Chapter V

I'm huntin' for fun, and I don't have a care, And there's dirt on my hands, and I don't comb my hair, And off-colored patches quite often I wear; But there's no kind of sport the young heart can cloy Of a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

THE DAM BELOW THE MILL.

The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom, With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June, And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine, Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line, And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still, And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below, And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know-- But never mind about 'em--just yer slip away and feel That something so delectable that over yer will steal; For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on, Why yer boun' ter go a-fishin', just as shore as yer born; Then ye'd better git yer trapping's in the proper kind o' fix, And go and hear the music when yer reel a-spinnin' clicks; For he rushes through the water at a pace that's fit ter kill When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

THE SERENADE.

I.

The winds were hushed, and thin and high
The fleecy clouds were drifting,
And through them as she sailed the sky
The moon's soft light was sifting.

II.

Beneath her pale and tender ray,
Its silvery kiss imprinting,
All dew-bedecked each flower and spray
Like myriad jewels glinting.

III.

Across the lawn there floats the sound
Of music sweet--entrancing--
'Neath a latticed casement, ivy-bound,
Where love-lit eyes were glancing.

IV.

The flute and harp and mandolin
There dulcet notes were blending,
And strains divine from a violin
In harmony ascending.

V.

Enraptured by the magic spell,
I lingering stood, and listening,
It seemed to me that I could tell
What love to her was whispering.

* * * * *

VI.

I looked above and chanced to see
The man in the moon was scowling,
For they had struck up "Sweet Marie,"
And the old watch-dog was howling!

"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

I.

I wouldn't mind the weather much--I'd sizzle and I'd stew, And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through, If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew, Who greets you with the chestnut phrase-- "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

II.

The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top-- The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop-- I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too, If it wasn't for the cuss who says-- "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

III.

The sun might shine his level best--the sky seem molten brass-- The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass-- The evening come without a breeze--the morning have no dew-- If it wasn't for the 'moke' who asks "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

THE TOKEN.

I.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair,
Tied with a ribbon blue,
Laid by the hand of a mother there--
Cherished with love so true!

II.

Only a soft and silken curl,
Bound with a knotted bow;
Worn on the head of a little girl
Lost in the long-ago.

III.

Only a hallowed treasure kept
From the grave's decay and mold,
Over which her eyes have wept
With anguish all untold!

IV.

Only a link in the golden chain,
By Death's cold hand unbroken,
Which leads to where she'll meet again
The wearer of this token.

V.

Only a relic undefiled,
Enshrined in a broken heart--
Rent in twain when a darling child
And a loving mother part!