Chapter II: Part 2

Could the rhymer only wring All the sweetness to the lees Of all the kisses clustering In juicy Used-to-bes, To dip his rhymes therein and sing The blossoms on the trees--, "O Blossoms on the Trees," He would twitter, trill, and coo, "However sweet, such songs as these Are not as sweet as you--: For you are blooming melodies The eyes may listen to!"

_Last Night-- And This_

Last night-- how deep the darkness was! And well I knew its depths, because I waded it from shore to shore, Thinking to reach the light no more.

She would not even touch my hand---. The winds rose and the cedars fanned The moon out, and the stars fled back In heaven and hid-- and all was black!

But ah! To-night a summons came, Signed with a tear-drop for a name, For as I wondering kissed it, lo A line beneath it told me so.

And now-- the moon hangs over me A disk of dazzling brilliancy, And every star-tip stabs my sights With splintered glitterings of light!

_A Discouraging Model_

Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under there Where the shadows are lost in her hair.

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint And as sweet as the master of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint!

And that lace at her throat-- and fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, The flakes of their touches-- first fluttering at The bow-- then the roses-- the hair and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.

Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair Nor the gold of her smile-- O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair?

_Back From a Two-years' Sentence_

Back from a two-years' sentence! And though it had been ten, You think, I were scarred no deeper In the eyes of my fellow-men. "My fellow-men--?" Sounds like a satire, You think-- and I so allow, Here in my home since childhood, Yet more than a stranger now!

Pardon--! Not wholly a stranger--, For I have a wife and child: That woman has wept for two long years, And yet last night she smiled--! Smiled, as I leapt from the platform Of the midnight train, and then-- All that I knew was that smile of hers, And our babe in my arms again!

Back from a two-years' sentence-- But I've thought the whole thing through--, A hint of it came when the bars swung back And I looked straight up in the blue Of the blessed skies with my hat off! O-ho! I've a wife and child: That woman has wept for two long years, And yet last night she smiled!

_The Wandering Jew_

The stars are falling, and the sky Is like a field of faded flowers; The winds on weary wings go by; The moon hides, and the tempest lowers; And still through every clime and age I wander on a pilgrimage That all men know an idle quest, For that the goal I seek is-- Rest!

I hear the voice of summer streams, And following, I find the brink Of cooling springs, with childish dreams Returning as I bend to drink-- But suddenly, with startled eyes, My face looks on its grim disguise Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, I hasten on, nor taste of rest.

I come upon a merry group Of children in the dusky wood, Who answer back the owlet's whoop, That laughs as it had understood; And I would pause a little space, But that each happy blossom-face Is like to one His hands have blessed Who sent me forth in search of rest.

Sometimes I fain would stay my feet In shady lanes, where huddled kine Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, And lift their patient eyes to mine; But I, for thoughts that ever then Go back to Bethlehem again, Must needs fare on my weary quest, And weep for very need of rest.

Is there no end? I plead in vain: Lost worlds nor living answer me. Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign Have I not passed eternity? Have I not drunk the fetid breath Of every fevered phase of death, And come unscathed through every pest And scourge and plague that promised rest?

Have I not seen the stars go out That shed their light o'er Galilee, And mighty kingdoms tossed about And crumbled clod-like in the sea? Dead ashes of dead ages blow And cover me like drifting snow, And time laughs on as 'twere a jest That I have any need of rest.

_Becalmed_

1 Would that the winds might only blow As they blew in the golden long ago--! Laden with odors of Orient isles Where ever and ever the sunshine smiles, And the bright sands blend with the shady trees, And the lotus blooms in the midst of these.

2 Warm winds won from the midland vales To where the tress of the Siren trails O'er the flossy tip of the mountain phlox And the bare limbs twined in the crested rocks, High above as the seagulls flap Their lopping wings at the thunder-clap.

3 Ah! That the winds might rise and blow The great surge up from the port below, Bloating the sad, lank, silken sails Of the Argo out with the swift, sweet gales That blew from Colchis when Jason had His love's full will and his heart was glad-- When Medea's voice was soft and low. Ah! That the winds might rise and blow!

_To Santa Claus_

Most tangible of all the gods that be, O Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy! As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again.

Be wholly good to us, just as of old: As a pleased father, let thine arms infold Us, homed within the haven of thy love, And all the cheer and wholesomeness thereof.

Thou lone reality, when O so long Life's unrealities have wrought us wrong: Ambition hath allured us--, fame likewise, And all that promised honor in men's eyes.

Throughout the world's evasions, wiles, and shifts, Thou only bidest stable as thy gifts--: A grateful king re-ruleth from thy lap, Crowned with a little tinselled soldier-cap:

A mighty general-- a nation's pride-- Thou givest again a rocking-horse to ride, And wildly glad he groweth as the grim Old jurist with the drum thou givest him:

The sculptor's chisel, at thy mirth's command, Is as a whistle in his boyish hand; The painters model fadeth utterly, And there thou standest--, and he painteth thee--:

Most like a winter pippin, sound and fine And tingling-red that ripe old face of thine, Set in thy frosty beard of cheek and chin As midst the snows the thaws of spring set in.

Ho! Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy-- Most tangible of all the gods that be--! As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again.

_Where the Children used to Play_

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine, And filled it is with plenty and to spare--, But we are lonely here in life's decline, Though fortune smiles around us everywhere: We look across the gold Of the harvests, as of old-- The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay; But most we turn our gaze, As with eyes of other days, To the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure And rich hoard of worldly treasure We often turn our weary eyes away, And hand in hand we wander Down the old path winding yonder To the orchard where the children used to play.

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds; The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver; The grove's a paradise of singing birds-- The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door; Yet lonely, lonely still, Let us prosper as we will, Our old hearts seem so empty everyway-- We can only through a mist See the faces we have kissed In the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure And rich hoard of worldly treasure We often turn our weary eyes away, And hand in hand we wander Down the old path winding yonder To the orchard where the children used to play.

_A Glimpse of Pan_

I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here. And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat. And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer Of the grasses, green and sweet.

And I peered through a vista of leaning tree, Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept To the face of a river, that answered these With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept And kissed them, with quavering ecstasies, And wistfully laughed and wept

And there, like a dream in swoon, I swear I saw Pan lying--, his limbs in the dew And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere, Over across, and around him blew Filmy dragon-flies hither and there, And little white butterflies, two and two, In eddies of odorous air.

Sonnets

_Pan_

This Pan is but an idle god, I guess, Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams He loiters listlessly by woody streams, Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness; Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems Drugged with a joy unutterable-- unless His low pipes whistle hints of it far out Across the ripples to the dragon-fly That like a wind-born blossom blown about, Drops quiveringly down, as though to die-- Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt Whether to fan his wings or fly without.

_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 sombre 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.

_June_

O queenly month of indolent repose! I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; And wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; While faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade--: All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!

_Silence_

Thousands of thousands of hushed years ago, Out on the edge of Chaos, all alone I stood on peaks of vapor, high upthrown Above a sea that knew nor ebb nor flow, Nor any motion won of winds that blow, Nor any sound of watery wail or moan, Nor lisp of wave, nor wandering undertone Of any tide lost in the night below. So still it was, I mind me, as I laid My thirsty ear against mine own faint sigh To drink of that, I sipped it, half afraid 'Twas but the ghost of a dead voice spilled by The one starved star that tottered through the shade And came tiptoeing toward me down the sky.

_Sleep_

Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink Muse on me--, drifting out upon thy dreams, I lave my soul as in enchanted streams Where revelling satyrs pipe along the brink, And tipsy with the melody they drink, Uplift their dangling hooves, and down the beams Of sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seems An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly--, Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine, And siren-arms that coil their sorcery About my neck, with kisses so divine, The heavens reel above me, and the sea Swallows and licks its wet lips over me.

_Her Hair_

The beauty of her hair bewilders me-- Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide Swirling about the ears on either side And storming round the neck tumultuously: Or like the lights of old antiquity Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified In chastest marble, nude of drapery. And so I love it--. Either unconfined; Or plaited in close braidings manifold; Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled At any lightest kiss; or by the wind Whipped out in flossy ravellings of gold.

_Dearth_

I hold your trembling hand to-night-- and yet I may not know what wealth of bliss is mine, My heart is such a curious design Of trust and jealousy! Your eyes are wet-- So must I think they jewel some regret--, And lo, the loving arms that round me twine Cling only as the tendrils of a vine Whose fruit has long been gathered: I forget, While crimson clusters of your kisses press Their wine out on my lips, my royal fair Of rapture, since blind fancy needs must guess They once poured out their sweetness otherwhere, With fuller flavoring of happiness Than e'en your broken sobs may now declare.

_A Voice From the Farm_

It is my dream to have you here with me, Out of the heated city's dust and din-- Here where the colts have room to gambol in, And kine to graze, in clover to the knee. I want to see your wan face happily Lit with the wholesome smiles that have not been In use since the old games you used to win When we pitched horseshoes: And I want to be At utter loaf with you in this dim land Of grove and meadow, while the crickets make Our own talk tedious, and the bat wields His bulky flight, as we cease converse and In a dusk like velvet smoothly take Our way toward home across the dewy fields.

_The Serenade_

The midnight is not more bewildering To her drowsed eyes, than to her ears, the sound Of dim, sweet singing voices, interwound With purl of flute and subtle twang of string, Strained through the lattice, where the roses cling And, with their fragrance, waft the notes around Her haunted senses. Thirsting beyond bound Of her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swing Of the mysterious delirious tune, She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyes Upraised against her casement, where aswoon, The stars fail from her sight, and up the skies Of alien azure rolls the full round moon Like some vast bubble blown of summer noon.

_Art and Love_

He faced his canvas (as a seer whose ken Pierces the crust of this existence through) And smiled beyond on that his genius knew Ere mated with his being. Conscious then Of his high theme alone, he smiled again Straight back upon himself in many a hue And tint, and light and shade, which slowly grew Enfeatured of a fair girl's face, as when First time she smiles for love's sake with no fear. So wrought he, witless that behind him leant A woman, with old features, dim and sear, And glamoured eyes that felt the brimming tear, And with a voice, like some sad instrument, That sighing said, "I'm dead there; love me here!"

_Longfellow_

The winds have talked with him confidingly; The trees have whispered to him; and the night Hath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody: The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight-- Her legends fair-- her darkest mystery. His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings--. Nor shall he cease to sing-- in every lay Of Nature's voice he sings-- and will alway.

_Indiana_

Our Land-- our Home-- the common home indeed Of soil-born children and adopted ones-- The stately daughters and the stalwart sons Of Industry--: All greeting and godspeed! O home to proudly live for, and if need Be proudly die for, with the roar of guns Blent with our latest prayer--. So died men once... Lo Peace...! As we look on the land They freed-- Its harvests all in ocean-over flow Poured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold-- Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow'rs--, We know the exaltation that they know Who now, steadfast inheritors, behold The Land Elysian, marvelling "This is ours?"

_Time_

1 The ticking-- ticking-- ticking of the clock--! That vexed me so last night--! "For though Time keeps Such drowsy watch," I moaned, "he never sleeps, But only nods above the world to mock Its restless occupant, then rudely rock It as the cradle of a babe that weeps!" I seemed to see the seconds piled in heaps Like sand about me; and at every shock O' the bell, the piled sands were swirled away As by a desert-storm that swept the earth Stark as a granary floor, whereon the gray And mist-bedrizzled moon amidst the dearth Came crawling, like a sickly child, to lay Its pale face next mine own and weep for day.

2 Wait for the morning! Ah! We wait indeed For daylight, we who toss about through stress Of vacant-armed desires and emptiness Of all the warm, warm touches that we need, And the warm kisses upon which we feed Our famished lips in fancy! May God bless The starved lips of us with but one caress Warm as the yearning blood our poor hearts bleed...! A wild prayer--! Bite thy pillow, praying so-- Toss this side, and whirl that, and moan for dawn; Let the clock's seconds dribble out their woe, And Time be drained of sorrow! Long ago We heard the crowing cock, with answer drawn As hoarsely sad at throat as sobs... Pray on!

Grant
At Rest-- August 8, 1885

Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held no path but as wild adventure led him... And he returned and came again to his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and unlaced his helm, and ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his shield before the cross. --Age of Chivalary

_Grant_

What shall we say of the soldier. Grant, His sword put by and his great soul free? How shall we cheer him now or chant His requiem befittingly? The fields of his conquest now are seen Ranged no more with his armed men-- But the rank and file of the gold and green Of the waving grain is there again.

Though his valiant life is a nation's pride, And his death heroic and half divine, And our grief as great as the world is wide, There breaks in speech but a single line--: We loved him living, revere him dead--! A silence then on our lips is laid: We can say no thing that has not been said, Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed.

But a spirit within us speaks: and lo, We lean and listen to wondrous words That have a sound as of winds that blow, And the voice of waters and low of herds; And we hear, as the song flows on serene, The neigh of horses, and then the beat Of hooves that skurry o'er pastures green, And the patter and pad of a boy's bare feet.

A brave lad, wearing a manly brow, Knit as with problems of grave dispute, And a face, like the bloom of the orchard bough, Pink and pallid, but resolute; And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom, And fresh it gleams as the morning dew, As he reins his steed where the quick quails boom Up from the grasses he races through.

And ho! As he rides what dreams are his? And what have the breezes to suggest--? Do they whisper to him of shells that whiz O'er fields made ruddy with wrongs redressed? Does the hawk above him an Eagle float? Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high, Hearing the ribbon about his throat Flap as a Flag as the winds go by?

And does he dream of the Warrior's fame-- This Western boy in his rustic dress? For in miniature, this is the man that came Riding out of the Wilderness--! The selfsame figure-- the knitted brow-- The eyes full steady-- the lips full mute-- And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough, Pink and pallid, but resolute.

Ay, this is the man, with features grim And stoical as the Sphinx's own, That heard the harsh guns calling him, As musical as the bugle blown, When the sweet spring heavens were clouded o'er With a tempest, glowering and wild, And our country's flag bowed down before Its bursting wrath as a stricken child.

Thus, ready mounted and booted and spurred, He loosed his bridle and dashed away--! Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard, Like the shriek of the fife his charger's neigh! And over his shoulder and backward blown, We heard his voice, and we saw the sod Reel, as our wild steeds chased his own As though hurled on by the hand of God!

And still, in fancy, we see him ride In the blood-red front of a hundred frays, His face set stolid, but glorified As a knight's of the old Arthurian days: And victor ever as courtly too, Gently lifting the vanquished foe, And staying him with a hand as true As dealt the deadly avenging blow.

So brighter than all of the cluster of stars Of the flag enshrouding his form to-day, His face shines forth from the grime of wars With a glory that shall not pass away: He rests at last: he has borne his part Of salutes and salvos and cheers on cheers-- But O the sobs of his country's heart, And the driving rain of a nations tears!

In Dialect

_Old Fashioned Roses_

They ain't no style about 'em, And they're sorto' pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without 'em, Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good 'eal blacker shudder Than the morning-glories makes, And the sunshine would look sadder Fer their good old-fashion' sakes.

I like 'em 'cause they kindo'-- Sorto' make a feller like 'em! And I tell you, when I find a Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It allus sets me thinkin' O' the ones 'at used to grow And peek in thro' the chinkin' O' the cabin, don't you know!

And then I think o' mother, And how she ust to love 'em-- When they wuzn't any other, 'Less she found 'em up above 'em! And her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile and said We must pick a bunch and putt 'em In her hand when she wuz dead.

But as I wuz a-sayin', They ain't no style about 'em Very gaudy er displayin', But I wouldn't be without 'em--, 'Cause I'm happier in these posies, And the hollyhawks and sich, Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses In the roses of the rich.

_Griggsby's Station_

Pap's got his patent-right, and rich is all creation; But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before? Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pity To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! City! City And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and see!

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where the latch-strings a-hangin' from the door, And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin', A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through; And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin' Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!

I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin'; And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land.

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more, Shet away safe in the woods around the old location-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin', And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone, And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin', And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin' on.

And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty, Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried-- for His own sake and Katy's--, and I want to cry with Katy As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.

What's in all this grand life and high situation, And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door--? Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

_Knee Deep in June_

1 Tell you what I like the best-- 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine--, some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else!

2 Orchard's where I'd ruther be-- Needn't fence it in fer me--! Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath-- Sorto' so's a man kin breathe Like he ort, and kindo' has Elbow-room to keerlessly Sprawl out len'thways on the grass Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft Allus, when they's company!

3 Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there-- S'lazy, 'at you peeks and peer Through the wavin' leaves above, Like a feller 'ats in love And don't know it, ner don't keer! Ever'thing you hear and see Got some sort o' interest-- Maybe find a bluebird's nest Tucked up there conveenently Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be Up some other apple-tree! Watch the swallers skootin' past 'Bout as peert as you could ast; Er the Bob-white raise and whiz Where some other's whistle is.

4 Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow-- Er a hawk--, away up there 'Pearantly froze in the air--! Hear the old hen squawk, and squat Over ever' chick she's got, Suddent-like--! And she knows where That-air hawk is, well as you--! You jes' bet yer life she do--! Eyes a-glittern' like glass, Waitin' till he makes a pass!

5 Pee-wees' singin', to express My opinion, 's second class, Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, Weedin' out the lonesomeness; Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, In them base-ball clothes o' his, Sportin' round the orchard jes' Life he owned the premises! Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade's where glory is! That's jes' what I'd like to do Stiddy fer a year er two!

6 Plague! Ef they ain't somepin' in Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in' My convictions--! 'Long about Here in June especially--! Under some old apple-tree, Jes' a-restin' through and through, I could git along without Nothin' else at all to do Only jes' a-wishin' you Wuz a-gittin' there like me, And June was eternity!

7 Lay out there and try to see Jes' how lazy you kin be--! Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, Maybe, smilin' back at you In betwixt the 'beautiful Clouds o' gold and white and blue--! Month a man kin railly love June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

8 March ain't never nothin' new--! Aprile's altogether too Brash fer me! And May-- I jes' 'Bominate its promises--, Little hints o' sunshine and Green around the timber-land-- A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two--, Drap asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and snows ag'in--! But when June comes-- Clear my th'oat With wild honey--! Rench my hair In the dew! And hold my coat! Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat--! June wants me, and I'm to spare! Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll git down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that!

_When The Hearse Comes Back_

A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street: The slow hearse and the hosses-- slow enough, to say at least, Fer to even tax the patience of gentleman deceased! The low scrunch of the gravel-- and the slow grind of the wheels--, The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels! So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whip-lash crack A quickstep fer the hosses, When the Hearse Comes Back!

Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes-- But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise-- You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day! Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest-- Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast! And this is why-- when airth and sky's a gittin blurred and black-- I like the flash and hurry When the Hearse Comes Back!

It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes, Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks--; I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps-- Fer my hearth's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's--, I've buried father, mother-- But I'll haf to jes' git you To "excuse me," as the feller says--. The p'int I'm drivin' to Is simply when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack, It he'ps to shape us up like, When the Hearse Comes Back!

The idy! Wadin round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe, When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine don't you know! When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars, And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars. And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend 'At wants expressed my last request-- I'll mebby, rickommend To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track, But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em When the Hearse Comes Back!"

_A Canary At the Farm_

Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry Fetched 'er home a pet canary--, And of all the blame', contrary, Aggervatin' things alive! I love music-- that I love it When it's free-- and plenty of it--; But I kindo' git above it, At a dollar-eighty-five!

Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin'--, Jes' the idy, now, o' layin' Out yer money, and a-payin' Fer a willer-cage and bird, When the medder-larks is wingin' Round you, and the woods is ringin' With the beautifullest singin' That a mortal ever heard!

Sahry's sot, tho'--. So I tell her He's a purty little feller, With his wings o' creamy-yeller, And his eyes keen as a cat; And the twitter o' the critter 'Pears to absolutely glitter! Guess I'll haf to go and git her A high-priceter cage 'n that!

_A Liz Town Humorist_

Settin' round the stove, last night, Down at Wess's store, was me And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White, And Doc Bills, and two er three Fellers o' the Mudsock tribe No use tryin' to describe! And says Doc, he says, says he--, "Talkin' 'bout good things to eat, Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat!"

I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed Wortermillon beat the mush--. "Red," he says, "and juicy-- Hush--! I'll jes' leave it to the crowd!" Then a Mudsock chap, says he--, "Punkin's good enough fer me-- Punkin pies, I mean," he says--, Them beats millons--! What say, Wess?

I chawed on. And Wess says--, "Well, You jes' fetch that wife of mine All yer wortermillon-rine--, And she'll bile it down a spell-- In with sorghum, I suppose, And what else, Lord only knows--! But I'm here to tell all hands Them p'serves meets my demands!"

I chawed on. And White he says--, "Well, I'll jes' stand, in with Wess-- I'm no hog!" And Tunk says--, "I Guess I'll pastur' out on pie With the Mudsock boys!" says he; "Now what's yourn?" he says to me: I chawed on-- fer-- quite a spell Then I speaks up, slow and dry--, Jes' tobacker!" I-says-I--. And you'd ort o' heerd 'em yell!

_Kingry's Mill_

On old Brandywine-- about Where White's Lots is now laid out, And the old crick narries down To the ditch that splits the town--, Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly see Where the old dam ust to be; Shallor, long, dry trought o' grass Where the old race ust to pass!

That's be'n forty years ago-- Forty years o' frost and snow-- Forty years o' shade and shine Sence them boyhood-days o' mine--! All the old landmarks o' town. Changed about, er rotted down! Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still? Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill?

Don't seem furder back, to me, I'll be dogg'd! Than yisterd'y, Since us fellers, in bare feet And straw hats, went through the wheat, Cuttin' 'crost the shortest shoot Fer that-air old ellum root Jest above the mill-dam-- where The blame' cars now crosses there!

Through the willers down the crick We could see the old mill stick Its red gable up, as if It jest knowed we'd stol'd the skiff! See the winders in the sun Blink like they wuz wonderun' What the miller ort to do With sich boys as me and you!

But old Kingry--! Who could fear That old chap, with all his cheer--? Leanin' at the window-sill, Er the half-door o' the mill, Swoppin' lies, and pokin' fun, 'N jigglin' like his hoppers done-- Laughin' grists o' gold and red Right out o' the wagon-bed!

What did he keer where we went--? "Jest keep out o' devilment, And don't fool around the belts, Bolts, ner burrs, ner nothin' else 'Bout the blame machinery, And that's all I ast!" says-ee. Then we'd climb the stairs, and play In the bran-bins half the day!

Rickollect the dusty wall, And the spider-webs, and all! Rickollect the trimblin' spout Where the meal come josslln' out-- Stand and comb yer fingers through The fool-truck an hour er two-- Felt so sorto' warm-like and Soothin' to a feller's hand!

Climb, high up above the stream, And "coon" out the wobbly beam And peek down from out the lof' Where the weather-boards was off-- Gee-mun-nee! w'y, it takes grit Even jest to think of it--! Lookin' 'way down there below On the worter roarin' so!

Rickollect the flume, and wheel, And the worter slosh and reel And jest ravel out in froth Flossier'n satin cloth! Rickollect them paddles jest Knock the bubbles galley-west, And plunge under, and come up Drippin' like a worter-pup!

And to see them old things gone That I onc't was bettin' on, In rale p'int o' fact, I feel kindo' like that worter-wheel--, Sorto' drippy-like and wet Round the eyes-- but paddlin' yet, And in mem'ry, loafin' still Down around old Kingry's Mill!

_Joney_

Had a hare-lip-- Joney had: Spiled his looks, and Joney knowed it: Fellers tried to bore him, bad-- But ef ever he got mad, He kep' still and never showed it. 'Druther have his mouth all pouted And split up, and like it wuz, Than the ones 'at laughed about it. Purty is as purty does!

Had to listen ruther clos't 'Fore you knowed "what he wuz givin' You; and yet, without no boast, Joney he wuz jest the most Entertainin' talker livin'! Take the Scriptur's and run through 'em, Might say, like a' auctioneer, And 'ud argy and review 'em 'At wuz beautiful to hear!

Hare-lip and inpediment, Both wuz bad, and both ag'in' him-- But the old folks where he went, 'Preared like, knowin' his intent, 'Scused his mouth fer what wuz in him. And the childern all loved Joney-- And he loved 'em back, you bet--! Putt their arms around him-- on'y None had ever kissed him yet!

In young company, someway, Boys 'ud grin at one another On the sly; and girls 'ud lay Low, with nothin' much to say, Er leave Joney with their mother. Many and many a time he's fetched 'em Candy by the paper sack, And turned right around and ketched 'em Makin mouths behind his back!

S'prised sometimes, the slurs he took--. Chap said onc't his mouth looked sorter Like a fish's mouth 'ud look When he'd be'n jerked off the hook And plunked back into the worter--. Same durn feller-- it's su'prisin', But it's facts-- 'at stood and cherred From the bank that big babtizin' 'Pike-bridge accident occurred--!

Cherred for Joney while he give Life to little childern drowndin'! Which wuz fittenest to live-- Him 'at cherred, er him 'at div' And saved thirteen lives...? They found one Body, three days later, floated Down the by-o, eight mile' south, All so colored-up and bloated-- On'y knowed him by his mouth!

Had a hare-lip-- Joney had-- Folks 'at filed apast all knowed it--. Them 'at ust to smile looked sad, But ef he thought good er bad, He kep' still and never showed it. 'Druther have that mouth, all pouted And split up, and like it wuz, Than the ones 'at laughed about it--. Purty is as purty does!

_Like His Mother Used To Make_

"Uncle Jake's Place," St. Jo, Mo., 1874

"I was born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and slim, As us fellers in the restarunt was kindo' guyin' him, And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another punkin pie And a' extry cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye. "I was born in Indiany-- more'n forty year' ago-- I hain't be'n back in twenty-- and I'm workin' back'ards slow; But I've et in ever' restarunt 'twixt here and Santy Fee, And I want to state this coffee tastes like gittin' home, to me!"

"Pour us out another, Daddy," says the feller, warmin' up, A-speakin' 'cost a saucerful, as Uncle tuk his cup--, "When I seed yer sign out yander," he went on, to Uncle Jake- -, "'Come in and git some coffee like yer mother used to make'-- I thought of my old mother, and the Posey County farm, And me a little kid ag'in, a-hangin' in her arm, As she set the pot: a-bilin', broke the eggs and poured 'em in--" And the feller kindo' halted, with a trimble in his chin:

And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stood As solemn, fer a minute, as a' undertaker would; Then he sorto' turned and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen door-- and nex', Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs-- And she rushes fer the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him--! Thank God we've met him comin'--! Don't you know, yer mother, Jim?" And the feller, as he grabbed her, says--, "You bet I hain't forgot-- But," wipin' of his eyes, says he, "yer coffee's mighty hot!"

_The Train Misser_

At Union Station

'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin-- Ef I hain't missed that train ag'in! Chuff! And whistle! And toot! And ring! But blast and blister the dasted train--! How it does it I can't explain! Git here thirty-five minutes before The durn things due--! And, drat the thing It'll manage to git past-shore!

The more I travel around, the more I got no sense--! To stand right here And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts! I got no gumption, ner nothin' else! Ticket Agent's a dad-burned bore--! Sell you a tickets all they keer--! Ticket Agents ort to all be

Prosecuted-- and that's jes what--! How'd I know which train's fer me? And how'd I know which train was not--? Goern and comin' and gone astray, And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way!

Ef I could jes sneak round behind Myse'f, where I could git full swing, I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing! Till I jes got jerked up and fined--! Fer here I stood, as a durn fool's apt To, and let that train jes chuff and choo Right apast me-- and mouth jes gapped Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!

_Granny_

Granny's come to our house, And ho! My lawzy-daisy! All the childern round the place Is ist a-runnin' crazy! Fetched a cake fer little Jake, And fetched a pie fer Nanny, And fetched a pear fer all the pack That runs to kiss their Granny!

Lucy Ellen's in her lap, And Wade and Silas Walker Both's a ridin' on her foot, And 'Pollos on the rocker; And Marthy's twins, from Aunt Marinn's And little Orphant Annie, All's a-eatin' gingerbread And giggle-un at Granny!

Tells us all the fairy tales Ever thought er wundered-- And 'bundance o' other stories-- Bet she knows a hunderd--!

Bob's the one fer "Whittington," And "Golden Locks" fer Fanny! Hear 'em laugh and clap their hands, Listenin' at Granny!

"Jack the Giant-Killer" 's good; And "Bean-Stalk" 's another--! So's the one of "Cinderell'" And her old godmother--; That-un's best of all the rest-- Bestest one of any--, Where the mices scampers home Like we runs to Granny!

Granny's come to our house, Ho! My lawzy-daisy! All the childern round the place Is ist a runnin' crazy! Fetched a cake fer little Jake, And fetched a pie fer Nanny, And fetched a pear fer all the pack That runs to kiss their Granny!

_Old October_

Old October's purt' nigh gone, And the frosts is comin' on Little heavier every day-- Like our hearts is thataway! Leaves is changin' overhead Back from green to gray and red, Brown and yeller, with their stems Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms; And the balance of the trees Gittin' balder every breeze-- Like the heads we're scratchin' on! Old October's purt' nigh gone.

I love Old October so, I can't bear to see her go-- Seems to me like losin' some Old-home relative er chum-- 'Pears like sorto' settin' by Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh Was a-passin' out o' sight Into everlastin' night! Hickernuts a feller hears Rattlin' down is more like tears Drappin' on the leaves below-- I love Old October so!

Can't tell what it is about Old October knock me out--! I sleep well enough at night-- And the blamedest appetite Ever mortal man possessed--, Last thing et, it tastes the best--! Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws, 'Iles and limbers up my jaws Fer raal service, sich as new Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too--. Yit fer all, they's somepin' 'bout Old October knocks me out!

_Jim_

He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour., Consumpted-Iookin'-- but la! The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest Feller you ever saw! Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk, And his feelin's too! Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' on Like he ust to do!

Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt, A better feller'n Jim! You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else-- You could git it o' him! Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess! Give up ever' nickel he's worth-- And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his, He'd a-give you the earth!

Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some Pore feller onto his feet-- He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f, So's the feller got somepin' to eat! Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed, He ust to say to me--, "You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job, And he'll git along!" says he.

Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly much O' this world's goods at a time--. 'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'n likely, Turn round and borry a dime! Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile-- then jerk his coat, And kindo' square his chin, Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench, And go to peggin' ag'in!

Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurly Coughed hisse'f to death! Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and say He could git ever'thing but his breath-- "You fellers," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say, "Is a-pilin' onto me A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack Through all Eternity!"

Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me, 'At ortn't a-never a-died! "But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss said-- "On'y to Jim!" and cried: And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop-- Er the whole blame neighborhood--, He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day But jes set around and feel good!"

_To Robert Burns_

Sweet Singer that I loe the maist O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste O' hinnied sang, I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist In Heaven lang!

For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase, Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways, Could gar me freer blame, or praise, Or proffer hand, Where "Rantin' Robbie" and his lays Thegither stand.

And sae these hamely lines I send, Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end, In echo o' the sangs that wend Frae thee to me Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend O' wimplin' glee.

In fancy, as wi' dewy een, I part the clouds aboon the scene Where thou wast born, and peer atween, I see nae spot In a' the Hielands half sae green And unforgot?

I see nae storied castle-hall, Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wall And serf and page in ready call, Sae grand to me As ane puir cotter's hut, wi' all Its poverty.

There where the simple daisy grew Sae bonnie sweet, and modest too, Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu' O' sic a grace, It aye is weepin' tears o' dew Wi' droopit face.

Frae where the heather bluebells fling Their sangs o' fragrance to the Spring, To where the lavrock soars to sing, Still lives thy strain, For' a' the birds are twittering Sangs like thine ain.

And aye, by light o' sun or moon, By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon, The waters lilt nae tender tune But sweeter seems Because they poured their limpid rune Through a' thy dreams.

Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee, Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee, Yet had nae niggart sympathy Where Sorrow bowed, But gavest a' thy tears as free As a' thy gowd.

And sae it is we be thy name To see bleeze up wi' sic a flame, That a' pretentious stars o' fame Maun blink asklent, To see how simple worth may shame Their brightest glent.

_A New Year's Time at Willards's_

1
The Hired Man Talks

There's old man Willards; an' his wife; An' Marg'et-- S'repty's sister--; an' There's me-- an' I'm the hired man; An' Tomps McClure, you better yer life!

Well now, old Willards hain't so bad, Considerin' the chance he's had. Of course, he's rich, an' sleeps an' eats Whenever he's a mind to: Takes An' leans back in the Amen-seats An' thanks the Lord fer all he makes--. That's purty much all folks has got Ag'inst the old man, like as not! But there's his woman-- jes the turn Of them-air two wild girls o' hern-- Marg'et an' S'repty-- allus in Fer any cuttin'-up concern-- Church festibals, and foolishin' Round Christmas-trees, an' New Year's sprees-- Set up to watch the Old Year go An' New Year come-- sich things as these; An' turkey-dinners, don't you know! S'repty's younger, an' more gay, An' purtier, an' finer dressed Than Marg'et is-- but, lawzy-day! She hain't the independentest! "Take care!" old Willards used to say, "Take care--! Let Marg'et have her way, An' S'repty, you go off an' play On your melodeum--!" But, best Of all, comes Tomps! An' I'll be bound, Ef he hain't jes the beatin'est Young chap in all the country round! Ef you knowed Tomps you'd like him, shore! They hain't no man on top o' ground Walks into my affections more--! An' all the Settlement'll say That Tomps was liked jes thataway By ever'body, till he tuk A shine to S'repty Willards--. Then You'd ort'o see the old man buck An' h'ist hisse'f, an' paw the dirt, An' hint that "common workin'-men That didn't want their feelin's hurt 'Ud better hunt fer 'comp'ny' where The folks was pore an' didn't care--!" The pine-blank facts is--, the old man, Last Christmas was a year ago, Found out some presents Tomps had got Fer S'repty, an' hit made him hot-- Set down an' tuk his pen in hand An' writ to Tomps an' told him so On legal cap, in white an' black, An' give him jes to understand "No Christmas-gifts o' 'lily-white' An' bear's-ile could fix matters right," An' wropped 'em up an' sent 'em back! Well, S'repty cried an' snuffled round Consid'able. But Marg'et she Toed out another sock, an' wound Her knittin' up, an' drawed the tea, An' then set on the supper-things, An' went up in the loft an' dressed-- An' through it all you'd never guessed What she was up to! An' she brings Her best hat with her an her shawl, An' gloves, an' redicule, an' all, An' injirubbers, an' comes down An' tells 'em she's a-goin' to town To he'p the Christmas goin's-on Her Church got up. An' go she does-- The best hosswoman ever was! "An" what'll We do while you're gone?" The old man says, a-tryin' to be Agreeable. "Oh! You?" says she--, "You kin jaw S'repty, like you did, An' slander Tomps!" An' off she rid!

Now, this is all I'm goin' to tell Of this-here story-- that is, I Have done my very level best As fur as this, an' here I "dwell," As auctioneers says, winkin' sly: Hit's old man Willards tells the rest.

2
The Old Man Talks

Adzackly jes one year ago, This New Year's day, Tomps comes to me-- In my own house, an' whilse the folks Was gittin' dinner--, an' he pokes His nose right in, an' says, says he: "I got yer note-- an' read it slow! You don't like me, ner I don't you," He says--, "we're even there, you know! But you've said, furder that no gal Of yourn kin marry me, er shall, An' I'd best shet off comin', too!" An' then he says--, "Well, them's Your views--; But havin' talked with S'repty, we Have both agreed to disagree With your peculiar notions-- some; An', that s the reason, I refuse To quit a-comin' here, but come-- Not fer to threat, ner raise no skeer An' spile yer turkey-dinner here--, But jes fer S'repty's sake, to sheer Yer New Year's. Shall I take a cheer?"