Chapter III: James Newton Matthews

Bard of our Western world!—its prairies wide,
With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways;
Its isolated farms, with roundelays
Of orchard warblers heard on every side;
Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide
Thy fondest memories,—since there thy gaze
First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise
Of that, didst find thine own song glorified.
So singing, smite the strings and counterchange
The lucently melodious drippings of
Thy happy harp, from airs of “Tempe Vale,”
To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range,
In praise of our To-day and home and love—
Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale.

A NOON LULL

’Possum in de ’tater-patch;
Chicken-hawk a-hangin’
Stiddy ’bove de stable-lot,
An’ cyarpet-loom a-bangin’!
Hi! Mr. Hoppergrass, chawin’ yo’ terbacker,
Flick ye wid er buggy-whirp yer spit er little blacker!

Niggah in de roas’in’-yeers,
Whiskers in de shuckin’;
Weasel croppin’ mighty shy,
But ole hen a-cluckin’!
—What’s got de matter er de mule-colt now?
Drapt in de turnip-hole, chasin’ f’um de cow!

A WINDY DAY

The dawn was a dawn of splendor,
And the blue of the morning skies
Was as placid and deep and tender
As the blue of a baby’s eyes;
The sunshine flooded the mountain,
And flashed over land and sea
Like the spray of a glittering fountain.—
But the wind—the wind—Ah me!

Like a weird invisible spirit,
It swooped in its airy flight;
And the earth, as the stress drew near it,
Quailed as in mute affright;
The grass in the green fields quivered—
The waves of the smitten brook
Chillily shuddered and shivered,
And the reeds bowed down and shook.

Like a sorrowful miserere
It sobbed, and it blew and blew,
Till the leaves on the trees looked weary,
And my prayers were weary, too;
And then, like the sunshine’s glimmer
That failed in the awful strain,
All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer
In a spatter of spiteful rain.

MY HENRY

He’s jes a great, big, awk’ard, hulkin’
Feller,—humped, and sorto’ sulkin’-
Like, and ruther still-appearin’—
Kind-as-ef he wuzn’t keerin’
Whether school helt out er not—
That’s my Henry, to a dot!

Allus kindo’ liked him—whether
Childern, er growed-up together!
Fifteen year’ ago and better,
’Fore he ever knowed a letter,
Run acrosst the little fool
In my Primer-class at school.

When the Teacher wuzn’t lookin’,
He’d be th’owin’ wads; er crookin’
Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more’n
Likely, on the stove; er borin’
Gimlet-holes up thue his desk—
Nothin’ _that_ boy wouldn’t resk!

But, somehow, as I was goin’
On to say, he seemed so knowin’,
_Other_ ways, and cute and cunnin’—
Allus wuz a notion runnin’
Thue my giddy, fool-head he
Jes had be’n cut out fer me!

Don’t go much on _prophesyin’_,
But last night whilse I wuz fryin’
Supper, with that man a-pitchin’
Little Marthy round the kitchen,
Think-says-I, “Them baby’s eyes
Is my Henry’s, jes p’cise!”

THE SONG I NEVER SING

As when in dreams we sometimes hear
A melody so faint and fine
And musically sweet and clear,
It flavors all the atmosphere
With harmony divine,—
So, often in my waking dreams,
I hear a melody that seems
Like fairy voices whispering
To me the song I never sing.

Sometimes when brooding o’er the years
My lavish youth has thrown away—
When all the glowing past appears
But as a mirage that my tears
Have crumbled to decay,—
I thrill to find the ache and pain
Of my remorse is stilled again,
As, forward bent and listening,
I hear the song I never sing.

A murmuring of rhythmic words,
Adrift on tunes whose currents flow
Melodious with the trill of birds,
And far-off lowing of the herds
In lands of long ago;
And every sound the truant loves
Comes to me like the coo of doves
When first in blooming fields of Spring
I heard the song I never sing.

The echoes of old voices, wound
In limpid streams of laughter where
The river Time runs bubble-crowned,
And giddy eddies ripple round
The lilies growing there;
Where roses, bending o’er the brink,
Drain their own kisses as they drink,
And ivies climb and twine and cling
About the song I never sing.

An ocean-surge of sound that falls
As though a tide of heavenly art
Had tempested the gleaming halls
And crested o’er the golden walls
In showers on my heart....
Thus—thus, with open arms and eyes
Uplifted toward the alien skies,
Forgetting every earthly thing,
I hear the song I never sing.

O nameless lay, sing clear and strong,
Pour down thy melody divine
Till purifying floods of song
Have washed away the stains of wrong
That dim this soul of mine!
O woo me near and nearer thee,
Till my glad lips may catch the key,
And, with a voice unwavering,
Join in the song I never sing.

TO EDGAR WILSON NYE

O “William,”—in thy blithe companionship
What liberty is mine—what sweet release
From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!
Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tip
That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip
That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase
Of merriment! So, pray-thee, do not cease
To cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quip
Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret
Of all distress is stilled—no syllable
Of sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wet
My teeming lids save those that leap to tell
Thee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yet
Only because thou jokest overwell.

LITTLE DAVID

The mother of the little boy that sleeps
Has blest assurance, even as she weeps:
She knows her little boy has now no pain—
No further ache, in body, heart or brain;
All sorrow is lulled for him—all distress
Passed into utter peace and restfulness.—
All health that heretofore has been denied—
All happiness, all hope, and all beside
Of childish longing, now he clasps and keeps
In voiceless joy—the little boy that sleeps.

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
The land that the Lord’s love rests upon;
Where one may rely on the friends he meets,
And the smiles that greet him along the streets:
Where the mother that left you years ago
Will lift the hands that were folded so,
And put them about you, with all the love
And tenderness you are dreaming of.

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,—
Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you,
Will laugh again as he used to do,
Running to meet you, with such a face
As lights like a moon the wondrous place
Where God is living, and glad to live,
Since He is the Master and may forgive.

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON!—
Stay the hopes we are leaning on—
You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes
Looking down from the far-away skies,—
Smile upon us, and reach and take
Our worn souls Home for the old home’s sake.—
And so Amen,—for our all seems gone
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON.

RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES

Rabbit in the cross-ties.—
Punch him out—quick!
Git a twister on him
With a long prong stick.
Watch him on the south side—
Watch him on the—Hi!—
There he goes! Sic him, Tige!
Yi! Yi!! Yi!!!

SERENADE—TO NORA

The moonlight is failin’—
The sad stars are palin’—
The black wings av night are a-dhroopin’ an’ trailin’;
The wind’s miserere
Sounds lonesome an’ dreary;
The katydid’s dumb an’ the nightingale’s weary.

Troth, Nora! I’m wadin’
The grass an’ paradin’
The dews at your dure, wid my swate serenadin’,
Alone and forsaken,
Whilst you’re never wakin’
To tell me you’re wid me an’ I am mistaken!

Don’t think that my singin’
It’s wrong to be flingin’
Forninst av the dreams that the Angels are bringin’;
For if your pure spirit
Might waken and hear it,
You’d never be draamin’ the Saints could come near it!

Then lave off your slaapin’—
The pulse av me’s laapin’
To have the two eyes av yez down on me paapin’.
Och, Nora! It’s hopin’
Your windy ye’ll open
And light up the night where the heart av me’s gropin’.

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE

As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
The man on the coal-cart jerked his lines,
And smutted the lid of either eye,
And turned and stared at the business signs;
And the street-car driver stopped and beat
His hands on his shoulders, and gazed up-street
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky—
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
A stranger petted a ragged child
In the crowded walks, and she knew not why,
But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled;
And a boot-black thrilled with a pleasure strange,
As a customer put back his change
With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh,
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
A man looked out of a window dim,
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry,
For a dead child even were dear to him!
And he thought of his empty life, and said:—
“Loveless alive, and loveless dead—
Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!”
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

WHAT REDRESS

I pray you, do not use this thing
For vengeance; but if questioning
What wound, when dealt your humankind,
Goes deepest,—surely he will find
Who wrongs _you_, loving _him_ no less—
There’s nothing hurts like tenderness.

DREAMER, SAY

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,
Whose border sips of a foaming sea
With lips of coral and silver sand;
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
Or lave themselves in the tearful mist
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
O’er crags of opal and amethyst?

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,
Where the lily leans o’er an amber stream
That flows like a rill of wasted wine,—
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
Parry the shafts of the Indian sun
Whose splintering vengeance falls between
The reeds below where the waters run?

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
That lives in a land of sweet perfume,
Where the stars drip down from the skies above
In molten spatters of bud and bloom?
Where never the weary eyes are wet,
And never a sob in the balmy air,
And only the laugh of the paroquet
Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_

When Lide married _him_—w’y, she had to jes dee-fy
The whole popilation!—But she never bat’ an eye!
Her parents begged, and _threatened_—she must give him up—that _he_
Wuz jes “a common drunkard!”—And he _wuz_, appearantly.—
Swore they’d chase him off the place
Ef he ever showed his face—
Long after she’d _eloped_ with him and _married_ him fer shore!—
When Lide married _him_, it wuz “_Katy, bar the door!_”

When Lide married _him_—Well! she had to go and be
A _hired girl_ in town somewheres—while he tromped round to see
What _he_ could git that _he_ could do,—you might say, jes sawed wood
From door to door!—that’s what he done—’cause that wuz best he could!
And the strangest thing, i jing!
Wuz, he didn’t _drink_ a thing,—
But jes got down to bizness, like he someway _wanted_ to,
When Lide married _him_, like they warned her _not_ to do!

When Lide married _him_—er, ruther, _had_ be’n married
A little up’ards of a year—some feller come and carried
That _hired girl_ away with him—a ruther _stylish_ feller
In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:
And he whispered, as they driv
To’rds the country, “_Now we’ll live!_”—
And _somepin’ else_ she _laughed_ to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,
’Bout “_trustin’ Love and Heav’n above_, sence Lide married _him_!”

MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE

O Soul of mine, look out and see
My bride, my bride that is to be!—
Reach out with mad, impatient hands,
And draw aside futurity
As one might draw a veil aside—
And so unveil her where she stands
Madonna-like and glorified—
The queen of undiscovered lands
Of love, to where she beckons me—
My bride, my bride that is to be.

The shadow of a willow-tree
That wavers on a garden-wall
In summer-time may never fall
In attitude as gracefully
As my fair bride that is to be;—
Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown
As lightly flutter to the lawn
As fall her fairy-feet upon
The path of love she loiters down.—
O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet
Not one may stain her sandal wet—
Ay, she might _dance_ upon the way
Nor crush a single drop to spray,
So airy-like she seems to me,—
My bride, my bride that is to be.

I know not if her eyes are light
As summer skies or dark as night,—
I only know that they are dim
With mystery: In vain I peer
To make their hidden meaning clear.
While o’er their surface, like a tear
That ripples to the silken brim,
A look of longing seems to swim
All worn and weary-like to me;
And then, as suddenly, my sight
Is blinded with a smile so bright,
Through folded lids I still may see
My bride, my bride that is to be.

Her face is like a night of June
Upon whose brow the crescent-moon
Hangs pendent in a diadem
Of stars, with envy lighting them.—
And, like a wild cascade, her hair
Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,
Till only through a gleaming mist
I seem to see a Siren there,
With lips of love and melody
And open arms and heaving breast
Wherein I fling myself to rest,
The while my heart cries hopelessly
For my fair bride that is to be.

...

Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!
My bride hath need of no disguise.—
But, rather, let her come to me
In such a form as bent above
My pillow when, in infancy,
I knew not anything but love.—
O let her come from out the lands
Of Womanhood—not fairy isles,—
And let her come with Woman’s hands
And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,—
With Woman’s hopefulness and grace
Of patience lighting up her face:
And let her diadem be wrought
Of kindly deed and prayerful thought,
That ever over all distress
May beam the light of cheerfulness.—
And let her feet be brave to fare
The labyrinths of doubt and care,
That, following, my own may find
The path to Heaven God designed.—
O let her come like this to me—
My bride—my bride that is to be.

“RINGWORM FRANK”

Jest Frank Reed’s his _real_ name—though
Boys all calls him “Ringworm Frank,”
’Cause he allus _runs round_ so.—
No man can’t tell where to bank
_Frank_’ll be,
Next you see
Er _hear_ of him!—Drat his melts!—
That man’s allus _somers else_!

We’re old pards.—But Frank he jest
_Can’t_ stay still!—Wuz _prosper’n’_ here,
But lit out on furder West
Somers on a ranch, last year:
Never heard
Nary a word
_How_ he liked it, tel to-day,
Got this card, reads thisaway:—

“Dad-burn climate out here makes
Me homesick all Winter long,
And when Springtime _comes_, it takes
Two pee-wees to sing one song,—
One sings ‘_pee_,’
And the other one ‘_wee!_’
Stay right where you air, old pard,—
Wisht _I_ wuz this postal card!”

AN EMPTY GLOVE

I

An empty glove—long withering in the grasp
Of Time’s cold palm. I lift it to my lips,—
And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp,
In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips
It reaches from the years that used to be
And proffers back love, life and all, to me.

II

Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief:
Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon’s;
Her eyes—too large for small delight or grief,—
The smiles of them were Laughter’s afternoons;
Their tears were April showers, and their love—
All sweetest speech swoons ere it speaks thereof.