Chapter II

The kind of a man for me and you! However little of worth we do He credits full, and abides in trust That time will teach us how more is just. He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds Of querulous and uneasy minds, And, sympathizing, he shares the pain Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain; And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand, We are surely coming to understand! He looks on sin with pitying eyes-- E'en as the Lord, since Paradise,-- Else, should we read, "Though our sins should glow As scarlet, they shall be white as snow"?-- And, feeling still, with a grief half glad, That the bad are as good as the good are bad, He strikes straight out for the Right--and he Is the kind of a man for you and me!

"HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?"

"How did you rest, last night?"--
I've heard my gran'pap say
Them words a thousand times--that's right--
Jes them words thataway!
As punctchul-like as morning dast
To ever heave in sight
Gran'pap 'ud allus haf to ast--
"How did you rest, last night?"

Us young-uns used to grin,
At breakfast, on the sly,
And mock the wobble of his chin
And eyebrows belt so high
And kind: _"How did you rest, last night?"_
We'd mumble and let on
Our voices trimbled, and our sight
Was dim, and hearin' gone.

* * * * *

Bad as I used to be,
All I'm a-wantin' is
As puore and ca'm a sleep fer me
And sweet a sleep as his!
And so I pray, on Jedgment Day
To wake, and with its light
See _his_ face dawn, and hear him say--
"How did you rest, last night?"

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.

JACK-IN-THE-BOX

_(Grandfather, musing.)_

In childish days! O memory, You bring such curious things to me!-- Laughs to the lip--tears to the eye, In looking on the gifts that lie Like broken playthings scattered o'er Imagination's nursery floor! Did these old hands once click the key That let "Jack's" box-lid upward fly, And that blear-eyed, fur-whiskered elf Leap, as though frightened at himself, And quiveringly lean and stare At me, his jailer, laughing there?

A child then! Now--I only know They call me very old; and so They will not let me have my way,-- But uselessly I sit all day Here by the chimney-jamb, and poke The lazy fire, and smoke and smoke, And watch the wreaths swoop up the flue, And chuckle--ay, I often do-- Seeing again, all vividly, Jack-in-the-box leap, as in glee To see how much he looks like me!

... They talk. I can't hear what they say-- But I am glad, clean through and through Sometimes, in fancying that they Are saying, "Sweet, that fancy strays In age back to our childish days!"

THE BOYS

Where are they?--the friends of my childhood enchanted-- The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own, And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted, As when we raced over Pink pastures of clover, And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?

Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces
Forever adrift down the years that are flown?
Am I never to see them romp back to their places,
Where over the meadow,
In sunshine and shadow,
The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?

Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover;
The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone,
And the dove's--I have wept at it over and over;--
I want the glad luster
Of youth, and the cluster
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone!

IT'S _GOT_ TO BE

"When it's _got_ to be,"--like! always say,
As I notice the years whiz past,
And know each day is a yesterday,
When we size it up, at last,--
Same as I said when my _boyhood_ went
And I knowed _we_ had to quit,--
"It's _got_ to be, and it's _goin'_ to be!"--
So I said "Good-by" to _it_.

It's _got_ to be, and it's _goin'_ to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say in a hearty way,--
"Well, it's _got_ to be. Good-by!"

The time jes melts like a late, last snow,--
When it's _got_ to be, it melts!
But I aim to keep a cheerful mind,
Ef I can't keep nothin' else!
I knowed, when I come to twenty-one,
That I'd soon be twenty-two,--
So I waved one hand at the soft young man,
And I said, "Good-by to _you_!"

It's _got_ to be, and it's _goin'_ to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say, in a cheerful way,--
"Well, it's _got_ to be.--Good-by!"

They kep' a-goin', the years and years,
Yet still I smiled and smiled,--
For I'd said "Good-by" to my single life,
And I now had a wife and child:
Mother and son and the father--one,--
Till, last, on her bed of pain,
She jes' smiled up, like she always done,--
And I said "Good-by" again.

It's _got_ to be, and it's _goin'_ to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say, in a humble way,--
"Well, it's _got_ to be. Good-by!"

And then my boy--as he growed to be
Almost a man in size,--
Was more than a pride and joy to me,
With his mother's smilin' eyes.--
He gimme the slip, when the War broke out,
And followed me. And I
Never knowed till the first right's end ...
I found him, and then, ... "Good-by."

It's _got_ to be, and it's _goin'_ to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say, in a patient way,
"Well, it's _got_ to be. Good-by!"

I have said, "Good-by!--Good-by!--Good-by!"
With my very best good will,
All through life from the first,--and I
Am a cheerful old man still:

But it's _got_ to end, and it's _goin'_ to end!
And this is the thing I'll do,--
With my last breath I will laugh, O Death,
And say "Good-by" to _you_!...

It's _got_ to be! And again I say,--
When his old scythe circles high,
I'll laugh--of course, in the kindest way,--
As I say "Good-by!--Good-by!"

"OUT OF REACH?"

You think them "out of reach," your dead? Nay, by my own dead, I deny Your "out of reach."--Be comforted: 'Tis not so far to die.

O by their dear remembered smiles
And outheld hands and welcoming speech,
They wait for us, thousands of miles
This side of "out-of-reach."

"A BRAVE REFRAIN"

When snow is here, and the trees look weird,
And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost;
When the breath congeals in the drover's beard,
And the old pathway to the barn is lost;
When the rooster's crow is sad to hear,
And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain,
And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!

When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg,
And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks;
And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg,
And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle squeaks;
When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap,
And the frost is scratched from the window-pane
And anxious eyes from the inside peep--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!

When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb,
And hob-nailed shoes on the hearth below,
And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm,
And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow;
When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil
'Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain
Sniffs the breath of the morning meal--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!

ENVOI

When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering hot Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot, And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain-- O then is the time for a brave refrain!

IN THE EVENING

I

In the evening of our days,
When the first far stars above
Glimmer dimmer, through the haze,
Than the dewy eyes of love,
Shall we mournfully revert
To the vanished morns and Mays
Of our youth, with hearts that hurt,--
In the evening of our days?

II

Shall the hand that holds your own
Till the twain are thrilled as now,
Be withheld, or colder grown?
Shall my kiss upon your brow
Falter from its high estate?
And, in all forgetful ways,
Shall we sit apart and wait--
In the evening of our days?