Chapter IV: Part 4

Little girl with the curls, and the passionless eyes,
With your heart that is pure as the cool springs that rise
In the green of the hills, and with cheeks that are fair
And unsoiled of the world as the snowflake in air,
With your dreams that are sweet and that always come true,
Little girl with the curls, here’s a blessing for you.

Little girl with the curls and with grace that is sweet
From the toss of your head to your fast-flying feet,
With the light in your eyes that is brimming with truth
And the straightforward gaze that’s the glory of youth,
With your smiles that are glad and your days that are fair,
Here’s a blessing as rich as the gold of your hair.

Little girl with the curls and the kisses as light
As the butterfly’s kiss of the flower in its flight,
With your heart all atune to the beauties you see,
With the song of your days sweet as music can be,
With your peace like the pardon of heaven unfurls,
Here’s a blessing for you, little girl with the curls.

And Oh, be the days of thy trial as far
From the deeps of the sea as the snowy peaks are!
And Oh, be thy heart in its singing atune,
Thy skies be but blue with the splendors of June.
So bless thee and keep thee and spare thee--with pearls
Be thy days strung through life, little girl with the curls.

MY WONDERFUL DAD

My Daddy, he lived in a wonderful house, and he played with such wonderful
boys;
They were neighbors of his; and the attic they had was a storehouse of
wonderful toys;
He slept every night in a wonderful bed, with a tick that his grandmother
made
From the feathers of geese that she picked all herself, and so soft he was
almost afraid
He would sink out of sight when he got into bed; he could look from his
window right out
And see where the vines used to bring him sweet flowers just by crawling
along up the spout;
And he could look over and see where the woods and the squirrels and birds
used to be.
He must have had wonderful times where he lived from the way that he tells
them to me!

My Daddy, he caught the most wonderful fish--there were thin ones and fat
ones and round,
And some were so long that their tails when he walked would be dragging right
down on the ground;
He scraped off their scales on a log that he had at the woodpile, and said
he would know
That log just as well if he saw it today, although that was a long time ago.
He used to dig worms of a wonderful size--he has never seen any like those
Since he was grown up; and on Saturdays he wore a wonderful old suit of clothes
And a hat that an uncle of his had forgot, for on Friday he did all his sums,
And Saturday always he went off somewhere with his one or two wonderful chums.

My Daddy, he lived in a wonderful place when he was a twelve-year-old lad,
For no matter what kind of a day it might be there was always some fun to
be had.
He learned how to swim in a wonderful creek, where all of the whole summer
long
The water was warm, and the springboard they had it was springy and slippery
and strong.
And on the way home they found berries to eat, and he said he remembers them
well,
And it didn’t seem nearly a mile to back home, for there always was
something to tell
That took up the time both for him and his chums, and sometimes they came
home a new way,
And always all summer they had it all planned what to do on the next Saturday.

My Daddy, he said he could go back there now and could take me as straight
as a string
To all of the wonderful places he knew--where the first flowers came in the
spring;
Where you almost were sure to catch fish in the brook--where the nuts would
come dropping in fall;
Where the most berries were on the way to back home--he is sure he remembers
them all.
He knows where the squirrels were most apt to be, and the lane where the
hay wagon comes;
And said he’d find names in the bark of a tree that were cut there by him
and his chums
Twenty-five years ago, and the log where they sat when they found the big
garter-snake curled.
My Daddy, he must have had wonderful times in the splendidest place in the
world!

REMEMBRANCES, BILL

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
The fresh morning glories that crept up the sill
And nodded at us when the night time was gone
And curtains thrown open to let in the dawn;
The light over there, and the edge of the sun
That blazed on the hill when the day was begun,
The air on our cheeks and the sparkle of dew,
Our hearts and our hopes like the day that was new.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
The way of a thousand delights up the hill,
Through lanes and by hedges, where orchards were sweet,
And clover dews healing the woes of bare feet;
The chatter of squirrels, the rattle of leaves,
The round, yellow pumpkins, the wind-tattered sheaves,
The shade that was deep and lent splendor to dreams
And lips that were laved by the bubbles of streams.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
The times when the cup of all nature would spill
Its gladness for us, when the days overflowed
With the laughter of playtime, and far down the road
Were milestones all marked by delights jointly shared,
To set off the days where adventure’s steps fared;
Nor ever a secret but innocence knew,
The heart of youth hallowed and joy bubbled through.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
The times in the twilight, on hedgerow and hill
When we whistled homeward, upon the old road
With hearts full of gladness that quite overflowed;
The pillows where nestled two tangles of hair,
The joy-freighted dreams, with a left-over share
For the dawn of the morrow--a thread that was pearled
With jewels of joy that were strung ’round our world.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill,
Our vows to the future we thought to fulfill;
Our day dreams to cherish, our faith to endure,
Through trials how bitter our hearts to keep pure;
No gladness of living but we two would share--
The lanes and the byways are wondrously fair,
But somehow the voices grow tuneless and still--
I wonder if you still remember them, Bill.

THE BEREAVEMENT

We’re all alone, ’ist Pop an’ me,
’Cuz Mamma’s gone away somew’eres
T’ stay the longest time; an’ we
Are all alone; an’ Pop ’ist stares
A-past me an’ he never hears
Me when I ast w’ere she could be,
An’ both his eyes are full o’ tears
W’en we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ after w’ile I ast him w’y
She don’t come back; but he don’t know;
An’ ’en some way he starts t’ cry
Till I say, “Please, Pop, don’t cry so.”
An’ put my arms part way around
His neck an’ hug him, ’ist cuz we
Are lonesome; he don’t make a sound;
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ he ’ist hugs me up so tight
An’ sez my Mamma’s gone so fur
She won’t come back, but sez we might
’Ist some day, maybe, go to her.
An’ I ast w’y can’t we go now
’Cuz we’re so lonesome here; but he
Don’t seem to hear me ast, somehow,
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ ’en I ’ist fergit she’s gone
An’ think it’s almos’ time fur her
T’ come an’ put th’ supper on,
But w’en Pop’s eyes are all a blur
I ’member ’at’s she’s gone away,
An’ can’t git supper; Pop sez he
Ain’t hungry, an’ I ain’t, I say;
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ ’en Pop rocks me in his lap
An’ rubs my head, ’ist soft an’ kind,
An’ asts me if I’ll take a nap
If he pulls down th’ parlor blind.
An’ in a little w’ile I fall
Asleep an’ he ’ist rocks; but he
Don’t never go t’ sleep at all,
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

IN CHILDHOOD TIME

Hark! I hear the happy laughter that from children’s voices rings,
Swelling out like some vast golden harp with half a thousand strings,
Every one vibrating grandly in an ecstatic acclaim,
In a medley of sweet melodies that set the birds to shame;
On the harp of childhood’s happiness each note rings clear and true,
For the heart is pure and perfect and each quivering string is new,
And it tells and swells like bells afar that ring and rhyme and chime
The sweetest music ever told in note or tune or time.

When the heart is growing older and the harp of laughter rings,
There’s a false note clashing somewhere in the swelling of the strings;
There’s a chord that strikes imperfect, where some sorrow echoes through
The melody, and grief has warped the strings to strains not true.
Sometimes there’s brilliant music that rings from an empty heart,
But it’s not the melodious laughter of the child, that knows no art,
But just flows full and free, for Nature’s teachings, undefiled,
Make music that is heart-true in the sweet voice of a child.

Could I gather every note that floats and rings and swells and tells
The gladness of the child’s heart, true as any chime of bells
May tell the passing hour, and fashion them into a song,
’Twould thrill and fill the air with melody as though a throng
Of seraphim, as tinkling cymbals struck the twinkling stars
In heaven’s perfect music, where no din or discord mars,
And a myriad strings would mingle in a melody sublime,
The rhyme and chime of laughter gathered from all Childhood’s Time.

DON’T

A hundred times a day I hear
His mother say: “Don’t do that, dear!”
From early morn till dusk ’tis all
“Don’t do that, dear!” I hear her call
From the back porch and front and side
As though some evil would betide
Unless she drummed it in his ear:
“Don’t do that, dear! Don’t do that, dear!”

If he goes out and slams the door;
“Don’t do that, dear!” and if the floor
Is newly scrubbed and he comes near;
“Don’t do that, dear!” is all I hear.
If he comes romping down the stairs;
“Don’t do that, dear!” and if he wears
No coat, but hangs it somewhere near,
She sees and says: “Don’t do that, dear!”

If he goes shinning up a tree:
“Don’t do that, dear!” If he should be
Astride a roof I know I’ll hear
Her call to him: “Don’t do that, dear!”
His life is all “Don’t this,” “Don’t that,”
“Don’t loose the dog,” “Don’t chase the cat,”
“Don’t go,” “Don’t stay,” “Don’t there,” “Don’t here,”
“Don’t do that, dear!” “Don’t do that, dear!”

Sometimes he seems to me as still
As any mouse until a shrill
“Don’t do that, dear!” falls on the air
And drives him swift away from there.
So when he finds another spot:
“Don’t do that, dear!” and he says: “What?”
And she replies and cannot say say--
But--“Well, don’t do it, anyway!”

EXTINGUISHED

The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled”--
When Tommy Gibbs stood up to speak he had it in his head,
But when he saw the schoolroom full of visitors, he knew,
From his weak knees and parching tongue, the words had all fled, too.

“The boy stood on the burning deck”--a second time he tried,
But he forgot about the boy, or if he lived or died;
He only knew the burning deck was something nice and cool
Beside the rostrum where he stood that awful day in school.

“The boy stood on the burning deck”--he felt the flames and smoke.
His tongue was thick, his mouth was dry, he felt that he would choke.
And from the far back seats he heard a whisper run about:
“Come back here, Tom, and take your seat. They’ve put the fire out!”

THE UNCHEERED HERO

Tim Brooks he studies awful hard
And faithful all the year,
But goes out in the school house yard
And never gets a cheer;
And Billy Gibbs, he shirks and frets--
He hates to work at all--
But you should hear the cheer he gets
Because he hits the ball.

Tim Brooks he always leads his class
And gets his lessons done;
But Billy Gibbs lets hours pass
Just thinking up some fun;
But no one cheers and throws his hat
And says: “Hurrah for Tim!”
But when Bill Gibbs goes up to bat
The boys all cheer for him.

Bill Gibbs he suffers awful pain
When he comes to recite;
He cannot do his sums again
Or get his grammar right;
Then teacher calls on Timmy Brooks
And points to him with pride,
But when we play a game she looks
And cheers for Bill outside.

Sometimes Tim Brooks he sees the game
And watches Bill at bat,
He gets excited just the same
And cheers and throws his hat;
But when he has his sums in school
And Bill is watching him,
Bill quite forgets the Golden Rule
And never cheers for Tim.

I guess I’d rather be like Tim
Than Billy Gibbs, but when
The boys outside are cheering him
It sounds quite pleasant then;
And it must sometimes seem quite hard
To study all the year,
And go out in the school house yard
But never get a cheer!

OLD HALLOWE’EN FRIENDS

Oho! Mr. Ghost, with your raiment of white,
Come to frighten me out of my wits in the night!
With your eyes flaming forth like two coals and your breath
Bearing fire that would scare a poor mortal to death;
With your rows of great teeth grinning widely at me
And your loose-hanging gown flapping under the tree
In the orchard out there--Oh! I know how you’re made,
And the youngsters who made you, so I’m not afraid.

Oho! Mr. Ghost, I am waiting for you;
You’re an old friend of mine, both trustworthy and true;
For that big head of yours that near gave me a fright
Was in somebody’s pumpkin patch only last night.
And out of my window not two hours ago
I saw your head scooped out by Bill, Jack, and Joe;
And I saw you stuck up on the end of a lath
Before you were stationed right here in my path.

Oho! Mr. Ghost, with your garments so fine!
I know what became of that sheet on the line
In the neighbor’s back yard, newly washed and alone,
It is hiding that lath that you use for backbone.
And the candle that burned in the kitchen last night
Lights those cavernous eyes that near gave me a fright;
Indeed, you are made from such odds and such ends
That I feel we’re the warmest of very old friends.

And those sepulchral groans you are making at me,
I know whence they come--from that big apple tree
That is right behind you--I have heard them before;
They were begging for cake at the side kitchen door.
So you see, Mr. Ghost, with your pumpkin and lath,
With your candle and sheet, when I came up the path
I heard a boy chuckle up there in the tree,
And that is the reason you can’t frighten me!

A REFUGE IN DISTRESS

A fellow’s father he looks wise
Of office work and such,
But when it comes to things like what
A boy wants, he ain’t much.
For when it comes to cuts or warts
Or stone bruise on your toes,
A fellow’s father don’t know, but
A fellow’s mother knows.

A fellow’s father he looks wise
And says: “A-hem! A-hem!”
But when it comes to cakes and pies,
What does he know of them?
He knows the price of wheat and rye
And corn and oats, it’s true,
But if you get the leg ache, why,
He don’t know what to do.

And if you burned your back the time
That you went in to swim,
And want some stuff to heal it, why,
You never go to him,
Because he doesn’t know a thing
About such things as those,
But you just bet, and don’t forget,
A fellow’s mother knows.

And if your nose is sunburned, till
It’s all peeled off, and you
Go to him for some healin’ stuff,
He don’t know what to do.
He’s just as helpless as can be,
But when a fellow goes
And asks his mother, why, you see,
A fellow’s mother knows.

A fellow’s father knows a lot,
But it ain’t any use,
So if a fellow’s really got
The leg ache or a bruise,
Or if there’s anything he wants
He gets right up and goes
And asks his mother, for, you see,
A fellow’s mother knows.

THE LOST HEART

Back among the trees and trellises, along the leaf-strewn lane,
Sitting on the bank of the mill stream and dreaming dreams again,
Drinking water sweet as nectar from the bucket at the well,
In the orchard’s leaf and silence, watching windfalls as they fell,
Trying here, at five and thirty, just to be a boy again,
To recall the joys of boyhood and forget the cares of men;
But I listen to a lesson in the twitter of the wren:
When the boy’s heart turns to man’s it never throbs the same again.

Once the sun marks noon of lifetime, once the morning steals away,
Once the shadows growing shorter and then fall the other way,
Once the play time ends at manhood, once the frolicking is done,
Once the face is turned from dawning to the setting of the sun,
You may sit among the flowers that you plucked and threw away,
Turn the leaves of Time all backward, try to read them as you may,
You may kindle fires of Memory, you may sit and watch the flame,
But there’s something changed within you that can never be the same.

You may lay aside the burden of your troubles as you will,
But the bent and sunken shoulders tell the story to you still;
The story of the troubles and the trials that are sealed
From the simple hearts of children, and to men alone revealed.
The sorrow dulls, the sigh is stilled, the sore hearts soothed are,
The smarting wound is healed again, but always leaves a scar,
The fire of youth burns only once, and dies in its dead flame,
The simple heart of boyhood that can never be the same.

So I sit among the trellises and trees and wonder why:
Clear the air as in my boyhood and as blue the unflecked sky,
Full the leaves as ever blowing, sweet the bird songs and as free,
But the boy’s heart that throbbed to them is untuned and dead in me.
There’s a longing, longing, longing, speaking in a deep-drawn sigh,
For the heart that throbbed in boyhood, cloudless as the azure sky;
For the heart that was the sunlight and the air--that tongue nor pen
Can ever paint or picture--that I cannot know again.

VERSES OF A LITTLE CHILD

Never care as she lies asleep,
Dear little lassie with red-brown hair;
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep,
Keep for the little one slumbering there.
Never a dream as she lies so still,
Never a dream but of Fairyland,
Fairyland and the flowers that fill
Her bed, and the lilies within her hand.

Never a tear as she lies at rest,
Now or ever or evermore;
Never a sorrow to bruise her breast,
Ever the gladness of fairylore.
Never the rough way to bruise her feet,
Never or ever a discord sound,
Only the murmur of music sweet,
And the laughing of Cherubim, all around.

Never a sigh from the silent lips,
For the dollies all carefully laid away;
Only the music of laughter slips
Out of the realm of the sunlit day.
Never or ever a thought or care,
For the little hat with its flowered wreath,
Bearing a vision of red-brown hair
Flying in tangled curls beneath.

Dead? Ah, no! She is just asleep,
Asleep where the dreams and daisies are;
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep,
Keep in the light of a twinkling star.
Asleep, and the odors of flowers fill
Her bed, and the lilies within her hand;
Asleep, and the whispering angels still
Her sighs with the dreams of Fairyland.

GOLDEN DAYS IN SLOWVILLE

These are golden days in Slowville; there is gladness up and down;
For they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town.
Flaming sheets of red and yellow on its every barn and fence
Tell of wonders aggregated disregardful of expense.
Tell of wildernesses threaded for the fierce Bigrigmajig;
Tell of jungle-beasts made captive and of marvels small and big,
“In a most stupendous spectacle of splendor and renown,”
Say the flaming circus posters in the little country town.

They have wielded monster brushes from the dewy hours of morn,
They have covered half of Jones’s barn with grandeur heaven-born;
They have pictured fluffy ladies on the backs of dashing steeds,
They have ornamented Slowville with a wealth of daring deeds;
They have left a Ripperumptus on the back of Robbin’s fence,
Captured in the wilds of Africa at marvelous expense;
They’ve a retinue of big-eyed lads as they move up and down
When they put up circus posters in the little country town.

Oh! the multicolored marvels done in wonder-rousing haste
With a broad red barn for background and no means but brush and paste.
“Hi, there, Jimmy! See the monkeys!” All the air is shrill with cries
As the likenesses of wild beasts are upreared in gorgeous dyes;
There’s the fierce Ornithorinktus and the dreadful Whatisnot,
The blood-sweating Crinklawoozum and the awful Bingleswat.
Tent and sideshow, flag and streamer, elephant, parade, and clown--
Oh! they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town.

These are sleepless nights in Slowville; sleepless nights and anxious days;
There’s a hoarding of stray pennies got in half a hundred ways;
There are lads in wonder raptured; open-mouthed, with bulging eyes,
Where the marvelous menageries from gorgeous posters rise;
Oh! there’s glory, glory, glory in the chariots arrayed,
There’s rapture in the promise of the splendorous parade;
And new life has come to Slowville and is surging up and down
Since they put up circus posters in the little country town.

THE HEART OF A CHILD

Give me thy happy heart, Oh little child!
Where love springs like the sweetest flower, wild,
From all its virgin soil, and radiantly
Reflects its fresh, unsullied purity.

Give me thy heart, that knows not heat or hate,
Nor passion thrills, nor grief makes desolate,
When love, lone, reigned, and Life but smiled and smiled,
Give me thy spotless heart, Oh little child!

Give me thine artless tongue that to deceive
Knows not; but lisps to laugh and wakes to weave
In whispered words diviner melody
Of love than speaks in grandest symphony.

Give me thine eyes that see but happiness,
Nor aught of else in all the hours that bless
Thy childhood time, nor any graver ray
Than the glad sunshine of an endless day.

Would we could cleanse our hearts and make them young,
As when were sweeter chimes of childhood rung
From them, and when were flowers springing wild
From the untrampled soil, Oh little child!

THE STRENUOUS LIFE

That is your father, dear
Just going out the door;
Oh, he’s been living here
For seven years or more!
In business he’s so deep
He has no time to fret
With little girls, but keep
Up hope--we’ll meet him yet!

That is your mother, dear,
Just getting in the car,
She knows that you are here
And also who you are!
But what with clubs to meet
And bridge to play, you see,
With hours so short and fleet
She’s turned you o’er to me.

But there, my dear, don’t fret,
Or let those blue eyes blur,
Some time I know you’ll get
Acquainted, too, with her.
Why, sometimes, in the night
When angels vigil keep,
She asks if you’re all right
And when you went to sleep!

I think you’d like them both,
I think they’d both like you,
But what with “higher growth”
And many things to do
They’re simply rushed to death,
But there, my dear, don’t cry,
If they should stop for breath
We’ll meet them bye and bye.

A SONG OF MOTHERHOOD

Sew, sew, sew! For there’s many a rent to mend;
There’s a stitch to take and a dress to make,
For where do her labors end?
Sew, sew, sew! For a rent in a dress she spies,
Then it’s needle and thread and an aching head
And see how the needle flies!

Brush, brush, brush! For there’s many a boy to clean,
And start to school with a slate and rule,
With a breakfast to get between.
Comb, comb, comb! In the minute she has to spare,
For what is so wild--unreconciled
As the wastes of a youngster’s hair?

Sweep, sweep, sweep! Oh, follow the flashing broom,
And with towel bound her forehead round
She goes from room to room.
Dust, dust, dust! As down on her knees she kneels,
For there’s much to do in the hour or two
Of interval ’twixt meals.

Bake, bake, bake! For the cookie jar piled high
But yesterday in some curious way
Is empty again, Oh my!
Stir, stir, stir, in the froth of yellow and white,
For well she knows how the story goes
Of a small boy’s appetite.

Scrub, scrub, scrub! For the floor that was spick and span,
Alas, alack! has a muddy track
Where some thoughtless youngster ran.
Splash, splash, splash! For the dishes of thrice a day
Are piled up high to wash and dry
And put on the shelves away.

Patch, patch, patch! And oh for a pantaloon
That would not tear or rip or wear
In the course of an afternoon!
Patch, patch, patch! And see how the needle flies,
For a mother knows how the fabric goes
Where the seat of trouble lies.

Toil, toil, toil! For when do her labors end,
With a dress to make and a cake to bake
And dresses and hose to mend?
Stew, stew, stew! Fret and worry and fuss,
And who of us knows of the frets and woes
In the days when she mothered us?

YOUTH

Don’t you recall when apples grew,
Oh, twice as big as now?
When fish, however they were few,
Were monster ones somehow?
When Gaines’s mill-dam made a roar
As though the water hurled
Were gathered in a mighty store
From all the wide, wide world?

Don’t you remember when the trees,
The oak trees and the beech,
Were lost in clouds on days like these
And eyes could hardly reach
Their waving tops? When noonday skies
Were oh, such deeper blue?
When Jack’s great bean stalk in our eyes
Just grew and grew and grew?

And there were bells, so more than fine,
Of blue and white and red,
Upon the morning glory vine
That climbed up on the shed,
To be a wonder and delight,
So fresh and full of dew,
To bud and open in a night night--
I see them now--don’t you?

Don’t you remember when the caves
Were thick and full of gloom,
Where captive maidens, once, like slaves,
Were chained in some damp room?
When twilight rustling in the brush
Was some fierce beast? A cow
It was, but cows at dusk are--Hush!
I think I hear one now.

Come, take a little trip with me,
Forget the things that fret,
For you may close your eyes and see
Some things that I forget.
Why, I’ve seen Bluebeard’s hidden room
And Cinderella’s shoe!
And I have seen where violets bloom bloom--
So blue! So blue! So blue!

AFTER THE YEARS

When you went back to the old home place had the mountain become a hill?
Had the raging river your boyhood knew shrunk down to a peaceful rill?
Were the monster trees in the old front yard but half of their former size?
Was something gone--and you don’t know what what--from the blue of
the arching skies?
Was the swimming-hole but a muddy pool when once it was crystal clear?
Were the apples but half as big and red as they were in that other year?

When you went back to the old home place did the red barn seem so small
It didn’t look like the one you’d known? Was the mighty waterfall
That used to roar in your boyish ears but a little dash of spray
That fell so light you could hardly hear a dozen feet away?
Were the corn rows only half as long as they were in the long ago,
When you measured them with aching arms and the weight of a heavy hoe?

When you went back to the old home place had the mill pond dwindled down?
Was Main Street only a muddy track in the heart of a sleepy town?
And the well that was fathoms, fathoms deep, with its wheel and creaking
chain,
Did it seem to you like a shrunken thing when you looked at it again?
Was something gone of the bygone days, from the sod and the arch of sky
That we used to see when we played as boys in the old days--you and I?

Nay, Heart, the mountain rises high as it did of yore; the rill
Was a river once and the boys near by see a raging river still.
The well is fathoms, fathoms deep and the apples ripe and red;
The sod is cool and green and soft, and the sky up overhead
Is blue and clear, and the days are rare and glad as they used to be--
But where is the Heart of the olden time--hast thou brought it back with
thee?

A VERSE TO MEMORY

Now Memory, like a little child,
Takes me by one soft hand,
By dreams of keen delight beguiled
We stray through Flowerland;
And like the child, sweet Memory
By many a by-way strays,
Plucks flowers and bears them back to me
To fashion my bouquets.

By many sweet, secluded ways
She wanders, far or near;
A rose upon my garland lays
Bejeweled with a tear;
The rose of some far-flown ideal,
A fragrance, ah, how rare!
My fingers close but to reveal
The ashes crumbling there.

Now tinkling laughter ripples clear
As some new flower she spies,
Some far-forgotten joys appear
As fairy faces rise.
My thoughts in revel, flower-wreathed,
Heart-full, my garlands lie,
While on the scented air is breathed
A greeting and good-bye.

Come, Child, away! The frolic ends,
The flower in ashes, dead;
The perfume with the air that blends
We’ll bear away instead.
Here at the hedge we kiss and part,
Some sterner duties find.
Bear all the sweetness in the heart
But leave the flowers behind.

Thank God, thank God for Memory,
Half smile and half a tear;
The flowers are there eternally,
And when the days are drear,
In through the tangled hedge of days
We wander, hand in hand,
And I may dream, while Memory strays,
A child is Flowerland.

LEST I FORGET

When from my earliest abode in boyhood’s merry days I strode,
Oh, well do I remember how my mother came--I see her now--
And, standing in the old front door, repeated to me o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and William, wear your other hat.
Please, William, don’t forget my note, and William, wear your overcoat.
And William, hurry on your way, or you’ll be late to school today.”
And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear
Came floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.

When from my lessons, shirked or done, came homeward I at waning sun,
Oh, well do I remember how my mother came--I see her now--
And greeted me at that front door with admonitions o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and wipe your feet upon the mat,
And do not slam the door and wake the baby, William, and please take
This package down to Howe and Hatch and tell them that it doesn’t match,
And don’t forget to hurry back, because the kitchen fire is slack”;
And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear
Come floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.

I’m married now--at man’s estate, and yet, quite mournful to relate,
My wife it is who, as before, comes with me to the new front door,
And standing there, bombards me for a block or two, and o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t you wet your feet, and William, don’t forget the meat,
And William, don’t forget to mail my letter promptly, and don’t fail
To pay the ice bill, order wood; and William, would you be so good
As to stop in at Jones’s store and get a bit of ribbon for
The baby’s hair?”--and so ’tis yet--lest I forget--lest I forget!

ECHO OF A SONG

To my fancy, idly roaming, comes a picture of the gloaming,
Comes a fragrance from the blossoms of the lilac and the rose;
With the yellow lamplight streaming I am sitting here and dreaming
Of a half-forgotten twilight whence a mellow memory flows;
To my listening ears come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,
I’ve a sense of sweet contentment as the sounds are borne along;
’Tis a mother who is tuning her fond heart to love and crooning
To her laddie such a
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.

Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and ember
The old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow;
With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender,
Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago.
There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roaming
Through the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along;
Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleeping
When she sings to him that
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.

I am sitting here and dreaming with the mellow lamplight streaming
Through the vine-embowered window in a yellow filigree;
On the fragrant air come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,
’Tis the slumber song of childhood that is murmuring to me;
And some subtle fancy creeping lulls my senses half to sleeping
As the misty shapes of bugaboos go dreamily along,
All my sorrows disappearing, as a tired lad I’m hearing
Once again my mother’s
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.

LOVERS’ LANE

How good to remember Life’s June from September,
The days that were fairer than ever again;
When hearts held no sorrow to last o’er the morrow
And heads were brimful of the wisdom of ten;
No skies were e’er bluer, no heart was e’er truer
Than mine when I waited in sunshine or rain
With joy that enriched me for one who bewitched me
And bade me to wait till she came down the lane.

Our trysting-place gaining, my eyes they were straining
Afar down the road, and my lips hummed a tune
That held all the sweetness of first love’s completeness
The whiles that I waited at morning and noon;
For last when we parted, beloved, fond hearted,
She pledged me to wait for her, sunshine or rain,
And so I kept humming, I knew she was coming,
A girl queen in gingham, somewhere down the lane.

And there with a vision of futures Elysian
I traced both our names with my toe in the dust,
And not a temptation could alter my station
As knight of the faithful heart, true to its trust.

With ecstasy thrilling, I heard a far trilling
So sweeter than bird song, and heard it again,
The heart of the maiden, care-free and joy-laden,
Was borne on the music I heard down the lane.

Ah, who knows the story of Life and its glory,
The unending bliss of the days that were then;
And who knows the sweetness of first love’s completeness
Who has not the wisdom of thirteen and ten?
For back went a trilling to her that was spilling
Its burden of gladness through all of the air,
With infinite yearning her message returning
To show I was true and awaited her there.

Oh, hearts that are older, what secrets I told her!
What dreams of the future, of grown girl and boy!
For what of the weather, when two walk together
The pathway to school in the heyday of joy?
When hours are but measures of innocent pleasures,
When days brim with gladness, as winecups to drain,
When Life learns the sweetness of first love’s completeness
In waiting for Her as she comes down the lane!

DADDY KNOWS

Let us dry our tears now, laddie,
Let us put aside our woes;
Let us go and talk to daddy,
For I’m sure that daddy knows.
Let us take him what we’ve broken,
Be it heart or hope or toy,
And the tale may bide unspoken,
For he used to be a boy.

He has been through all the sorrows
Of a lad at nine or ten;
He has seen the dawn of morrows
When the sun shone bright again;
His own heart has been near breaking,
Oh, more times than I can tell,
And has often known the aching
That a boy’s heart knows so well.

I am sure he well remembers,
In his calendar of days,
When the boy-heart was December’s,
Though the sun and flowers were May’s.
He has lived a boy’s life, laddie,
And he knows just how it goes;
Let us go and talk to daddy,
For I’m sure that daddy knows.

Let us tell him all about it,
How the sting of it is there,
And I have not any doubt it
Will be easier to bear;
For he’s trodden every byway,
He has fathomed every joy,
He has traveled every highway
In the wide world of a boy.

He will put aside the worries
That his day may follow through,
For the great heart of him hurries
At the call for help from you.
He will help us mend the broken
Heart of ours or hope or toy,
And the tale may bide unspoken--
For he used to be a boy.

TO CHILDREN AT THE HEARTH

It is you, my dears, and the gladness
You bring to the tasks to do,
Who can lessen this old world’s sadness
By as much as the joy of you.
It is you, my dears, and your glory
Of sunshine and word and song
Who can make life a sweeter story
Wherever you smile along.

It is you, my dears, with your beauty
And freshness of mind and heart
Who must offer your share of duty
And play yet a nobler part.
For the world, it has need of beauty
And youth that is fine and new,
And the call you may hear to duty
Is for you, my dears--just you.

It is you, my dears, that the sages
Have written their counsels to,
It is you, my dears, that the ages
Leave legacies to--just you.
And remember that every letter
That Wisdom has graven through
The years, so the world be better,
Is for you, my dears--just you.

It is you who must be the bravest
To fight, if the cause be true;
It is you who must be the gravest
In word and in deed--just you.
It is you who must be the strongest
To stand till the battle’s through,
And you who must smile the longest
And never despair--just you.

It is you, my dears, and your glory
Of gladness and youth and smile,
Who shall help to say if the story
Of life and the world’s worth while.
For the years of all time have shaped us,
And the lore of the Ages, too,
And to say if the Truth’s escaped us
Is for you, my dears--just you.

A TOAST TO THE SMALL BOY

He knows the vagrant country roads
Where sleepily they wind;
He has his pockets full of toads,
His smile is broad and kind;
His dreams of lands and seas--who knows?
His joys are never still,
And whistling through the world he goes,
The rugged small boy--Bill!

His world is full of song and shine,
His days are all his own;
His nights are full of plans so fine
That youngsters all have known;
With all the joy that health can give
His ruddy pulses thrill,
And, bless me, how he loves to live,
This rugged small boy--Bill!

His trousers know the ample patch,
His shoes gape at the toes,
But see him gladly toe the scratch
For any chum he knows;
The heart of him is good as gold,
And songs of gladness spill
From his red lips, this sunny-souled
And rugged small boy--Bill!

His scratch-scarred legs are never tired,
His eyes bright-souled and starred,
His heart with hopeful youth is fired,
His sunny soul unscarred;
The world is his, the fields, the trees,
The brook, the wood, the hill,
To do his will, as he may please,
This rugged small boy--Bill!

He knows the song of life by heart,
In fancy he may weave
Such dreams as make the pulses start,
A King of Make-Believe;
And when I speak with him I hear
Truth ripple like a rill
From him, and gladness and good cheer,
This rugged small boy--Bill!

Oh, bide thee, bide thee, overlong,
Health, happiness, and youth;
Be glad thy heart and light thy song
And pure and clear thy truth!
Nor cloud to dim thy sunny ways,
Nor aught to bring thee ill,
And year on year of perfect days,
My rugged small boy--Bill!

AN ADVENTUROUS DAY

One time in vacation we boys all left town
To stay in the country for Sunday; and down
By Deacon Gray’s pasture a rabbit came out
Right close to the highway and looked all about
Until it saw us and it started to run
Right down the highroad like a shot from a gun;
So Billy Beggs threw off his coat and his hat
And chased it till both of its ears were down flat,
And, my, it just ran as if it saw a ghost,
And Bill ran so fast that he caught it--almost!

And under the bridge where it crosses the creek
We saw some fish swimming and darting as quick
As a flash in the water, and one fish would flop
Himself till he almost would come to the top;
So then we got down on the bridge and we tied
A pin on a string and dropped it down the side
With a bug on the pin, and the fishes would look
While Billy Beggs wiggled the bug on the hook;
And one fish was hungry and came up so close
That Bill gave a jerk and he caught it--almost!

And over by Skinner’s a big hawk flew by
And lit on a stump that was not very high,
But didn’t see us and we crawled up quite slow
Through the grass to the stump with a big stone to throw;
And Billy Beggs said that the hawk was asleep
For it never stirred once; and the grass was so deep
That we got to within a few feet from the stump,
And Billy Beggs peeked, and his heart gave a thump;
And when he got ever and ever so close
He stood up and threw and he hit it--almost!

And then it got cloudy and thundered and then
It lightened just awful and thundered again;
It rained some big drops and we started to run
To get in the barn till the shower was done;
And lightning just spattered and crackled and flashed
And we were all scared as could be, and we splashed
All through mud and water, and then a big crack
Of lightning came down and Bill Beggs hollered back
From ’way up ahead, just as pale as a ghost,
And said that last lightning had struck him--almost!

And over by Griggs’s somebody came out
And hollered to us when we’re all just about
So tired we could drop, and they took us right in
By the big kitchen fire ’cause we’re wet to the skin;
And Mrs. Griggs gave us some blankets to wear
While all of our clothes were hung over a chair;
And she made some tea till she got us warmed through
And then the storm stopped and the sky got all blue;
And Billy Beggs told her the flash came so close
That he ’membered the whole of the Lord’s Prayer--almost!

POEM OF THE FORAGERS

School’s out, and homeward with the ebbing day
They come--Tom Jones, Jim Brooks and Eddie Gray;
And half a million others far or near,
Not much unlike the boys I know right here;
With empty dinnerpails and schoolbooks slung
Across their shoulders by a strap. The tongue
Of boyhood at the kitchen door gives cry:
“Ma, can’t I have a doughnut, or some pie?”
For, say, the appetite of boys is prime
And cannot be content till suppertime.

’Tis four o’clock, and I can hear them go--
A million youngsters--homeward, fast and slow;
The drowsy schoolroom clock has dragged its hands
Across its face until Time’s signal stands
At long-awaited four--that blessed hour
When schoolbooks close and teachers lose the power
That despot rulers have--and flags unfurled
Lead schoolboy armies to a waiting world!
And up the back steps bound returning feet:
“Ma, can’t I go and get a bite to eat?”

School’s out--what ransacking of cooky jars!
What letting down of pantry gates and bars!
What dipping into barrels here and there,
With heads far down and feet high up in air,
For Winesaps, Baldwins, Pippins! What a charge
Upon the jars of jam and loaves baked large
And round and brown--what a tumultuous cry:
“Ma, can’t I have a little piece of pie?”
And so this schoolboy army waxes fat
Upon its foraged commissariat!

Thanks are due to the Editors of The Saturday Evening Post, The Century Magazine, The New York Times, and The Youth’s Companion, in which papers the greater number of these verses originally appeared, for permission to reprint.