Chapter I: Smoke My Pipe

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

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

{37}

{39}

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

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

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

{40}

UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS

Marcellus, won't you tell us--
Truly tell us, if you can,--
What will you be, Marcellus,
When you get to be a man?

You turn, with never answer
But to the band that plays.--
O rapt and eerie dancer,
What of your future days?

Far in the years before us
We dreamers see your fame,
While song and praise in chorus
Make music of your name.

And though our dreams foretell us
As only visions can,
You must prove it, O Marcellus,
When you get to be a man!

{41}

A SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY

O were I not a clod, intent
On being just an earthly thing,
I'd be that rare embodiment
Of Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing,
With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent,
Divinely-tender twittering
That Echo swoons to re-present,--
A bluebird in the Spring.

{42}

THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN

Kindly and warm and tender,
He nestled each childish palm
So close in his own that his touch was a prayer
And his speech a blessed psalm.

He has turned from the marvelous pages
Of many an alien tome--
Haply come down from Olivet,
Or out from the gates of Rome--

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{45}

Set sail o'er the seas between him
And each little beckoning hand
That fluttered about in the meadows
And groves of his native land,--

Fluttered and flashed on his vision
As, in the glimmering light
Of the orchard-lands of childhood,
The blossoms of pink and white.

And there have been sobs in his bosom,
As out on the shores he stept,
And many a little welcomer
Has wondered why he wept.--

That was because, O children,
Ye might not always be
The same that the Savior's arms were wound
About, in Galilee.

{46}

FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR

Friend of a wayward hour, you came
Like some good ghost, and went the same;
And I within the haunted place
Sit smiling on your vanished face,
And talking with--your name.

But thrice the pressure of your hand--
First hail--congratulations--and
Your last "God bless you!" as the train
That brought you snatched you back again
Into the unknown land.

{47}

"God bless me?" Why, your very prayer
Was answered ere you asked it there,
I know--for when you came to lend
Me your kind hand, and call me friend,
God blessed me unaware.

{48}

MY HENRY

He's jes' a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin'
Feller,--humped, and sort o' 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 kind o' 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.

{49}

{51}

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!"

{52}

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

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

{53}

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

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

{54}

THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood
That now but in mem'ry I sadly review;
The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,
The rail fence, and horses all tethered thereto;
The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,
The doves that came fluttering out overhead
As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.
The old-fashioned Bible--
The dust-covered Bible--
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

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{57}

The blessed old volume! The face bent above it--
As now I recall it--is gravely severe,
Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it
Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear,
And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,
The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head
Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.
The old-fashioned Bible--
The dust-covered Bible--
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derision
And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies
In the dust of the past, while this newer revision
Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?
Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?
Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,
When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read?
The old-fashioned Bible--
The dust-covered Bible--
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

{58}

GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO

Say good-by er howdy-do--
What's the odds betwixt the two?
Comin'--goin', ev'ry day--
Best friends first to go away--
Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold
Than their weight in solid gold
Slips their grip while greetin' you.--
Say good-by er howdy-do!

{59}

Howdy-do, and then, good-by--
Mixes jes' like laugh and cry;
Deaths and births, and worst and best,
Tangled their contrariest;
Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell
Skeerin' up some funer'l knell.--
Here's my song, and there's your sigh.--
Howdy-do, and then, good-by!

Say good-by er howdy-do--
Jes' the same to me and you;
'Taint worth while to make no fuss,
'Cause the job's put up on us!
Some One's runnin' this concern
That's got nothin' else to learn:
Ef _He's_ willin', we'll pull through--
Say good-by er howdy-do!

{60}

WHEN WE THREE MEET

When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine
Whose verses well and flow as wine,--
My thirsting fancy thou dost fill
With draughts delicious, sweeter still
Since tasted by those lips of thine.

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine
Of autumn, with a warmth divine,
Thrilled through as only I shall thrill
When we three meet.

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine,
We yet shall loosen, line by line,
Old ballads, and the blither trill
Of our-time singers--for there will
Be with us all the Muses nine
When we three meet.

{61}

"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP"

When I was a little boy, long ago,
And spoke of the theater as the "show,"
The first one that I went to see,
Mother's brother it was took me--
(My uncle, of course, though he seemed to be
Only a boy--I loved him so!)
And ah, how pleasant he made it all!
And the things he knew that _I_ should know!--
The stage, the "drop," and the frescoed wall;
The sudden flash of the lights; and oh,
The orchestra, with its melody,
And the lilt and jingle and jubilee
Of "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!

{62}

For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there,
With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair;
Showed me the "Second," and "'Cello," and "Bass,"
And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his face
At the little end of the horn he blew
Silvery bubbles of music through;
And he coined me names of them, each in turn,
Some comical name that I laughed to learn,
Clean on down to the last and best,--
The lively little man, never at rest,
Who hides away at the end of the string,
And tinkers and plays on everything,--
That's "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!

Raking a drum like a rattle of hail,
Clinking a cymbal or castanet;
Chirping a twitter or sending a wail
Through a piccolo that thrills me yet;
Reeling ripples of riotous bells,
And tipsy tinkles of triangles--
Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound
Till it seemed that my very soul spun round,
As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my
Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye
And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand,
"Why, that little master of all the band
Is 'The Little Man in the Tinshop'!

{63}

{65}

"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful,
And Paganini, and Ole Bull,
Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn,
And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone
Karl, her master, with magic bow,
Blent with the angels', and held her so
Tranced till the rapturous Infinite--
And I've heard arias, faint and low,
From many an operatic light
Glimmering on my swimming sight
Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last,
I still sit, holding my roses fast
For 'The Little Man in the Tinshop.'"

Oho! my Little Man, joy to you--
And _yours_--and _theirs_--your lifetime through!
Though _I've_ heard melodies, boy and man,
Since first "the show" of my life began,
Never yet have I listened to
Sadder, madder, or gladder glees
Than your unharmonied harmonies;
For yours is the music that appeals
To all the fervor the boy's heart feels--
All his glories, his wildest cheers,
His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears;
And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels
To "The Little Man in the Tinshop."

{66}

TOMMY SMITH

Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped,
With his cap-rim backward tipped,
Still in fancy I can see
Little Tommy smile on me--
Little Tommy Smith.

Little unsung Tommy Smith--
Scarce a name to rhyme it with;
Yet most tenderly to me
Something sings unceasingly--
Little Tommy Smith.

{67}

On the verge of some far land
Still forever does he stand,
With his cap-rim rakishly
Tilted; so he smiles on me--
Little Tommy Smith.

Elder-blooms contrast the grace
Of the rover's radiant face--
Whistling back, in mimicry,
"Old--Bob--White!" all liquidly--
Little Tommy Smith.

O my jaunty statuette
Of first love, I see you yet.
Though you smile so mistily,
It is but through tears I see,
Little Tommy Smith.

But, with crown tipped back behind,
And the glad hand of the wind
Smoothing back your hair, I see
Heaven's best angel smile on me,--
Little Tommy Smith.

{68}

TOM VAN ARDEN

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Our warm fellowship is one
Far too old to comprehend
Where its bond was first begun:
Mirage-like before my gaze
Gleams a land of other days,
Where two truant boys, astray,
Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise
Of Midsummer, where the Past
Like a weary beggar lies
In the shadow Time has cast;
And as blends the bloom of trees
With the drowsy hum of bees,
Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

{69}

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
All the pleasures we have known
Thrill me now as I extend
This old hand and grasp your own--
Feeling, in the rude caress,
All affection's tenderness;
Feeling, though the touch be rough,
Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour:
Fill your pipe, and taste the wine--
Warp your face, if it be sour,
I can spare a smile from mine;
If it sharpen up your wit,
Let me feel the edge of it--
I have eager ears to lend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?
Are we all that we pretend
In the jolly life we lead?--
Bachelors, we must confess,
Boast of "single blessedness"
To the world, but not alone--
Man's best sorrow is his own!

{70}

And the saddest truth is this,--
Life to us has never proved
What we tasted in the kiss
Of the women we have loved:
Vainly we congratulate
Our escape from such a fate
As their lying lips could send,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,
Ripen sweetest, I contend,
As the frost falls over them:
Your regard for me to-day
Makes November taste of May,
And through every vein of rhyme
Pours the blood of summer-time.

When our souls are cramped with youth
Happiness seems far away
In the future, while, in truth,
We look back on it to-day
Through our tears, nor dare to boast,--
"Better to have loved and lost!"
Broken hearts are hard to mend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

{71}

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
I grow prosy, and you tire;
Fill the glasses while I bend
To prod up the failing fire. . . .
You are restless:--I presume
There's a dampness in the room.--
Much of warmth our nature begs,
With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

Humph! the legs we used to fling
Limber-jointed in the dance,
When we heard the fiddle ring
Up the curtain of Romance,
And in crowded public halls
Played with hearts like jugglers' balls.--
_Feats of mountebanks, depend!_--
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Pardon, then, this theme of mine:
While the firelight leaps to lend
Higher color to the wine,--
I propose a health to those
Who have _homes_, and home's repose,
Wife- and child-love without end!
. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

{72}

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run
When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun;
It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not,
Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;

{73}

It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black,
And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;--
But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay,
And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway;
I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall,
That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all;
I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can;
I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman;
But most I like--with you, my boy--our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

{74}

MY BACHELOR CHUM

A corpulent man is my bachelor chum,
With a neck apoplectic and thick--
An abdomen on him as big as a drum,
And a fist big enough for the stick;
With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case,
And a wobble uncertain--as though
His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace
That in youth used to favor him so.

He is forty, at least; and the top of his head
Is a bald and a glittering thing;
And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red
As three rival roses in spring;

{75}

{77}

His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in,
And his laugh is so breezy and bright
That it ripples his features and dimples his chin
With a billowy look of delight.

He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw"--
That "the ills of a bachelor's life
Are blisses, compared with a mother-in-law
And a boarding-school miss for a wife!"
So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks,
And he dines and he wines, all alone,
With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks
Of the comforts he never has known.

But up in his den--(Ah, my bachelor chum!)--
I have sat with him there in the gloom,
When the laugh of his lips died away to become
But a phantom of mirth in the room.
And to look on him there you would love him, for all
His ridiculous ways, and be dumb
As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall
On the tears of my bachelor chum.

{78}

ART AND POETRY

TO HOMER DAVENPORT

Wess he says, and sort o' grins,
"Art and Poetry is twins!

"Yit, if I'd my pick, I'd shake
Poetry, and no mistake!

"Pictures, allus, 'peared to _me_,
Clean laid over Poetry!

{79}

"Let me _draw_, and then, i jings,
I'll not keer a straw who sings.

"'F I could draw as you have drew,
Like to jes' swop pens with you!

"Picture-drawin' 's my pet vision
Of Life-work in Lands Elysian.

"Pictures is first language we
Find hacked out in History.

"Most delight we ever took
Was in our first Picture-book.

"'Thout the funny picture-makers,
They'd be lots more undertakers!

"Still, as I say, Rhymes and Art
'Smighty hard to tell apart.

"Songs and pictures go together
Same as birds and summer weather."

So Wess says, and sort o' grins,
"Art and Poetry is twins."

{80}

DOWN TO THE CAPITAL

I' be'n down to the Capital at Washington, D. C.,
Where Congerss meets and passes on the pensions ort to be
Allowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence the war
Don't wear their pants in pairs at all--and yit how proud we are!

{81}

Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and tuck and made
Me stay with him whilse I was there; and longer 'at I stayed
The more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away,
And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day.

You see I'd got the idy--and I guess most folks agrees--
'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what they please;
A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman and all,
And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall!

Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke--he made his money square:
We both was Forty-niners, and both bu'sted gittin' there;
I weakened and onwindlassed, and he stuck and stayed and made
His millions; don't know what _I'm_ worth untel my pension's paid.

But I was goin' to tell you--er a-ruther goin' to try
To tell you how he's livin' now: gas burnin' mighty nigh
In ever' room about the house; and ever' night, about,
Some blame reception goin' on, and money goin' out.

{82}

They's people there from all the world--jes' ever' kind 'at lives,
Injuns and all! and Senators, and Ripresentatives;
And girls, you know, jes' dressed in gauze and roses, I declare,
And even old men shamblin' round a-waltzin' with 'em there!

And bands a-tootin' circus-tunes, 'way in some other room
Jes' chokin' full o' hothouse plants and pinies and perfume;
And fountains, squirtin' stiddy all the time; and statutes, made
Out o' puore marble, 'peared-like, sneakin' round there in the shade.

And Fluke he coaxed and begged and pled with me to take a hand
And sashay in amongst 'em--crutch and all, you understand;
But when I said how tired I was, and made fer open air,
He follered, and tel five o'clock we set a-talkin' there.

{83}

{85}

"My God!" says he--Fluke says to me, "I'm tireder'n you!
Don't putt up yer tobacker tel you give a man a chew.
Set back a leetle furder in the shadder--that'll do;
I'm tireder'n you, old man; I'm tireder'n you.

"You see that-air old dome," says he, "humped up ag'inst the sky?
It's grand, first time you see it; but it changes, by and by,
And then it stays jes' thataway--jes' anchored high and dry
Betwixt the sky up yender and the achin' of yer eye.

"Night's purty; not so purty, though, as what it ust to be
When my first wife was livin'. You remember her?" says he.
I nodded-like, and Fluke went on, "I wonder now ef she
Knows where I am--and what I am--and what I ust to be?

"That band in there!--I ust to think 'at music couldn't wear
A feller out the way it does; but that ain't music there--
That's jes' a' _imitation_, and like ever'thing, I swear,
I hear, er see, er tetch, er taste, er tackle anywhere!

{86}

"It's all jes' _artificial_, this-'ere high-priced life of ours;
The theory, it's sweet enough, tel it saps down and sours.
They's no _home_ left, ner _ties_ o' home about it. By the powers,
The whole thing's artificialer'n artificial flowers!

"And all I want, and could lay down and sob fer, is to know
The homely things of homely life; fer instance, jes' to go
And set down by the kitchen stove--Lord! that 'u'd rest me so,--
Jes' set there, like I ust to do, and laugh and joke, you know.

"Jes' set there, like I ust to do," says Fluke, a-startin' in,
'Peared-like, to say the whole thing over to hisse'f ag'in;
Then stopped and turned, and kind o' coughed, and stooped
and fumbled fer
Somepin' o' 'nuther in the grass--I guess his handkercher.

Well, sence I'm back from Washington, where I left Fluke a-still
A-leggin' fer me, heart and soul, on that-air pension bill,
I've half-way struck the notion, when I think o' wealth and sich,
They's nothin' much patheticker'n jes' a-bein' rich!

{87}

{89}

OLD CHUMS

"If I die first," my old chum paused to say,
"Mind! not a whimper of regret:--instead,
Laugh and be glad, as I shall.--Being dead,
I shall not lodge so very far away
But that our mirth shall mingle.--So, the day
The word comes, joy with me." "I'll try," I said,
Though, even speaking, sighed and shook my head
And turned, with misted eyes. His roundelay
Rang gaily on the stair; and then the door
Opened and--closed. . . . Yet something of the clear,
Hale hope, and force of wholesome faith he had
Abided with me--strengthened more and more.--
Then--then they brought his broken body here:
And I laughed--whisperingly--and we were glad.

{90}

SCOTTY

Scotty's dead--Of course he is!
Jes' that same old luck of his!--
Ever sence we went cahoots
He's be'n first, you bet yer boots!
When our schoolin' first begun,
Got two whippin's to my one:
Stold and smoked the first cigar:
Stood up first before the bar,
Takin' whisky-straight--and me
Wastin' time on "blackberry"!

{91}

Beat me in the Army, too,
And clean on the whole way through!
In more scrapes around the camp,
And more troubles, on the tramp:
Fought and fell there by my side
With more bullets in his hide,
And more glory in the cause,--
That's the kind o' man _he_ was!
Luck liked Scotty more'n me.--
_I_ got married: Scotty, he
Never even would _apply_
Fer the pension-money I
Had to beg of "Uncle Sam"--
That's the kind o' cuss _I_ am!--
Scotty allus first and best--
Me the last and ornriest!
Yit fer all that's said and done--
All the battles fought and won--
We hain't prospered, him ner me--
Both as pore as pore could be,--
Though we've allus, up tel now,
Stuck together anyhow--
Scotty allus, as I've said,
Luckiest--And now he's _dead_!

{92}

THE OLD MAN

Lo! steadfast and serene,
In patient pause between
The seen and the unseen,
What gentle zephyrs fan
Your silken silver hair,--
And what diviner air
Breathes round you like a prayer,
Old Man?

{93}

Can you, in nearer view
Of Glory, pierce the blue
Of happy Heaven through;
And, listening mutely, can
Your senses, dull to us,
Hear Angel-voices thus,
In chorus glorious--
Old Man?

In your reposeful gaze
The dusk of Autumn days
Is blent with April haze,
As when of old began
The bursting of the bud
Of rosy babyhood--
When all the world was good,
Old Man.

And yet I find a sly
Little twinkle in your eye;
And your whisperingly shy
Little laugh is simply an
Internal shout of glee
That betrays the fallacy
You'd perpetrate on me,
Old Man.

{94}

So just put up the frown
That your brows are pulling down!
Why, the fleetest boy in town,
As he bared his feet and ran,
Could read with half a glance--
And of keen rebuke, perchance--
Your secret countenance,
Old Man.

Now, honestly, confess:
Is an old man any less
Than the little child we bless
And caress when we can?
Isn't age but just a place
Where you mask the childish face
To preserve its inner grace,
Old Man?

Hasn't age a truant day,
Just as that you went astray
In the wayward, restless way,
When, brown with dust and tan,
Your roguish face essayed,
In solemn masquerade,
To hide the smile it made,
Old Man?

{95}

{97}

Now, fair, and square, and true,
Don't your old soul tremble through,
As in youth it used to do
When it brimmed and overran
With the strange, enchanted sights,
And the splendors and delights
Of the old "Arabian Nights,"
Old Man?

When, haply, you have fared
Where glad Aladdin shared
His lamp with you, and dared
The Afrite and his clan;
And, with him, clambered through
The trees where jewels grew--
And filled your pockets, too,
Old Man?

Or, with Sinbad, at sea--
And in veracity
Who has sinned as bad as he,
Or would, or will, or can?--
Have you listened to his lies,
With open mouth and eyes,
And learned his art likewise,
Old Man?

{98}

And you need not deny
That your eyes were wet as dry,
Reading novels on the sly!
And review them, if you can
And the same warm tears will fall--
Only faster, that is all--
Over Little Nell and Paul,
Old Man!

Oh, you were a lucky lad--
Just as good as you were bad!
And the host of friends you had--
Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan;
And the old School-Teacher, too,
Though he often censured you;
And the girls in pink and blue,
Old Man.

And--as often you have leant,
In boyish sentiment,
To kiss the letter sent
By Nelly, Belle, or Nan--
Wherein the rose's hue
Was red, the violet blue--
And sugar sweet--and you,
Old Man,--

{99}

So, to-day, as lives the bloom,
And the sweetness, and perfume
Of the blossoms, I assume,
On the same mysterious plan
The Master's love assures,
That the selfsame boy endures
In that hale old heart of yours,
Old Man.

{100}

JAMES B. MAYNARD

His daily, nightly task is o'er--
He leans above his desk no more.

His pencil and his pen say not
One further word of gracious thought.

All silent is his _voice_, yet clear
For all a grateful world to hear;

He poured abroad his human love
In opulence unmeasured of--

While, in return, his meek demand,--
The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand

In recognition of the true
World's duty that he lived to do.

So was he kin of yours and mine--
So, even by the hallowed sign

Of silence which he listens to,
He hears our tears as falls the dew.

{101}

THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN

O Printerman of sallow face,
And look of absent guile,
Is it the 'copy' on your 'case'
That causes you to smile?
Or is it some old treasure scrap
You call from Memory's file?

"I fain would guess its mystery--
For often I can trace
A fellow dreamer's history
Whene'er it haunts the face;
Your fancy's running riot
In a retrospective race!

{102}

"Ah, Printerman, you're straying
Afar from 'stick' and type--
Your heart has 'gone a-maying,'
And you taste old kisses, ripe
Again on lips that pucker
At your old asthmatic pipe!

"You are dreaming of old pleasures
That have faded from your view;
And the music-burdened measures
Of the laughs you listen to
Are now but angel-echoes--
O, have I spoken true?"

The ancient Printer hinted
With a motion full of grace
To where the words were printed
On a card above his "case,"--
"'I am deaf and dumb!" I left him
With a smile upon his face.

{103}

{105}

THE OLD MAN AND JIM

Old man never had much to say--
'Ceptin' to Jim,--
And Jim was the wildest boy he had--
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life,--and first time was
When the army broke out, and Jim he went,
The old man backin' him, fer three months;
And all 'at I heerd the old man say
Was, jes' as we turned to start away,--
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer o' yourse'f!"

{106}

'Peared-like, he was more satisfied
Jes' _lookin'_ at Jim
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?--
'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!
And over and over I mind the day
The old man come and stood round in the way
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim--
And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say,
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"

Never was nothin' about the _farm_
Disting'ished Jim;
Neighbors all ust to wonder why
The old man 'peared wrapped up in him;
But when Cap. Biggler he writ back
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black,
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad--
'At he had led, with a bullet clean
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen,--
The old man wound up a letter to him
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said: "Tell Jim
Good-by,
And take keer of hisse'f."

{107}

{109}

Jim come home jes' long enough
To take the whim
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery--
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised,
And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,
And laid around fer a week er so,
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade--
Tel finally he rid away,
And last he heerd was the old man say,--
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"

{110}

Tuk the papers, the old man did,
A-watchin' fer Jim--
Fully believin' he'd make his mark
_Some_ way--jes' wrapped up in him!--
And many a time the word 'u'd come
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum--
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where
Jim rid right into their cannons there,
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,
And socked it home to the boys in gray
As they scooted fer timber, and on and on--
Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone,
And the old man's words in his mind all day,--
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"

{111}

Think of a private, now, perhaps,
We'll say like Jim,
'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps--
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Think of him--with the war plum' through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim,
And the old man, bendin' over him--
The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years,
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His father's, the old voice in his ears,--
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"

{112}

THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM

He puts the poem by, to say
His eyes are not themselves to-day!

A sudden glamour o'er his sight--
A something vague, indefinite--

An oft-recurring blur that blinds
The printed meaning of the lines,

And leaves the mind all dusk and dim
In swimming darkness--strange to him!

{113}

It is not childishness, I guess,--
Yet something of the tenderness

That used to wet his lashes when
A boy seems troubling him again;--

The old emotion, sweet and wild,
That drove him truant when a child,

That he might hide the tears that fell
Above the lesson--"Little Nell."

And so it is he puts aside
The poem he has vainly tried

To follow; and, as one who sighs
In failure, through a poor disguise

Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say
His eyes are not themselves to-day.

{114}

MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET

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

{115}

{117}

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

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

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

{118}

Ah, ha! old chum, this claret,
Like Fatima, holds the key
Of the old Blue-Beardish garret
Of my hidden mystery!
Did you say you'd like to listen?
Ah, my boy! the "_Sad No More!_"
And the tear-drops that will glisten--
_Turn the catch upon the door,_

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

Let me see--when I was twenty--
It's a lordly age, my boy,
When a fellow's money's plenty,
And the leisure to enjoy--

{119}

And a girl--with hair as golden
As--_that_; and lips--well--quite
As red as _this_ I'm holdin'
Between you and the light?

And eyes and a complexion--
Ah, heavens!--le'-me-see--
Well,--just in this connection,--
_Did you lock that door for me?_
Did I start in recitation
My past life to recall?
Well, _that's_ an indication
I am purty tight--that's all!

{120}

IN THE HEART OF JUNE

In the heart of June, love,
You and I together,
On from dawn till noon, love,
Laughing with the weather;
Blending both our souls, love,
In the selfsame tune,
Drinking all life holds, love,
In the heart of June.

In the heart of June, love,
With its golden weather,
Underneath the moon, love,
You and I together.
Ah! how sweet to seem, love,
Drugged and half aswoon
With this luscious dream, love,
In the heart of June.

{121}

THE OLD BAND

It's mighty good to git back to the old town, shore,
Considerin' I've be'n away twenty year and more.
Sence I moved then to Kansas, of course I see a change,
A-comin' back, and notice things that's new to me and strange;
Especially at evening when yer new band-fellers meet,
In fancy uniforms and all, and play out on the street--
. . . What's come of old Bill Lindsey and the Saxhorn fellers--say?
I want to hear the _old_ band play.

{122}

What's come of Eastman, and Nat Snow? And where's War Barnett at?
And Nate and Bony Meek; Bill Hart; Tom Richa'son and that-
Air brother of him played the drum as twic't as big as Jim;
And old Hi Kerns, the carpenter--say, what's become o' him?
I make no doubt yer _new band_ now's a _competenter_ band,
And plays their music more by note than what they play by hand,
And stylisher and grander tunes; but somehow--anyway,
I want to hear the _old_ band play.

Sich tunes as "John Brown's Body" and "Sweet Alice," don't you know;
And "The Camels is A-comin'," and "John Anderson, my Jo";
And a dozent others of 'em--"Number Nine" and "Number 'Leven"
Was favo-_rites_ that fairly made a feller dream o' Heaven.
And when the boys 'u'd saranade, I've laid so still in bed
I've even heerd the locus'-blossoms droppin' on the shed
When "Lilly Dale," er "Hazel Dell," had sobbed and died away--
. . . I want to hear the _old_ band play.

{123}

{125}

Yer _new_ band ma'by beats it, but the _old band's_ what I said--
It allus 'peared to kind o' chord with somepin' in my head;
And, whilse I'm no musicianer, when my blame' eyes is jes'
Nigh drownded out, and Mem'ry squares her jaws and sort o' says
She _won't_ ner _never_ will fergit, I want to jes' turn in
And take and light right out o' here and git back West ag'in
And _stay_ there, when I git there, where I never haf to say
I want to hear the _old_ band play.

{126}

MY FRIEND

"He is my friend," I said,--
"Be patient!" Overhead
The skies were drear and dim;
And lo! the thought of him
Smiled on my heart--and then
The sun shone out again!

"He is my friend!" The words
Brought summer and the birds;
And all my winter-time
Thawed into running rhyme
And rippled into song,
Warm, tender, brave, and strong.

{127}

And so it sings to-day.--
So may it sing alway!
Though waving grasses grow
Between, and lilies blow
Their trills of perfume clear
As laughter to the ear,
Let each mute measure end
With "Still he is thy friend."

{128}

THE TRAVELING MAN