw the sculptor's chisel fall— I saw him sink, without a moan, Sink lifeless at the feet of stone, And lie there like a worshiper. Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, And found a statue—that was all.

III

And once I saw a man who drew A gloom about him like a cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The few Who spoke of him at all, but spoke Disparagingly of a mind The Fates had faultily designed: Too indolent for modern times— Too fanciful, and full of whims— For, talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clung Was worthless as the songs he sung! I saw him, in my vision, filled With rapture o'er a spray of bloom The wind threw in his lonely room; And of the sweet perfume it spilled He drank to drunkenness, and flung His long hair back, and laughed and sung And clapped his hands as children do At fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there dripped Such music on his manuscript That he who listens to the words May close his eyes and dream the birds Are twittering on every hand A language he can understand. He journeyed on through life, unknown, Without one friend to call his own; He tired. No kindly hand to press The cooling touch of tenderness Upon his burning brow, nor lift To his parched lips God's freest gift— No sympathetic sob or sigh Of trembling lips—no sorrowing eye Looked out through tears to see him die. And Fame her greenest laurels brought To crown a head that heeded not.

And this is Fame! A thing, indeed, That only comes when least the need: The wisest minds of every age The book of life from page to page Have searched in vain; each lesson conned Will promise it the page beyond— Until the last, when dusk of night Falls over it, and reason's light Is smothered by that unknown friend Who signs his nom de plume, The End

AN EMPTY NEST

I find an old deserted nest, Half-hidden in the underbrush: A withered leaf, in phantom jest, Has nestled in it like a thrush With weary, palpitating breast.

I muse as one in sad surprise Who seeks his childhood's home once more, And finds it in a strange disguise Of vacant rooms and naked floor, With sudden tear-drops in his eyes.

An empty nest! It used to bear A happy burden, when the breeze Of summer rocked it, and a pair Of merry tattlers told the trees What treasures they had hidden there.

But Fancy, flitting through the gleams Of youth's sunshiny atmosphere, Has fallen in the past, and seems, Like this poor leaflet nestled here,— A phantom guest of empty dreams.

MY FATHER'S HALLS

My father's halls, so rich and rare, Are desolate and bleak and bare; My father's heart and halls are one, Since I, their life and light, am gone.

O, valiant knight, with hand of steel And heart of gold, hear my appeal: Release me from the spoiler's charms, And bear me to my father's arms.

THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL

The harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, For the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright; But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart A sorrow to one in an alien clime, Let the light of the melody fall on the heart, And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.

The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim That once were his passionate love and his pride; And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him Have fallen away as the flowers have died. The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago, Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath The grass and the stubble—the frost and the snow.

Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear, And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings, And jewel the song with the gem of a tear. For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom tonight, And the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.