Chapter XIII (2)

But all ye oders of ye girls did please him passing well And they did own him for to be a proper seeming swell; And in especial Guinevere esteemed him wondrous faire, Which had made Arthure and his friend, Sir Launcelot, to sware But that they both ben so far gone with posset, wine, and beer, They colde not see ye carrying-on, nor neither colde not heare; For of eche liquor Arthure quafft, and so did all ye rest, Save only and excepting that smooth straunger from the West. When as these oders drank a toast, he let them have their fun With divers godless mixings, but _he_ stock to willow run, Ye which (and all that reade these words sholde profit by ye warning) Doth never make ye head to feel like it ben swelled next morning. Now, wit ye well, it so befell that when the night grew dim, Ye Kyng was carried from ye hall with a howling jag on him, Whiles Launcelot and all ye rest that to his highness toadied Withdrew them from ye banquet-hall and sought their couches loaded.

Now, lithe and listen, lordings all, whiles I do call it shame That, making cheer with wine and beer, men do abuse ye same; Though eche be well enow alone, ye mixing of ye two Ben soche a piece of foolishness as only ejiots do. Ye wine is plaisaunt bibbing whenas ye gentles dine, And beer will do if one hath not ye wherewithal for wine, But in ye drinking of ye same ye wise are never floored By taking what ye tipplers call too big a jag on board. Right hejeous is it for to see soche dronkonness of wine Whereby some men are used to make themselves to be like swine; And sorely it repenteth them, for when they wake next day Ye fearful paynes they suffer ben soche as none mought say, And soche ye brenning in ye throat and brasting of ye head And soche ye taste within ye mouth like one had been on dead,--Soche be ye foul conditions that these unhappy men Sware they will never drink no drop of nony drinke again. Yet all so frail and vain a thing and weak withal is man That he goeth on an oder tear whenever that he can. And like ye evil quatern or ye hills that skirt ye skies, Ye jag is reproductive and jags on jags arise.

Whenas Aurora from ye east in dewy splendor hied King Arthure dreemed he saw a snaix and ben on fire inside, And waking from this hejeous dreeme he sate him up in bed,-- "What, ho! an absynthe cocktail, knave! and make it strong!" he said; Then, looking down beside him, lo! his lady was not there-- He called, he searched, but, Goddis wounds! he found her nonywhere; And whiles he searched, Sir Maligraunce rashed in, wood wroth, and cried, "Methinketh that ye straunger knyght hath snuck away my bride!" And whiles _he_ spake a motley score of other knyghts brast in And filled ye royall chamber with a mickle fearfull din, For evereche one had lost his wiffe nor colde not spye ye same, Nor colde not spye ye straunger knyght, Sir Fivefeetten of name.

Oh, then and there was grevious lamentation all arounde, For nony dame nor damosel in Camelot ben found,-- Gone, like ye forest leaves that speed afore ye autumn wind. Of all ye ladies of that court not one ben left behind Save only that same damosel ye straunger called ye crow, And she allowed with moche regret she ben too lame to go; And when that she had wept full sore, to Arthure she confess'd That Guinevere had left this word for Arthure and ye rest: "Tell them," she quod, "we shall return to them whenas we've made This little deal we have with ye Chicago Bourde of Trade."

BERANGER'S "MA VOCATION"

Misery is my lot,
Poverty and pain;
Ill was I begot,
Ill must I remain;
Yet the wretched days
One sweet comfort bring,
When God whispering says,
"Sing, O singer, sing!"

Chariots rumble by,
Splashing me with mud;
Insolence see I
Fawn to royal blood;
Solace have I then
From each galling sting
In that voice again,--
"Sing, O singer, sing!"

Cowardly at heart,
I am forced to play
A degraded part
For its paltry pay;
Freedom is a prize
For no starving thing;
Yet that small voice cries,
"Sing, O singer, sing!"

I _was_ young, but now, When I'm old and gray, Love--I know not how Or why--hath sped away; Still, in winter days As in hours of spring, _Still_ a whisper says, "Sing, O singer, sing!"

Ah, too well I know
Song's my only friend!
Patiently I'll go
Singing to the end;
Comrades, to your wine!
Let your glasses ring!
Lo, that voice divine
Whispers, "Sing, oh, sing!"

CHILD AND MOTHER

O mother-my-love, if you'll give me your hand,
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land,--
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.
We'll walk in a sweet posie-garden out there,
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.

There'll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you,
There'll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you;
For I'll rock you away on a silver-dew stream
And sing you asleep when you're weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.

And when I am tired I'll nestle my head
In the bosom that's soothed me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing, in my stead,
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So, Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we'll wander,--
Away through the mist to the beautiful land,--
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.

THE CONVERSAZZHYONY

What conversazzhyonies wuz I really did not know, For that, you must remember, wuz a powerful spell ago; The camp wuz new 'nd noisy, 'nd only modrit sized, So fashionable sossiety wuz hardly crystallized. There hadn't been no grand events to interest the men, But a lynchin', or a inquest, or a jackpot now an' then. The wimmin-folks wuz mighty scarce, for wimmin, ez a rool, Don't go to Colorado much, excep' for teachin' school, An' bein' scarce an' chipper and pretty (like as not), The bachelors perpose, 'nd air accepted on the spot.

Now Sorry Tom wuz owner uv the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine, The wich allowed his better haff to dress all-fired fine; For Sorry Tom wuz mighty proud uv her, an' she uv him, Though _she_ wuz short an' tacky, an' _he_ wuz tall an' slim, An' _she_ wuz edjicated, an' Sorry Tom wuz _not_, Yet, for _her_ sake, he'd whack up every cussid cent he'd got! Waal, jest by way uv celebratin' matrimonial joys, She thought she'd give a conversazzhyony to the boys,-- A peert an' likely lady, 'nd ez full uv 'cute idees 'Nd uv etiquettish notions ez a fyste is full uv fleas.

Three-fingered Hoover kind uv kicked, an' said they might be durned So far ez any conversazzhyony was concerned; _He'd_ come to Red Hoss Mountain to tunnel for the ore, An' _not_ to go to parties,--quite another kind uv bore! But, bein' he wuz candidate for marshal uv the camp, I rayther had the upper holts in arguin' with the scamp; Sez I, "Three-fingered Hoover, can't ye see it is yer game To go for all the votes ye kin an' collar uv the same?" The wich perceivin', Hoover sez, "Waal, ef I _must_, I _must_; So I'll frequent that conversazzhyony, ef I bust!"

Three-fingered Hoover wuz a trump! Ez fine a man wuz he Ez ever caused an inquest or blossomed on a tree!-- A big, broad man, whose face bespoke a honest heart within,-- With a bunch uv yaller whiskers appertainin' to his chin, 'Nd a fierce mustache turnt up so fur that both his ears wuz hid, Like the picture that you always see in the "Life uv Cap'n Kidd." His hair wuz long an' wavy an' fine as Southdown fleece,-- Oh, it shone an' smelt like Eden when he slicked it down with grease! I'll bet there wuzn't anywhere a man, all round, ez fine Ez wuz Three-fingered Hoover in the spring uv '69!

The conversazzhyony wuz a notable affair, The bong tong deckolett 'nd en regaly bein' there; The ranch where Sorry Tom hung out wuz fitted up immense,-- The Denver papers called it a "palashal residence." There wuz mountain pines an' fern an' flowers a-hangin' on the walls, An' cheers an' hoss-hair sofies wuz a-settin' in the halls; An' there wuz heaps uv pictures uv folks that lived down East, Sech ez poets an' perfessers, an' last, but not the least, Wuz a chromo uv old Fremont,--we liked that best, you bet, For there's lots uv us old miners that is votin' for him yet!

When Sorry Tom received the gang perlitely at the door, He said that keerds would be allowed upon the second floor; And then he asked us would we like a drop uv ody vee. Connivin' at his meanin', we responded promptly, "Wee." A conversazzhyony is a thing where people speak The langwidge in the which they air partickulerly weak: "I see," sez Sorry Tom, "you grasp what that 'ere lingo means." "You bet yer boots," sez Hoover; "I've lived at Noo Orleens, An', though I ain't no Frenchie, nor kin unto the same, I kin parly voo, an' git there, too, like Eli, toot lee mame!"

As speakin' French wuz not my forte,--not even oovry poo,-- I stuck to keerds ez played by them ez did not parly voo, An' bein' how that poker wuz my most perficient game, I poneyed up for 20 blues an' set into the same. Three-fingered Hoover stayed behind an' parly-vood so well That all the kramy delly krame allowed he wuz _the_ belle. The other candidate for marshal didn't have a show; For, while Three-fingered Hoover parlyed, ez they said, tray bow, Bill Goslin didn't know enough uv French to git along, 'Nd I reckon that he had what folks might call a movy tong.

From Denver they had freighted up a real pianny-fort Uv the warty-leg and pearl-around-the-keys-an'-kivver sort, An', later in the evenin', Perfesser Vere de Blaw Performed on that pianny, with considerble eclaw, Sech high-toned opry airs ez one is apt to hear, you know, When he rounds up down to Denver at a Emmy Abbitt show; An' Barber Jim (a talented but ornery galoot) Discoursed a obligatter, conny mory, on the floot, 'Till we, ez sot up-stairs indulgin' in a quiet game, Conveyed to Barber Jim our wish to compromise the same.

The maynoo that wuz spread that night wuz mighty hard to beat,-- Though somewhat awkward to pernounce, it was not so to eat: There wuz puddin's, pies, an' sandwidges, an' forty kinds uv sass, An' floatin' Irelands, custards, tarts, an' patty dee foy grass; An' millions uv cove oysters wuz a-settin' round in pans, 'Nd other native fruits an' things that grow out West in cans. But I wuz all kufflummuxed when Hoover said he'd choose "Oon peety morso, see voo play, de la cette Charlotte Rooze;" I'd knowed Three-fingered Hoover for fifteen years or more, 'Nd I'd never heern him speak so light uv wimmin folks before!

Bill Goslin heern him say it, 'nd uv course _he_ spread the news Uv how Three-fingered Hoover had insulted Charlotte Rooze At the conversazzhyony down at Sorry Tom's that night, An' when they asked me, I allowed that Bill for once wuz right; Although it broke my heart to see my friend go up the fluke, We all opined his treatment uv the girl deserved rebuke. It warn't no use for Sorry Tom to nail it for a lie,-- When it come to sassin' wimmin, there wuz blood in every eye; The boom for Charlotte Rooze swep' on an' took the polls by storm, An' so Three-fingered Hoover fell a martyr to reform!

Three-fingered Hoover said it was a terrible mistake, An' when the votes wuz in, he cried ez if his heart would break. We never knew who Charlotte wuz, but Goslin's brother Dick Allowed she wuz the teacher from the camp on Roarin' Crick, That had come to pass some foreign tongue with them uv our alite Ez wuz at the high-toned party down at Sorry Tom's that night. We let it drop--this matter uv the lady--there an' then, An' we never heerd, nor wanted to, of Charlotte Rooze again, An' the Colorado wimmin-folks, ez like ez not, don't know How we vindicated all their sex a twenty year ago.

For in these wondrous twenty years has come a mighty change, An' most of them old pioneers have gone acrosst the range, Way out into the silver land beyond the peaks uv snow,-- The land uv rest an' sunshine, where all good miners go. I reckon that they love to look, from out the silver haze, Upon that God's own country where they spent sech happy days; Upon the noble cities that have risen since they went; Upon the camps an' ranches that are prosperous and content; An' best uv all, upon those hills that reach into the air, Ez if to clasp the loved ones that are waitin' over there.

PROF. VERE DE BLAW

Achievin' sech distinction with his moddel tabble dote Ez to make his Red Hoss Mountain restauraw a place uv note, Our old friend Casey innovated somewhat round the place, In hopes he would ameliorate the sufferin's uv the race; 'Nd uv the many features Casey managed to import The most important wuz a Steenway gran' pianny-fort, An' bein' there wuz nobody could play upon the same, He telegraffed to Denver, 'nd a real perfesser came,-- The last an' crownin' glory uv the Casey restauraw Wuz that tenderfoot musicianer, Perfesser Vere de Blaw!

His hair wuz long an' dishybill, an' he had a yaller skin, An' the absence uv a collar made his neck look powerful thin: A sorry man he wuz to see, az mebby you'd surmise, But the fire uv inspiration wuz a-blazin' in his eyes! His name wuz Blanc, wich same is Blaw (for that's what Casey said, An' Casey passed the French ez well ez any Frenchie bred); But no one ever reckoned that it really wuz his name, An' no one ever asked him how or why or whence he came,-- Your ancient history is a thing the Coloradan hates, An' no one asks another what his name wuz in the States!

At evenin', when the work wuz done, an' the miners rounded up At Casey's, to indulge in keerds or linger with the cup, Or dally with the tabble dote in all its native glory, Perfessor Vere de Blaw discoursed his music repertory Upon the Steenway gran' piannyfort, the wich wuz sot In the hallway near the kitchen (a warm but quiet spot), An' when De Blaw's environments induced the proper pride,-- Wich gen'rally wuz whiskey straight, with seltzer on the side,-- He throwed his soulful bein' into opry airs 'nd things Wich bounded to the ceilin' like he'd mesmerized the strings.

Oh, you that live in cities where the gran' piannies grow, An' primy donnies round up, it's little that you know Uv the hungerin' an' the yearnin' wich us miners an' the rest Feel for the songs we used to hear before we moved out West. Yes, memory is a pleasant thing, but it weakens mighty quick; It kind uv dries an' withers, like the windin' mountain crick, That, beautiful, an' singin' songs, goes dancin' to the plains, So long ez it is fed by snows an' watered by the rains; But, uv that grace uv lovin' rains 'nd mountain snows bereft, Its bleachin' rocks, like dummy ghosts, is all its memory left.

The toons wich the perfesser would perform with sech eclaw Would melt the toughest mountain gentleman I ever saw,-- Sech touchin' opry music ez the Trovytory sort, The sollum "Mizer Reery," an' the thrillin' "Keely Mort;" Or, sometimes, from "Lee Grond Dooshess" a trifle he would play, Or morsoze from a' opry boof, to drive dull care away; Or, feelin' kind uv serious, he'd discourse somewhat in C,-- The wich he called a' opus (whatever that may be); But the toons that fetched the likker from the critics in the crowd Wuz _not_ the high-toned ones, Perfesser Vere de Blaw allowed.

'T wuz "Dearest May," an' "Bonnie Doon," an' the ballard uv "Ben Bolt," Ez wuz regarded by all odds ez Vere de Blaw's best holt; Then there wuz "Darlin' Nellie Gray," an' "Settin' on the Stile," An' "Seein' Nellie Home," an' "Nancy Lee," 'nd "Annie Lisle," An' "Silver Threads among the Gold," an' "The Gal that Winked at Me," An' "Gentle Annie," "Nancy Till," an' "The Cot beside the Sea." Your opry airs is good enough for them ez likes to pay Their money for the truck ez can't be got no other way; But opry to a miner is a thin an' holler thing,--The music that he pines for is the songs he used to sing.

One evenin' down at Casey's De Blaw wuz at his best, With four-fingers uv old Wilier-run concealed beneath his vest; The boys wuz settin' all around, discussin' folks an' things, 'Nd I had drawed the necessary keerds to fill on kings; Three-fingered Hoover kind uv leaned acrosst the bar to say If Casey'd liquidate right off, _he'd_ liquidate next day; A sperrit uv contentment wuz a-broodin' all around (Onlike the other sperrits wich in restauraws abound), When, suddenly, we heerd from yonder kitchen-entry rise A toon each ornery galoot appeared to recognize.

Perfesser Vere de Blaw for once eschewed his opry ways, An' the remnants uv his mind went back to earlier, happier days, An' grappled like an' wrassled with a' old familiar air The wich we all uv us had heern, ez you have, everywhere! Stock still we stopped,--some in their talk uv politics an' things, I in my unobtrusive attempt to fill on kings, 'Nd Hoover leanin' on the bar, an' Casey at the till,-- We all stopped short an' held our breaths (ez a feller sometimes will), An' sot there more like bumps on logs than healthy, husky men, Ez the memories uv that old, old toon come sneakin' back again.

You've guessed it? No, you hav n't; for it wuzn't that there song Uv the home we'd been away from an' had hankered for so long,-- No, sir; it wuzn't "Home, Sweet Home," though it's always heard around Sech neighborhoods in wich the home that _is_ "sweet home" is found. And, ez for me, I seemed to see the past come back again, And hear the deep-drawed sigh my sister Lucy uttered when Her mother asked her if she 'd practised her two hours that day, Wich, if she hadn't, she must go an' do it right away! The homestead in the States 'nd all its memories seemed to come A-floatin' round about me with that magic lumty-tum.

And then uprose a stranger wich had struck the camp that night; His eyes wuz sot an' fireless, 'nd his face wuz spookish white, 'Nd he sez: "Oh, how I suffer there is nobody kin say, Onless, like me, he's wrenched himself from home an' friends away To seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, seclooded spot, Only to find--alars, too late!--the wich surcease is not! Only to find that there air things that, somehow, seem to live For nothin' in the world but jest the misery they give! I've travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that toon has got here first; I'm done,--I'm blowed,--I welcome death, an' bid it do its worst!"

Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on yieldin' to his fate, He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded whiskey straight, Wich havin' got outside uv,--both the likker and the door,-- We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv health no more! But some months later, what the birds had left uv him wuz found Associated with a tree, some distance from the ground; And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon him, said That two things wuz apparent, namely: first, deceast wuz dead; And, second, previously had got involved beyond all hope In a knotty complication with a yard or two uv rope!

MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG

Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may, And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth down A lyttel childe that ben a lyttel lambkyn of his owne; And if so bee they love that childe, He willeth it to staye, But elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.

And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe, And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben beguiled; They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play, And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.

I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me; If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde bee! For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in his eare, What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?

Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

MARTHY'S YOUNKIT

The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play; The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their heads to hear The music uv the little feet that had somehow grown so dear; The magpies, like winged shadders, wuz a-flutterin' to an' fro Among the rocks an' holler stumps in the ragged gulch below; The pines an' hemlocks tosst their boughs (like they wuz arms) and made Soft, sollum music on the slope where he had often played; But for these lonesome, sollum voices on the mountain-side, There wuz no sound the summer day that Marthy's younkit died.

We called him Marthy's younkit, for Marthy wuz the name Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife uv Sorry Tom,--the same Ez taught the school-house on the hill, way back in '69, When she marr'd Sorry Tom, wich owned the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine! And Marthy's younkit wuz their first, wich, bein' how it meant The first on Red Hoss Mountain, wuz truly a' event! The miners sawed off short on work ez soon ez they got word That Dock Devine allowed to Casey what had just occurred; We loaded up an' whooped around until we all wuz hoarse Salutin' the arrival, wich weighed ten pounds, uv course!

Three years, and sech a pretty child!--his mother's counterpart! Three years, an' sech a holt ez he had got on every heart! A peert an' likely little tyke with hair ez red ez gold, A-laughin', toddlin' everywhere,--'nd only three years old! Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, an' sometimes down the hill He kited (boys is boys, you know,--you couldn't keep him still!) An' there he'd play beside the brook where purpul wild-flowers grew, An' the mountain pines an' hemlocks a kindly shadder threw, An' sung soft, sollum toons to him, while in the gulch below The magpies, like strange sperrits, went flutterin' to an' fro.

Three years, an' then the fever come,--it wuzn't right, you know, With all us old ones in the camp, for that little child to go; It's right the old should die, but that a harmless little child Should miss the joy uv life an' love,--that can't be reconciled! That's what we thought that summer day, an' that is what we said Ez we looked upon the piteous face uv Marthy's younkit dead. But for his mother's sobbin', the house wuz very still, An' Sorry Tom wuz lookin', through the winder, down the hill, To the patch beneath the hemlocks where his darlin' used to play, An' the mountain brook sung lonesomelike an' loitered on its way.

A preacher come from Roarin' Crick to comfort 'em an' pray, 'Nd all the camp wuz present at the obsequies next day; A female teacher staged it twenty miles to sing a hymn, An' we jined her in the chorus,--big, husky men an' grim Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," an' then the preacher prayed, An' preacht a sermon on the death uv that fair blossom laid Among them other flowers he loved,--wich sermon set sech weight On sinners bein' always heeled against the future state, That, though it had been fashionable to swear a perfec' streak, There warn't no swearin' in the camp for pretty nigh a week!

Last thing uv all, four strappin' men took up the little load An' bore it tenderly along the windin', rocky road, To where the coroner had dug a grave beside the brook, In sight uv Marthy's winder, where the same could set an' look An' wonder if his cradle in that green patch, long an' wide, Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that wuz empty at her side; An' wonder if the mournful songs the pines wuz singin' then Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies she'd never sing again, 'Nd if the bosom of the earth in wich he lay at rest Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm ez wuz his mother's breast.

The camp is gone; but Red Hoss Mountain rears its kindly head, An' looks down, sort uv tenderly, upon its cherished dead; 'Nd I reckon that, through all the years, that little boy wich died Sleeps sweetly an' contentedly upon the mountain-side; That the wild-flowers uv the summer-time bend down their heads to hear The footfall uv a little friend they know not slumbers near; That the magpies on the sollum rocks strange flutterin' shadders make, An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper doesn't wake; That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike an' loiters on its way Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.

IN FLANDERS

Through sleet and fogs to the saline bogs
Where the herring fish meanders,
An army sped, and then, 't is said,
Swore terribly in Flanders:
"--------!"
"--------!"
A hideous store of oaths they swore,
Did the army over in Flanders!

At this distant day we're unable to say
What so aroused their danders;
But it's doubtless the case, to their lasting disgrace,
That the army swore in Flanders:
"--------!"
"--------!"
And many more such oaths they swore,
Did that impious horde in Flanders!

Some folks contend that these oaths without end
Began among the commanders,
That, taking this cue, the subordinates, too,
Swore terribly in Flanders:
Twas "------------!"
"--------"

Why, the air was blue with the hullaballoo
Of those wicked men in Flanders!

But some suppose that the trouble arose
With a certain Corporal Sanders,
Who sought to abuse the wooden shoes
That the natives wore in Flanders.
Saying: "--------!"
"--------"

What marvel then, that the other men
Felt encouraged to swear in Flanders!
At any rate, as I grieve to state,
Since these soldiers vented their danders
Conjectures obtain that for language profane
There is no such place as Flanders.
"--------"
"--------"

This is the kind of talk you'll find
If ever you go to Flanders.
How wretched is he, wherever he be,
That unto this habit panders!
And how glad am I that my interests lie
In Chicago, and not in Flanders!
"----------------!"
"----------------!"

Would never go down in this circumspect town However it might in Flanders.

OUR BIGGEST FISH

When in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke, I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like; And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught When I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I'd caught! And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd display When I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away!

Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines, And many times the treacherous reeds would foil my just designs; But whether hooks or lines or reeds were actually to blame, I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same-- I never lost a _little_ fish--yes, I am free to say It always was the _biggest_ fish I caught that got away.

And so it was, when later on, I felt ambition pass From callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass; I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't bite And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night, To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away.

And really, fish look bigger than they are before they are before they're caught-- When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut, When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat! Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say That it always _is_ the biggest fish you catch that gets away!

'T 'is even so in other things--yes, in our greedy eyes The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize; We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life-- Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife;

And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray, We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that got away.

I would not have it otherwise; 't is better there should be Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea; For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game-- May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same; Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to say That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away.

THIRTY-NINE

O hapless day! O wretched day!
I hoped you'd pass me by--
Alas, the years have sneaked away
And all is changed but I!
Had I the power, I would remand
You to a gloom condign,
But here you've crept upon me and
I--I am thirty-nine!

Now, were I thirty-five, I could
Assume a flippant guise;
Or, were I forty years, I should
Undoubtedly look wise;
For forty years are said to bring
Sedateness superfine;
But thirty-nine don't mean a thing--
_A bas_ with thirty-nine!

You healthy, hulking girls and boys,--
What makes you grow so fast?
Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise--
I'm tough and bound to last!
No, no--I'm old and withered too--
I feel my powers decline
(Yet none believes this can be true
Of one at thirty-nine).

And you, dear girl with velvet eyes,
I wonder what you mean
Through all our keen anxieties
By keeping sweet sixteen.
With your dear love to warm my heart,
Wretch were I to repine;
I was but jesting at the start--
I'm glad I'm thirty-nine!

So, little children, roar and race
As blithely as you can,
And, sweetheart, let your tender grace
Exalt the Day and Man;
For then these factors (I'll engage)
All subtly shall combine
To make both juvenile and sage
The one who's thirty-nine!

Yes, after all, I'm free to say I would much rather be Standing as I do stand to-day, 'Twixt devil and deep sea; For though my face be dark with care Or with a grimace shine, Each haply falls unto my share, For I am thirty-nine!

'Tis passing meet to make good cheer
And lord it like a king,
Since only once we catch the year
That doesn't mean a thing.
O happy day! O gracious day!
I pledge thee in this wine--
Come, let us journey on our way
A year, good Thirty-Nine!

Sept. 2, 1889.

YVYTOT

_Where wail the waters in their flaw A spectre wanders to and fro, And evermore that ghostly shore Bemoans the heir of Yvytot_.

_Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall, The mists upon the waters fall, Across the main float shadows twain That do not heed the spectre's call_.

The king his son of Yvytot Stood once and saw the waters go Boiling around with hissing sound The sullen phantom rocks below.

And suddenly he saw a face Lift from that black and seething place-- Lift up and gaze in mute amaze And tenderly a little space,

A mighty cry of love made he-- No answering word to him gave she, But looked, and then sunk back again Into the dark and depthless sea.

And ever afterward that face, That he beheld such little space, Like wraith would rise within his eyes And in his heart find biding place.

So oft from castle hall he crept Where mid the rocks grim shadows slept, And where the mist reached down and kissed The waters as they wailed and wept.

The king it was of Yvytot That vaunted, many years ago, There was no coast his valiant host Had not subdued with spear and bow.

For once to him the sea-king cried: "In safety all thy ships shall ride An thou but swear thy princely heir Shall take my daughter to his bride.

"And lo, these winds that rove the sea Unto our pact shall witness be, And of the oath which binds us both Shall be the judge 'twixt me and thee!"

Then swore the king of Yvytot Unto the sea-king years ago, And with great cheer for many a year His ships went harrying to and fro.

Unto this mighty king his throne Was born a prince, and one alone-- Fairer than he in form and blee And knightly grace was never known.

But once he saw a maiden face Lift from a haunted ocean place-- Lift up and gaze in mute amaze And tenderly a little space.

Wroth was the king of Yvytot, For that his son would never go Sailing the sea, but liefer be Where wailed the waters in their flow,

Where winds in clamorous anger swept, Where to and fro grim shadows crept, And where the mist reached down and kissed The waters as they wailed and wept.

So sped the years, till came a day The haughty king was old and gray, And in his hold were spoils untold That he had wrenched from Norroway.

Then once again the sea-king cried: "Thy ships have harried far and wide; My part is done--now let thy son Require my daughter to his bride!"

Loud laughed the king of Yvytot, And by his soul he bade him no-- "I heed no more what oath I swore, For I was mad to bargain so!"

Then spake the sea-king in his wrath: "Thy ships lie broken in my path! Go now and wring thy hands, false king! Nor ship nor heir thy kingdom hath!

"And thou shalt wander evermore All up and down this ghostly shore, And call in vain upon the twain That keep what oath a dastard swore!"

The king his son of Yvytot Stood even then where to and fro The breakers swelled--and there beheld A maiden face lift from below.

"Be thou or truth or dream," he cried, "Or spirit of the restless tide, It booteth not to me, God wot! But I would have thee to my bride."

Then spake the maiden: "Come with me Unto a palace in the sea, For there my sire in kingly ire Requires thy king his oath of thee!"

Gayly he fared him down the sands And took the maiden's outstretched hands; And so went they upon their way To do the sea-king his commands.

The winds went riding to and fro And scourged the waves that crouched below, And bade them sing to a childless king The bridal song of Yvytot.

So fell the curse upon that shore, And hopeless wailing evermore Was the righteous dole of the craven soul That heeded not what oath he swore.

An hundred ships went down that day All off the coast of Norroway, And the ruthless sea made mighty glee Over the spoil that drifting lay.

The winds went calling far and wide To the dead that tossed in the mocking tide: "Come forth, ye slaves! from your fleeting graves And drink a health to your prince his bride!"

_Where wail the waters in their flow A spectre wanders to and fro, But nevermore that ghostly shore Shall claim the heir of Yvytot_.

_Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall, The mists upon the waters fall, Across the main flit shadows twain That do not heed the spectre's call_.

LONG AGO

I once knew all the birds that came
And nested in our orchard trees;
For every flower I had a name--
My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;
I knew where thrived in yonder glen
What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe--
Oh, I was very learned then;
But that was very long ago!

I knew the spot upon the hill
Where checkerberries could be found,
I knew the rushes near the mill
Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound!
I knew the wood,--the very tree
Where lived the poaching, saucy crow,
And all the woods and crows knew me--
But that was very long ago.

And pining for the joys of youth,
I tread the old familiar spot
Only to learn this solemn truth:
I have forgotten, am forgot.
Yet here's this youngster at my knee
Knows all the things I used to know;
To think I once was wise as he--
But that was very long ago.

I know it's folly to complain
Of whatsoe'er the Fates decree;
Yet were not wishes all in vain,
I tell you what my wish should be:
I'd wish to be a boy again,
Back with the friends I used to know;
For I was, oh! so happy then--
But that was very long ago!

TO A SOUBRETTE

'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met;
And yet--ah, yet, how swift and tender
My thoughts go back in time's dull track
To you, sweet pink of female gender!
I shall not say--though others may--
That time all human joy enhances;
But the same old thrill comes to me still
With memories of your songs and dances.

Soubrettish ways these latter days
Invite my praise, but never get it;
I still am true to yours and you--
My record's made, I'll not upset it!
The pranks they play, the things they say--
I'd blush to put the like on paper,
And I'll avow they don't know how
To dance, so awkwardly they caper!

I used to sit down in the pit
And see you flit like elf or fairy
Across the stage, and I'll engage
No moonbeam sprite was half so airy;
Lo, everywhere about me there
Were rivals reeking with pomatum,
And if, perchance, they caught your glance
In song or dance, how did I hate 'em!

At half-past ten came rapture--then
Of all those men was I most happy,
For bottled beer and royal cheer
And tetes-a-tetes were on the tapis.
Do you forget, my fair soubrette,
Those suppers at the Cafe Rector,--
The cosey nook where we partook
Of sweeter cheer than fabled nectar?

Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways
Knew every phase of harmless folly!
Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delights
Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy!
Gone are they all beyond recall,
And I--a shade, a mere reflection--
Am forced to feed my spirit's greed
Upon the husks of retrospection!

And lo! to-night, the phantom light,
That, as a sprite, flits on the fender,
Reveals a face whose girlish grace
Brings back the feeling, warm and tender;
And, all the while, the old-time smile
Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,--
As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet
Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled!

SOME TIME

Last night, my darling, as you slept,
I thought I heard you sigh,
And to your little crib I crept,
And watched a space thereby;
And then I stooped and kissed your brow,
For oh! I love you so--
You are too young to know it now,
But some time you shall know!

Some time when, in a darkened place
Where others come to weep,
Your eyes shall look upon a face
Calm in eternal sleep,
The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,
The patient smile shall show--
You are too young to know it now,
But some time you may know!

Look backward, then, into the years,
And see me here to-night--
See, O my darling! how my tears
Are falling as I write;
And feel once more upon your brow
The kiss of long ago--
You are too young to know it now,
But some time you shall know.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Book of Western Verse, by Eugene Field