***Transcriber's Note. Most of this etext was made with a "Top Scan" text scanner, with a bitof correcting here and there. Mr. Riley does spell pretty=purty andsuch things and have been left as printed, including the first poemin this book listed as "Proem" on both the contents page and thepage headers, even though in later editions this poem is simply called"Afterwhiles. " In "The South Wind and the Sun" the line is 'Laughed out inevery look. ' while in later versions it has the word 'nook', replacing'look. ' The poem "Old Aunt Mary's" is later retitled "Out To Old AuntMary's" and later enlarged by 13 verses. The "In Dalect" section has the 'to replace a letter that he left out, to make the word sound a certain way, including words like sure-enuff he writes as sho'-nuff, or He'pless ashelpless and ect. This etext is based on the 1898 edition Published by TheBobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis Publishers. "Teary Eyes" Anderson*** Afterwhiles by James Whitcomb Riley Dedicated to my mother Elizabeth ContentsProem (AKA "Afterwhiles")Herr WeiserThe Beautiful CityLockerbie StreetDas Krist KindelAnselmoA Home Made Fairy TaleThe South Wind and the SunThe Lost KissThe SphinxIf I knew What Poets KnowIke Walton's PrayerA Rough SketchOur Kind of a ManThe HarperOld Aunt Mary's (AKA "Out To Old Aunt Mary's" Later was enlarged by 13verses)IllileoThe KingA BrideThe Dead LoverA SongWhen Bessie DiedThe ShowerA Life-LessonA ScrawlAwayWho Bides His TimeFrom the Headboard of a Grave in ParaguayLaughter Holding Both His SidesFameThe Ripest PeachA Fruit PieceTheir Sweet SorrowJohn McKeenOut of NazarethSeptember DarkWe to Sigh Instead of SingThe Blossoms on the TreesLast Night And ThisA Discouraging ModelBack from a Two Year SentenceThe Wandering JewBecalmedTo Santa ClausWhere the Children Used to PlayA Glipse of Pan SonnetsPanDuskJuneSilenceSleepHer HairDearthA Voice from the FarmThe SerenadeArt and LoveLongfellowIndianaTimeGrant At Rest August 8, 1885 In DialectOld Fashioned RosesGriggsby's StationKnee Deep in JuneWhen the Hearse Comes BackA Canary at the FarmA Liz Town HumoristKingry's MillJoneyLike His Mother Used to MakeThe Train MisserGrannyOld OctoberJimTo Robert BurnsA New Year's Time at Willard'sThe Town KarnteelRegardin' Terry HutLeedle Dutch BabyDown on Wriggle CrickWhen de Folks is GoneThe Little Town o' TailholtLittle Orphant Annie _Proem_ Where are they-- the Afterwhiles--Luring us the lengthening milesOf our lives? Where is the dawnWith the dew across the lawnStroked with eager feet the farWay the hills and valleys are?Were the sun that smites the frownOf the eastward-gazer down?Where the rifted wreaths of mistO'er us, tinged with amethyst, Round the mountain's steep defiles?Where are the afterwhiles? Afterwhile-- and we will goThither, yon, and too and fro--From the stifling city streetsTo the country's cool retreats--From the riot to the restWere hearts beat the placidest:Afterwhile, and we will fallUnder breezy trees, and lollIn the shade, with thirsty sightDrinking deep the blue delightOf the skies that will beguileUs as children-- afterwhile. Afterwhile-- and one intendsTo be gentler to his friends--, To walk with them, in the hushOf still evenings, o'er the plushOf home-leading fields, and standLong at parting, hand in hand:One, in time, will joy to takeNew resolves for some one's sake, And wear then the look that liesClear and pure in other eyes--We will soothe and reconcileHis own conscience-- afterwhile. Afterwhile-- we have in viewA far scene to journey to--, Where the old home is, and whereThe old mother waits us there, Peering, as the time grows late, Down the old path to the gate--. How we'll click the latch that locksIn the pinks and hollyhocks, And leap up the path once moreWhere she waits us at the door--!How we'll greet the dear old smile, And the warm tears-- afterwhile! Ah, the endless afterwhiles--!Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles, In distance far withdrawn, Stretching on, and on, and on, Till the fancy is footsoreAnd faints in the dust beforeThe last milestone's granite face, Hacked with: Here Beginneth Space. O far glimmering worlds and wings, Mystic smiles and beckonings, Lead us through the shadowy aislesOut into the afterwhiles. _Herr Weiser_ Herr Weiser--! Three-score-years-and-ten--, A hale white rose of his country-men, Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, And blossomy as his German home--As blossomy and as pure and sweetAs the cool green glen of his calm retreat, Far withdrawn from the noisy townWhere trade goes clamoring up and down, Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife, May not trouble his tranquil life! Breath of rest, what a balmy gust--!Quite of the city's heat and dust, Jostling down by the winding road, Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode--. Tether the horse, as we onward fareUnder the pear-trees trailing there, And thumping the wood bridge at nightWith lumps of ripeness and lush delight, Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon. Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, And the gentle blue of his eyes, and graceOf unassuming honesty, Be there to welcome you and me!And what though the toil of the farm be stoppedAnd the tireless plans of the place be dropped, While the prayerful master's knees are setIn beds of pansy and mignonetteAnd lily and aster and columbine, Offered in love, as yours and mine--? What, but a blessing of kindly thought, Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not--!What, but a spirit of lustrous loveWhite as the aster he bends above--!What, but an odorous memoryOf the dear old man, made known to meIn days demanding a help like his--, As sweet as the life of the lily is--As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wiseBorn of a lily in paradise. _The Beautiful City_ The Beautiful City! ForeverIts rapturous praises resound;We fain would behold it-- but neverA glimpse of its dory is found:We slacken our lips at the tenderWhite breasts of our mothers to hearOf its marvellous beauty and splendor--;We see-- but the gleam of a tear! Yet never the story may tire us--First graven in symbols of stone--Rewritten on scrolls of papyrusAnd parchment, and scattered and blownBy the winds of the tongues of all nations, Like a litter of leaves wildly whirledDown the rack of a hundred translations, From the earliest lisp of the world. We compass the earth and the ocean, From the Orient's uttermost light, To where the last ripple in motionLips hem of the skirt of the night--, But the Beautiful City evades us--No spire of it glints in the sun--No glad-bannered battlement shades usWhen all our Journey is done. Where lies it? We question and listen;We lean from the mountain, or mast, And see but dull earth, or the glistenOf seas inconceivably vast:The dust of the one blurs our vision, The glare of the other our brain, Nor city nor island ElysianIn all of the land or the main! We kneel in dim fanes where the thundersOf organs tumultuous roll, And the longing heart listens and wonders, And the eyes look aloft from the soul:But the chanson grows fainter and fainter, Swoons wholly away and is dead;AND our eyes only reach where the painterHas dabbled a saint overhead. The Beautiful City! O mortal, Fare hopefully on in thy quest, Pass down through the green grassy portalThat leads to the Valley of Rest;There first passed the One who, in pityOf all thy great yearning, awaitsTo point out The Beautiful City, And loosen the trump at the gates. _Lockerbie Street_ Such a dear little street it is, nestled awayFrom the noise of the city and heat of the day, In cool shady coverts of whispering trees, With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breezeWhich in all its wide wanderings never may meetWith a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street! There is such a relief, from the clangor and dinOf the heart of the town, to go loitering inThrough the dim, narrow walks, with the sheltering shadeOf the trees waving over the long promenade, And littering lightly the ways of our feetWith the gold of the sunshine of Lockerbie street. And the nights that come down the dark pathways of dusk, With the stars in their tresses, and odors of muskIn their moon-woven raiments, bespangled with dews, And looped up with lilies for lovers to useIn the songs that they sing to the tinkle and beatOf their sweet serenadings through Lockerbie street. O my Lockerbie street! You are fair to be seen--Be it noon of the day, or the rare and sereneAfternoon of the night-- you are one to my heart, And I love you above all the phrases of art, For no language could frame and no lips could repeatMy rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie street. _Das Krist Kindel_ I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delightSnapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night;And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne--"The old split-bottomed rocker-- and was musing all alone. I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor;But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a streamThat mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream. Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star--;And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh. And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure, of a man with frosty hair--A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard. He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth;And at a magic signal of his stubbly little thumb, I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium. And looking there, I marvelled as I saw a mimic stageAlive with little actors of a very tender age;And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked. And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through;And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tellOf fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable. And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy, Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy;And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see. 'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chinAnd chubby-cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in;And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds, As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds. And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding herThat knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh;And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the airCame drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer--: By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the kneeAnd lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and goneAs the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn;And in kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon. You have given us a shepherd-- You have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him from Your side--, But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wideTo welcome his returning when his works are glorified. By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee--, We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the kneeAnd lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-pane;And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinelWho brings the world good tidings--, "It is Christmas-- all is well!" _Anselmo_ Years did I vainly seek the good Lord's grace--, Prayed, fasted, and did penance dire and dread;Did kneel, with bleeding knees and rainy face, And mouth the dust, with ashes on my head;Yea, still with knotted scourge the flesh I flayed, Rent fresh the wounds, and moaned and shrieked insanely;And froth oozed with the pleadings that I made, And yet I prayed on vainly, vainly, vainly! A time, from out of swoon I lifted eye, To find a wretched outcast, gray and grim, Bathing my brow, with many a pitying sigh, And I did pray God's grace might rest on him--. Then, lo! A gentle voice fell on mine ears--"Thou shalt not sob in suppliance hereafter;Take up thy prayers and wring them dry of tears, And lift them, white and pure with love and laughter!" So is it now for all men else I pray;So is it I am blest and glad alway. _A Home-Made Fairy Tale_ Bud, come here to your uncle a spell, And I'll tell you something you mustn't tell--For it's a secret and shore-'nuf true, And maybe I oughtn't to tell it to you--!But out in the garden, under the shadeOf the apple-trees, where we romped and playedTill the moon was up, and you thought I'd goneFast asleep--, That was all put on!For I was a-watchin' something queerGoin' on there in the grass, my dear--!'Way down deep in it, there I seeA little dude-Fairy who winked at me, And snapped his fingers, and laughed as lowAnd fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to!I kept still-- watchin' him closer-- andI noticed a little guitar in his hand, Which he leant 'ginst a little dead bee-- and laidHis cigarette down on a clean grass-blade, And then climbed up on the shell of a snail--Carefully dusting his swallowtail--And pulling up, by a waxed web-thread, This little guitar, you remember. I said!And there he trinkled and trilled a tune--, "My Love, so Fair, Tans in the Moon!"Till presently, out of the clover-topHe seemed to be singing to, came k'pop!The purtiest, daintiest Fairy faceIn all this world, or any place!Then the little ser'nader waved his hand, As much as to say, "We'll excuse you!" andI heard, as I squinted my eyelids to, A kiss like the drip of a drop of dew! _The South Wind and the Sun_ O The South Wind and the Sun!How each loved the other oneFull of fancy--- full folly--Full of jollity and fun!How they romped and ran about, Like two boys when school is out, With glowing face, and lisping lip, Low laugh, and lifted shout! And the South Wind-- he was dressedWith a ribbon round his breastThat floated, flapped and flutteredIn a riotous unrest, And a drapery of mistFrom the shoulder and the wristFlowing backward with the motionOf the waving hand he kissed. And the Sun had on a crownWrought of gilded thistle-down, And a scarf of velvet vapor, And a ravelled-rainbow gown;And his tinsel-tangled hair, Tossed and lost upon the air, Was glossier and flossierThan any anywhere. And the South Wind's eyes were twoLittle dancing drops of dew, As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, And blew and blew and blew!And the Sun's-- like diamond-stone, Brighter yet than ever known, As he knit his brows and held his breath, And shone and shone and shone! And this pair of merry faysWandered through the summer days;Arm-in-arm they went togetherOver heights of morning haze--Over slanting slopes of lawnThey went on and on and on, Where the daisies looked like star-tracksTrailing up and down the dawn. And where'er they found the topOf a wheat-stalk droop and lopThey chucked it underneath the chinAnd praised the lavish crop, Till it lifted with the prideOf the heads it grew beside, And then the South Wind and the SunWent onward satisfied. Over meadow-lands they tripped, Where the dandelions dippedIn crimson foam of clover-bloom, And dripped and dripped and dripped;And they clinched the bumble-stings, Gauming honey on their wings, And bundling them in lily-bells, With maudlin murmurings. And the humming-bird that hungLike a jewel up amongThe tilted honeysuckle-horns, They mesmerized, and swungIn the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And with whispered laughter, slipped away, And left him hanging there. And they braided blades of grassWhere the truant had to pass;And they wriggled through the rushesAnd the reeds of the morass, Where they danced, in rapture sweet, O'er the leaves that laid a streetOf undulant mosaic forThe touches of their feet. By the brook with mossy brinkWhere the cattle came to drink. They trilled and piped and whistledWith the thrush and bobolink, Till the kine in listless pause, Switched their tails in mute applause, With lifted heads and dreamy eyes, And bubble-dripping jaws. And where the melons grew, Streaked with yellow, green and blueThese jolly sprites went wanderingThrough spangled paths of dew;And the melons, here and there, They made love to, everywhereTurning their pink souls to crimsonWith caresses fond and fair. Over orchard walls they went, Where the fruited boughs were bentTill they brushed the sward beneath themWhere the shine and shadow blent;And the great green pear they shookTill the sallow hue forsookIts features, and the gleam of goldLaughed out in every look. And they stroked the downy cheekOf the peach, and smoothed it sleek, And flushed it into splendor;And with many an elfish freak, Gave the russet's rust a wipe--Prankt the rambo with a stripe, And the wine-sap blushed its reddestAs they spanked the pippins ripe. Through the woven ambuscadeThat the twining vines had made, They found the grapes, in clusters, Drinking up the shine and shade--Plumpt like tiny skins of wine, With a vintage so divineThat the tongue of fancy tingledWith the tang of muscadine. And the golden-banded bees, Droning o'er the flowery leas, They bridled, reigned, and rode awayAcross the fragrant breeze, Till in hollow oak and elmThey had groomed and stabled themIn waxen stalls oozed with dewsOf rose and lily-stem. Where the dusty highway leads, High above the wayside weedsThey sowed the air with butterfliesLike blooming flower-seeds, Till the dull grasshopper sprungHalf a man's height up, and hungTranced in the heat, with whirring wings, And sung and sung and sung! And they loitered, hand in hand, Where the snipe along the sandOf the river ran to meet themAs the ripple meets the land, Till the dragon-fly, in lightGauzy armor, burnished bright, Came tilting down the watersIn a wild, bewildered flight. And they heard the killdee's call, And afar, the waterfall, But the rustle of a falling leafThey heard above it all;And the trailing willow creptDeeper in the tide that sweptThe leafy shallop to the shore, And wept and wept and wept! And the fairy vessel veeredFrom its moorings-- tacked and steeredFor the centre of the currentSailed away and disappeared:And the burthen that it boreFrom the long-enchanted shore--"Alas! The South Wind and the Sun!"I murmur evermore. For the South Wind and the Sun, Each so loves the other one, For all his jolly follyAnd frivolity and fun, That our love for them they weighAs their fickle fancies may, And when at last we love them most, They laugh and sail away. _The Lost Kiss_ I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on--, "Had I words to complete it, Who'd read it, or who'd understand?"But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all. So I gather it up-- where was brokenThe tear-faded thread of my theme, Telling how, as one night I sat writing, A fairy broke in on my dream, A little inquisitive fairy--My own little girl, with the goldOf the sun in her hair, and the dewyBlue eyes of the fairies of old. 'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded--"For was it a moment like this, "I said, "when she knew I was busy, To come romping in for a kiss--?Come rowdying up from her mother, And clamoring there at my kneeFor 'One 'ittle kiss for my dolly, And one 'ittle uzzer for me!" God pity, the heart that repelled her, And the cold hand that turned her away, And take, from the lips that denied her, This answerless prayer of to-day!Take Lord, from my mem'ry foreverThat pitiful sob of despair, And the patter and trip of the little bare feet, And the one piercing cry on the stair! I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my handWrites on--, "Had I words to complete itWho'd read it, or who'd understand?"But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all. _The Sphinx_ I know all about the Sphinx--I know even what she thinks, Staring with her stony eyesUp forever at the skies. For last night I dreamed that sheTold me all the mystery--Why for aeons mute she sat--:She was just cut out for that! _If I knew What Poets Know_ If I knew what poets know, Would I write a rhymeOf the buds that never blowIn the summer-time ?Would I sing of golden seedsSpringing up in ironweeds?And of raindrops turned to snow, If I knew what poets know? Did I know what poets do, Would I sing a songSadder than the pigeon's cooWhen the days are long?Where I found a heart in pain, I would make it glad again;And the false should be the true, Did I know what poets do. If I knew what poets know, I would find a themeSweeter than the placid flowOf the fairest dream:I would sing of love that livesOn the errors it forgives;And the world would better growIf I knew what poets know. _Ike Walton's Prayer_ I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoardOf gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything--. Let but a little hut be mineWhere at the hearthstone I may hearThe cricket sing, And have the shineOf one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine--;Just the wee cot-- the cricket's chirr--Love and the smiling face of her. I pray not forGreat riches, norFor vast estates and castle-halls--, Give me to hear the bare footfallsOf children o'erAn oaken floorNew-rinsed with sunshine, or bespreadWith but the tiny coverletAnd pillow for the baby's head;And pray Thou, mayThe door stand open and the daySend ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blurOf robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With after-hushes of the stirOf intermingling sounds, and thenThe good-wife and the smile of herFilling the silences again--The cricket's callAnd the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not! I pray not thatMen tremble atMy power of placeAnd lordly sway--, I only pray for simple graceTo look my neighbor in the faceFull honestly from day to day--Yield me his horny palm to hold. And I'll not prayFor gold--;The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth;The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseechThou givest meThe wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, Love and the glad sweet face of her! _A Rough Sketch_ I caught, for a second, across the crowd--Just for a second, and barely that--A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed, Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat--With small gray eyes, of a look as keenAs the long, sharp nose that grew between. And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blownHither and thither and everywhere--With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, And nose like the beak of a bird of prey! _Our Kind of a Man_ 1The kind of a man for you and me!He faces the world unflinchingly, And smites, as long as the wrong resists, With a knuckled faith and force like fists:He lives the life he is preaching of, And loves where most is the need of love;His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, And his face sublime through the blind man's tears;The light shines out where the clouds were dim, And the widow's prayer goes up for him;The latch is clicked at the hovel doorAnd the sick man sees the sun once more, And out o'er the barren fields he seesSpringing blossoms and waving trees, Feeling as only the dying may, That God's own servant has come that way, Smoothing the path as it still winds onThrough the golden gate where his loved have gone. 2The kind of a man for me and you!However little of worth we doHe credits full, and abides in trustThat time will teach us how more is just. He walks abroad, and he meets all kindsOf querulous and uneasy minds, And sympathizing, he shares the painOf the doubts that rack us, heart and brain;And knowing this, as we grasp his handWe 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 glowAs 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 heIs the kind of a man for you and me! _The Harper_ Like a drift of faded blossomsCaught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harpIn a tremulous refrain: Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip!Ah! But the chords were rainy sweet!And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip, As he played there in the street. Patter, and drip, and tinkle!And there was the little bedIn the corner of the garret, And the rafters overhead! And there was the little window--Tinkle, and drip, and drip--!The rain above, and a mother's love, And God's companionship! _Old Aunt Mary's_ Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshineOf youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through, And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen too, And we went visiting, "me and you, "Out to Old Aunt Mary's? It all comes back so clear to-day!Though I am as bald as you are gray--Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, We patter along in the dust again, As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to Old Aunt Mary's! We cross the pasture, and through the woodWhere the old gray snag of the poplar stood, Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" skyAnd lolled and circled, as we went byOut to Old Aunt Mary's. And then in the dust of the road again;And the teams we met, and the countrymen;And the long highway, with sunshine spreadAs thick as butter on country bread, Our cares behind, and our hearts aheadOut to Old Aunt Mary's. Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'erThe clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!Wasn't it good for a boy to see--And wasn't it good for a boy to beOut to Old Aunt Mary's? The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade, And the cherry and quince "preserves'' she made!And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to Old Aunt Mary's! And the old spring-house in the cool green gloomOf the willow-trees--, and the cooler roomWhere the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept--Where the cream in a golden languor sleptWhile the waters gurgled and laughed and wept--Out to Old Aunt Mary's. And O my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-dayTo welcome us--: Aunt Mary fellAsleep this morning, whispering-- "TellThe boys to come!" And all is wellOut to Old Aunt Mary's. _Illileo_ Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales--The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales;The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales. Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertoneSo mystically, musically mellow as your own. You whispered low, Illileo-- so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit;And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute:And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit. Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this--?Let them reeling reach to win me-- even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward--! I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss. And blossoms should grow odorless-- and lilies all aghast--And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last--. So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past. IIlileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throwsLike a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high reposeOf a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose. _The King_ They rode right out of the morning sun--A glimmering, glittering cavalcadeOf knights and ladies and every oneIn princely sheen arrayed;And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, With a helmet of gold, and a plume of redThat spurted about in the breeze and bledIn the bloom of the everglade. And they rode high over the dewy lawn, With brave, glad banners of every hueThat rolled in ripples, as they rode onIn splendor, two and two;And the tinkling links of the golden reinsOf the steeds they rode rang such refrainsAs the castanets in a dream of Spain'sIntensest gold and blue. And they rode and rode; and the steeds they neighedAnd pranced, and the sun on their glossy hidesFlickered and lightened and glanced and playedLike the moon on rippling tides; And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, And jostled in time to the teeming throng, And their knightly song besides. Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, And the fluttering sash of the queen went wildIn the wind, and the proud king glanced at herAs one at a wilful child--, And as knight and lady away they flew, And the banners flapped, and the falcon too, And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, He kissed his hand and smiled. And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, The pageant glittered across the plain, And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flowerWas only a crimson stain. And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast, As he blends these words with the wailing blast:"It is the King of the Year rides past!"And Autumn is here again. _A Bride_ "O I am weary!" she sighed, as her billowyHair she unloosed in a torrent of goldThat rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy, Graceful and fair as a goddess of old:Over her jewels she flung herself drearily, Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast, Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearilyClung in her hair like a dove in its nest--. And naught but her shadowy form in the mirrorTo kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her! "Weary--?" Of what? Could we fathom the mystery--?Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tearsAnd wash with their dews one white face from her history, Set like a gem in the red rust of years?Nothing will rest her-- unless he who died of herStrayed from his grave, and in place of the groom, Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her, Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom--. And naught but that shadowy form in the mirrorTo heel in dumb agony down and weep near her! _The Dead Lover_ Time is so long when a man is dead!Some one sews; and the room is madeVery clean; and the light is shedSoft through the window-shade. Yesterday I thought: "I knowJust how the bells will sound, and howThe friends will talk, and the sermon go, And the hearse-horse bow and bow!" This is to-day; and I have no thingTo think of-- nothing whatever to doBut to hear the throb of the pulse of a wingThat wants to fly back to you. _A Song_ There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;There is ever a something sings alway:There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;And in and out, when the eaves dip rain, The swallows are twittering ceaselessly. There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--There is ever a song somewhere, my dearThere is ever a song somewhere! There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:The robin pipes when the sun is here, And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--There is ever a song somewhere, my dear--There is ever a song somewhere! _When Bessie Died_ If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;If the white feet into the grave had tripped--" When Bessie died--We braided the brown hair, and tiedIt just as her own little handsHad fastened back the silken strandsA thousand times-- the crimson bitOf ribbon woven into itThat she had worn with childish pride--Smoothed down the dainty bow-- and criedWhen Bessie died. When Bessie died--We drew the nursery blinds aside, And as the morning in the roomBurst like a primrose into bloom, Her pet canary's cage we hungWhere she might hear him when he sung--And yet not any note he tried, Though she lay listening folded-eyed. When Bessie died--We writhed in prayer unsatisfied:We begged of God, and He did smileIn silence on us all the while;And we did see Him, through our tears, Enfolding that fair form of hers, She laughing back against His loveThe kisses had nothing of--And death to us He still denied, When Bessie died--When Bessie died. _The Shower_ The landscape, like the awed face of a child, Grew curiously blurred; a hush of deathFell on the fields, and in the darkened wildThe zephyr held its breath. No wavering glamour-work of light and shadeDappled the shivering surface of the brook;The frightened ripples in their ambuscadeOf willows thrilled and shook. The sullen day grew darker, and anonDim flashes of pent anger lit the sky;With rumbling wheels of wrath came rolling onThe storm's artillery. The cloud above put on its blackest frown, And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain, The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung it downIn ravelled shreds of rain: While I, transfigured by some wondrous art, Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod, My empty soul brimmed over, and my heartDrenched with the love of God. _A Life Lesson_ There! Little girl; don't cry!They have broken your doll, I know;And your tea-set blue, And your play-house too, Are things of the long ago;But childish troubles will soon pass by--. There! Little girl; don't cry! There! Little girl; don't cry!They have broken your slate, I know;And the glad, wild waysOf your school-girl daysAre things of the long ago;But life and love will soon come by--. There! Little girl; don't cry! There! Little girl; don't cry!They have broken your heart, I know;And the rainbow gleamsOf your youthful dreamsAre things of the long ago;But heaven holds all for which you sigh--. There! Little girl; don't cry! _A Scrawl_ I want to sing something-- but this is all--I try and I try, but the rhymes are dullAs though they were damp, and the echoes fallLimp and unlovable. Words will not say what I yearn to say--They will not walk as I want them to, But they stumble and fall in the path of the wayOf my telling my love for you. Simply take what the scrawl is worth--Knowing I love you as sun the sodOn the ripening side of the great round earthThat swings in the smile of God. _Away_ I cannot say, and I will not sayThat he is dead--. He is just away! With a cheery smile, and a wave of the handHe has wandered into an unknown land, And left us dreaming how very fairIt needs must be, since he lingers there. And you-- O you, who the wildest yearnFor the old-time step and the glad return--, Think of him faring on, as dearIn the love of There as the love of Here; And loyal still, as he gave the blowsOf his warrior-strength to his country's foes--. Mild and gentle, as he was brave--, When the sweetest love of his life he gave To simple things--: Where the violets grewBlue as the eyes they were likened to, The touches of his hands have strayedAs reverently as his lips have prayed: When the little brown thrush that harshly chirredWas dear to him as the mocking-bird; And he pitied as much as a man in painA writhing honey-bee wet with rain--. Think of him still as the same, I say:He is not dead-- he is just away! _Who Bides His Time_ Who bides his time, and day by dayFaces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes be--, He will not fail in any qualmOf poverty-- the paltry dimeIt will grow golden in his palm, Who bides his time. Who bides his time-- he tastes the sweetOf honey in the saltest tear;And though he fares with slowest feet, Joy runs to meet him, drawing near;The birds are heralds of his cause;And like a never-ending rhyme, The roadsides bloom in his applause, Who bides his time. Who bides his time, and fevers notIn the hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wroughtWith crimson berries in the leaves;And he shall reign a goodly king, And sway his hand o'er every clime, With peace writ on his signet-ring, Who bides his time. _From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay_ A troth, and a grief, and a blessing, Disguised them and came this way--, And one was a promise, and one was a doubt, And one was a rainy day. And they met betimes with this maiden, And the promise it spake and lied, And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself, And the rainy day-- she died. _Laughter Holding Both His Sides_ Ay, thou varlet! Laugh away!All the world's a holiday!Laugh away, and roar and shoutTill thy hoarse tongue lolleth out!Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyesUnto bursting; pelt thy thighsWith thy swollen palms, and roarAs thou never hast before!Lustier! Wilt thou! Peal on peal!Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel--Wrestle with thy loins, and thenWheeze thee whiles, and whoop again! _Fame_ 1Once, in a dream, I saw a man, With haggard face and tangled hair, And eyes that nursed as wild a careAs gaunt Starvation ever can;And in his hand he held a wandWhose magic touch gave life and thoughtUnto a form his fancy wroughtAnd robed with coloring so grand, It seemed the reflex of some childOf Heaven, fair and undefiled--A face of purity and love--To woo him into worlds above:And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, A gleaming smile lit up his lipsAs his bright soul from its eclipseWent flashing into Paradise. Then tardy Fame came through the doorAnd found a picture-- nothing more. 2And once I saw a man alone, In abject poverty, with handUplifted o'er a block of stoneThat took a shape at his commandAnd smiled upon him, fair and good--A perfect work of womanhood, Save that the eyes might never weep, Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. And as in awe I gazed on her, I saw the sculptor's chisel fall--I saw him sink, without a moan, Sink life less at the feet of stone, And lie there like a worshipper. Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, And found a statue-- that was all. 3And once I saw a man who drewA gloom about him like cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The fewWho spoke of him at all, but spokeDisparagingly of a mindThe Fates had faultily designed:Too indolent for modern times--Too fanciful, and full of whims--For talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clungWas worthless as the songs he sung!I saw him, in my vision, filledWith rapture o'er a spray of bloomThe wind threw in his lonely room;And of the sweet perfume it spilledHe drank to drunkenness, and flungHis long hair back, and laughed and sungAnd clapped his hands as children doAt fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there drippedSuch music on his manuscriptThat he who listens to the wordsMay close his eyes and dream the birdsAre twittering on every handA language he can understand. He journeyed on through life unknown, Without one friend to call his own;He tired. No kindly hand to pressThe cooling touch of tendernessUpon his burning brow, nor liftTo his parched lips God's freest gift--No sympathetic sob or sighOf trembling lips-- no sorrowing eyeLooked out through tears to see him die. And Fame her greenest laurels broughtTo crown a head that heeded not. And this is Fame! A thing indeed, That only comes when least the need:The wisest minds of every ageThe book of life from page to pageHave searched in vain; each lesson connedWill promise it the page beyond--Until the last, when dusk of nightFalls over it, and reason's lightIs smothered by that unknown friendWho signs his nom de plume, The End. _The Ripest Peach_ The ripest peach is highest on the tree--And so her love, beyond the reach of me, Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes bowHer heart down to me where I worship now! She looms aloft where every eye may seeThe ripest peach is highest on the tree. Such fruitage as her love I know, alas!I may not reach here from the orchard grass. I drink the sunshine showered past her lipsAs roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. The ripest peach is highest on the tree, And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly. Why-- why do I not turn away in wrathAnd pluck some heart here hanging in my path--?Lover's lower boughs bend with them-- but, ah me!The ripest peach is highest on the tree! _A Fruit Piece_ The afternoon of summer foldsIts warm arms round the marigolds, And with its gleaming fingers, petsThe watered pinks and violets That from the casement vases spill, Over the cottage window-sill, Their fragrance down the garden walksWhere droop the dry-mouthed hollyhocks. How vividly the sunshine scrawlsThe grape-vine shadows on the walls! How like a truant swings the breezeIn high boughs of the apple-trees! The slender "free-stone" lifts aloof, Full languidly above the roof, A hoard of fruitage, stamped with goldAnd precious mintings manifold. High up, through curled green leaves, a pearHangs hot with ripeness here and there. Beneath the sagging trellisings, In lush, lack-lustre clusterings, Great torpid grapes, all fattened throughWith moon and sunshine, shade and dew, Until their swollen girths expressBut forms of limp deliciousness-- Drugged to an indolence divineWith heaven's own sacramental wine. _Their Sweet Sorrow_ They meet to say farewell: Their wayOf saying this is hard to say--. He holds her hand an Instant, whollyDistressed-- and she unclasps it slowly, He lends his gaze evasivelyOver the printed page that sheRecurs to, with a new-moon shoulderGlimpsed from the lace-mists that infold her. The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks-- "Quick! Act! Speak up!"A tension circles both her slenderWrists-- and her raised eyes flash in splendor, Even as he feels his dazzled own--. Then blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that everStrain tremblingly-- and "Never! Never!" Is whispered brokenly, with halfA sob, like a belated laugh--, While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes--, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. _John McKeen_ John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat, His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote! Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chairBy the kitchen stove, when the day is o'erAnd the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere! And let their voices be gladly blentWith a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes! Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish gleeOf rhyming riddle, or story foundIn the Robinson Crusoe, leather-boundOld book of the Used-to-be! John McKeen of the Past! Ah John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways--!To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to donA broadcloth suit, and forgetful, goneOut on election days! John ah, John! Did it prove your worthTo yield you the office you still maintain--?To fill your pockets, but leave the dearthOf all the happier things on earthTo the hunger of heart and brain? Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded spanPaw the pebbles and wait your ease--, Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man? The blinds of your mansion are battened to;Your faded wife is a close recluse;And your "finished" daughters will doubtless doDutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose--! But O for the old-home voices, blentWith the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes! _Out of Nazareth_ "He shall sleep unscathed of thievesWho loves Allah and believes. "Thus heard one who shared the tent, In the far-off Orient, Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz--Nobler never loved the starsThrough the palm-leaves nigh the dimDawn his courser neighed to him! He said: "Let the sands be swarmedWith such thieves as I, and thouShalt at morning rise unharmed, Light as eyelash to the browOf thy camel amber-eyed, Ever munching either side, Striding still, with nestled knees, Through the midnight's oases. " "Who can rob thee an thou hastMore than this that thou hast castAt my feet-- this dust of gold?Simply this and that, all told!Hast thou not a treasure ofSuch a thing as men call love?" "Can the dusky band I leadRob thee of thy daily needOf a whiter soul, or stealWhat thy lordly prayers reveal?Who could be enriched of theeBy such hoard of povertyAs thy niggard hand pretendsTo dole me-- thy worst of friends?Therefore shouldst thou pause to blessOne indeed who blesses thee:Robbing thee, I dispossessBut myself--. Pray thou for me!" He shall sleep unscathed of thievesWho loves Allah and believes. _September Dark_ 1The air falls chill;The whippoorwillPipes lonesomely behind the Hill:The dusk grows dense, The silence tense;And lo, the katydids commence. 2Through shadowy riftsOf woodland liftsThe low, slow moon, and upward drifts, While left and rightThe fireflies' lightSwirls eddying in the skirts of Night. 3O Cloudland grayAnd level layThy mists across the face of Day!At foot and head, Above the deadO Dews, weep on uncomforted! _We To Sigh Instead of Sing_ "Rain and rain! And rain and rain!"Yesterday we mutteredGrimly as the grim refrainThat the thunders uttered:All the heavens under cloud--All the sunshine sleeping;All the grasses limply bowedWith their weight of weeping. Sigh and sigh! And sigh and sigh!Never end of sighing;Rain and rain for our reply--Hopes half drowned and dying;Peering through the window-pane, Naught but endless raining--Endless sighing, and as vain, Endlessly complaining, Shine and shine! And shine and shine!Ah! To-day the splendor--!All this glory yours and mine--God! But God is tender!We to sigh instead of sing, Yesterday, in sorrow, While the Lord was fashioningThis for our To-morrow! _The Blossoms on the Trees_ Blossoms crimson, white, or blue, Purple, pink, and every hue, From sunny skies, to tintings drownedIn dusky drops of dew, I praise you all, wherever found, And love you through and through--;But, Blossoms On The Trees, With your breath upon the breezeThere's nothing all the world aroundAs half as sweet as you! Could the rhymer only wringAll the sweetness to the leesOf all the kisses clusteringIn juicy Used-to-bes, To dip his rhymes therein and singThe blossoms on the trees--, "O Blossoms on the Trees, "He would twitter, trill, and coo, "However sweet, such songs as theseAre not as sweet as you--:For you are blooming melodiesThe eyes may listen to!" _Last Night-- And This_ Last night-- how deep the darkness was!And well I knew its depths, becauseI waded it from shore to shore, Thinking to reach the light no more. She would not even touch my hand---. The winds rose and the cedars fannedThe moon out, and the stars fled backIn heaven and hid-- and all was black! But ah! To-night a summons came, Signed with a tear-drop for a name, For as I wondering kissed it, loA line beneath it told me so. And now-- the moon hangs over meA disk of dazzling brilliancy, And every star-tip stabs my sightsWith splintered glitterings of light! _A Discouraging Model_ Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under thereWhere the shadows are lost in her hair. Then a cameo face, carven in on a groundOf that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faintAnd as sweet as the master of old used to paintRound the lips of their favorite saint! And that lace at her throat-- and fluttering handsSnowing there, with a grace that no art understands, The flakes of their touches-- first fluttering atThe bow-- then the roses-- the hair and then thatLittle tilt of the Gainsborough hat. Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hairNor the gold of her smile-- O what artist could dareTo expect a result half so fair? _Back From a Two-years' Sentence_ Back from a two-years' sentence!And though it had been ten, You think, I were scarred no deeperIn the eyes of my fellow-men. "My fellow-men--?" Sounds like a satire, You think-- and I so allow, Here in my home since childhood, Yet more than a stranger now! Pardon--! Not wholly a stranger--, For I have a wife and child:That woman has wept for two long years, And yet last night she smiled--!Smiled, as I leapt from the platformOf the midnight train, and then--All that I knew was that smile of hers, And our babe in my arms again! Back from a two-years' sentence--But I've thought the whole thing through--, A hint of it came when the bars swung backAnd I looked straight up in the blueOf the blessed skies with my hat off!O-ho! I've a wife and child:That woman has wept for two long years, And yet last night she smiled! _The Wandering Jew_ The stars are falling, and the skyIs like a field of faded flowers;The winds on weary wings go by;The moon hides, and the tempest lowers;And still through every clime and ageI wander on a pilgrimageThat all men know an idle quest, For that the goal I seek is-- Rest! I hear the voice of summer streams, And following, I find the brinkOf cooling springs, with childish dreamsReturning as I bend to drink--But suddenly, with startled eyes, My face looks on its grim disguiseOf long gray beard; and so, distressed, I hasten on, nor taste of rest. I come upon a merry groupOf children in the dusky wood, Who answer back the owlet's whoop, That laughs as it had understood;And I would pause a little space, But that each happy blossom-faceIs like to one His hands have blessedWho sent me forth in search of rest. Sometimes I fain would stay my feetIn shady lanes, where huddled kineCouch in the grasses cool and sweet, And lift their patient eyes to mine;But I, for thoughts that ever thenGo back to Bethlehem again, Must needs fare on my weary quest, And weep for very need of rest. Is there no end? I plead in vain:Lost worlds nor living answer me. Since Pontius Pilate's awful reignHave I not passed eternity?Have I not drunk the fetid breathOf every fevered phase of death, And come unscathed through every pestAnd scourge and plague that promised rest? Have I not seen the stars go outThat shed their light o'er Galilee, And mighty kingdoms tossed aboutAnd crumbled clod-like in the sea?Dead ashes of dead ages blowAnd cover me like drifting snow, And time laughs on as 'twere a jestThat I have any need of rest. _Becalmed_ 1Would that the winds might only blowAs they blew in the golden long ago--!Laden with odors of Orient islesWhere ever and ever the sunshine smiles, And the bright sands blend with the shady trees, And the lotus blooms in the midst of these. 2Warm winds won from the midland valesTo where the tress of the Siren trailsO'er the flossy tip of the mountain phloxAnd the bare limbs twined in the crested rocks, High above as the seagulls flapTheir lopping wings at the thunder-clap. 3Ah! That the winds might rise and blowThe great surge up from the port below, Bloating the sad, lank, silken sailsOf the Argo out with the swift, sweet galesThat blew from Colchis when Jason hadHis love's full will and his heart was glad--When Medea's voice was soft and low. Ah! That the winds might rise and blow! _To Santa Claus_ Most tangible of all the gods that be, O Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy!As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again. Be wholly good to us, just as of old:As a pleased father, let thine arms infoldUs, homed within the haven of thy love, And all the cheer and wholesomeness thereof. Thou lone reality, when O so longLife's unrealities have wrought us wrong:Ambition hath allured us--, fame likewise, And all that promised honor in men's eyes. Throughout the world's evasions, wiles, and shifts, Thou only bidest stable as thy gifts--:A grateful king re-ruleth from thy lap, Crowned with a little tinselled soldier-cap: A mighty general-- a nation's pride--Thou givest again a rocking-horse to ride, And wildly glad he groweth as the grimOld jurist with the drum thou givest him: The sculptor's chisel, at thy mirth's command, Is as a whistle in his boyish hand;The painters model fadeth utterly, And there thou standest--, and he painteth thee--: Most like a winter pippin, sound and fineAnd tingling-red that ripe old face of thine, Set in thy frosty beard of cheek and chinAs midst the snows the thaws of spring set in. Ho! Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy--Most tangible of all the gods that be--!As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again. _Where the Children used to Play_ The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine, And filled it is with plenty and to spare--, But we are lonely here in life's decline, Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:We look across the goldOf the harvests, as of old--The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay;But most we turn our gaze, As with eyes of other days, To the orchard where the children used to play. O from our life's full measureAnd rich hoard of worldly treasureWe often turn our weary eyes away, And hand in hand we wanderDown the old path winding yonderTo the orchard where the children used to play. Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver;The grove's a paradise of singing birds--The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door;Yet lonely, lonely still, Let us prosper as we will, Our old hearts seem so empty everyway--We can only through a mistSee the faces we have kissedIn the orchard where the children used to play. O from our life's full measureAnd rich hoard of worldly treasureWe often turn our weary eyes away, And hand in hand we wanderDown the old path winding yonderTo the orchard where the children used to play. _A Glimpse of Pan_ I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here. And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat. And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphereWas misty with fragrances stirred by my feetFrom surges of blossoms that billowed sheerOf the grasses, green and sweet. And I peered through a vista of leaning tree, Tressed with long tangles of vines that sweptTo the face of a river, that answered theseWith vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, Till the yearning lips of the ripples creptAnd kissed them, with quavering ecstasies, And wistfully laughed and wept And there, like a dream in swoon, I swearI saw Pan lying--, his limbs in the dewAnd the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glareOf the glad sunshine; while everywhere, Over across, and around him blewFilmy dragon-flies hither and there, And little white butterflies, two and two, In eddies of odorous air. Sonnets _Pan_ This Pan is but an idle god, I guess, Since all the fair midsummer of my dreamsHe loiters listlessly by woody streams, Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness;Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caressHim prankishly, and powder him with gleamsOf sifted sunshine. And he ever seemsDrugged with a joy unutterable-- unlessHis low pipes whistle hints of it far outAcross the ripples to the dragon-flyThat like a wind-born blossom blown about, Drops quiveringly down, as though to die--Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubtWhether to fan his wings or fly without. _Dusk_ The frightened herds of clouds across the skyTrample the sunshine down, and chase the dayInto the dusky forest-lands of grayAnd sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high, The wild goose trails his harrow, with a crySad as the wail of some poor castawayWho sees a vessel drifting far astrayOf his last hope, and lays him down to die. The children, riotous from school, grow boldAnd quarrel with the wind whose angry gustPlucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the foldOf many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dustIn spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the goldOf gleaming tresses with the blur of rust. _June_ O queenly month of indolent repose!I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloomI nestle like a drowsy child and dozeThe lazy hours away. The zephyr throwsThe shifting shuttle of the Summer's loomAnd weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloomBefore thy listless feet. The lily blowsA bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade;And wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade;While faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade--:All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year! _Silence_ Thousands of thousands of hushed years ago, Out on the edge of Chaos, all aloneI stood on peaks of vapor, high upthrownAbove a sea that knew nor ebb nor flow, Nor any motion won of winds that blow, Nor any sound of watery wail or moan, Nor lisp of wave, nor wandering undertoneOf any tide lost in the night below. So still it was, I mind me, as I laidMy thirsty ear against mine own faint sighTo drink of that, I sipped it, half afraid'Twas but the ghost of a dead voice spilled byThe one starved star that tottered through the shadeAnd came tiptoeing toward me down the sky. _Sleep_ Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awinkMuse on me--, drifting out upon thy dreams, I lave my soul as in enchanted streamsWhere revelling satyrs pipe along the brink, And tipsy with the melody they drink, Uplift their dangling hooves, and down the beamsOf sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seemsAn ocean-depth of love wherein I sinkLike some fond Argonaut, right willingly--, Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine, And siren-arms that coil their sorceryAbout my neck, with kisses so divine, The heavens reel above me, and the seaSwallows and licks its wet lips over me. _Her Hair_ The beauty of her hair bewilders me--Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tideSwirling about the ears on either sideAnd storming round the neck tumultuously:Or like the lights of old antiquityThrough mullioned windows, in cathedrals wideSpilled moltenly o'er figures deifiedIn chastest marble, nude of drapery. And so I love it--. Either unconfined;Or plaited in close braidings manifold;Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twinedIn careless knots whose coilings come unrolledAt any lightest kiss; or by the windWhipped out in flossy ravellings of gold. _Dearth_ I hold your trembling hand to-night-- and yetI may not know what wealth of bliss is mine, My heart is such a curious designOf trust and jealousy! Your eyes are wet--So must I think they jewel some regret--, And lo, the loving arms that round me twineCling only as the tendrils of a vineWhose fruit has long been gathered: I forget, While crimson clusters of your kisses pressTheir wine out on my lips, my royal fairOf rapture, since blind fancy needs must guessThey once poured out their sweetness otherwhere, With fuller flavoring of happinessThan e'en your broken sobs may now declare. _A Voice From the Farm_ It is my dream to have you here with me, Out of the heated city's dust and din--Here where the colts have room to gambol in, And kine to graze, in clover to the knee. I want to see your wan face happilyLit with the wholesome smiles that have not beenIn use since the old games you used to winWhen we pitched horseshoes: And I want to beAt utter loaf with you in this dim landOf grove and meadow, while the crickets makeOur own talk tedious, and the bat wieldsHis bulky flight, as we cease converse andIn a dusk like velvet smoothly takeOur way toward home across the dewy fields. _The Serenade_ The midnight is not more bewilderingTo her drowsed eyes, than to her ears, the soundOf dim, sweet singing voices, interwoundWith purl of flute and subtle twang of string, Strained through the lattice, where the roses clingAnd, with their fragrance, waft the notes aroundHer haunted senses. Thirsting beyond boundOf her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swingOf the mysterious delirious tune, She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyesUpraised against her casement, where aswoon, The stars fail from her sight, and up the skiesOf alien azure rolls the full round moonLike some vast bubble blown of summer noon. _Art and Love_ He faced his canvas (as a seer whose kenPierces the crust of this existence through)And smiled beyond on that his genius knewEre mated with his being. Conscious thenOf his high theme alone, he smiled againStraight back upon himself in many a hueAnd tint, and light and shade, which slowly grewEnfeatured of a fair girl's face, as whenFirst time she smiles for love's sake with no fear. So wrought he, witless that behind him leantA woman, with old features, dim and sear, And glamoured eyes that felt the brimming tear, And with a voice, like some sad instrument, That sighing said, "I'm dead there; love me here!" _Longfellow_ The winds have talked with him confidingly;The trees have whispered to him; and the nightHath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody:The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight--Her legends fair-- her darkest mystery. His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitteringsOf lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings--. Nor shall he cease to sing-- in every layOf Nature's voice he sings-- and will alway. _Indiana_ Our Land-- our Home-- the common home indeedOf soil-born children and adopted ones--The stately daughters and the stalwart sonsOf Industry--: All greeting and godspeed!O home to proudly live for, and if needBe proudly die for, with the roar of gunsBlent with our latest prayer--. So died men once. .. Lo Peace. .. ! As we look on the land They freed--Its harvests all in ocean-over flowPoured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold--Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow'rs--, We know the exaltation that they knowWho now, steadfast inheritors, beholdThe Land Elysian, marvelling "This is ours?" _Time_ 1The ticking-- ticking-- ticking of the clock--!That vexed me so last night--! "For though Time keepsSuch drowsy watch, " I moaned, "he never sleeps, But only nods above the world to mockIts restless occupant, then rudely rockIt as the cradle of a babe that weeps!"I seemed to see the seconds piled in heapsLike sand about me; and at every shockO' the bell, the piled sands were swirled awayAs by a desert-storm that swept the earthStark as a granary floor, whereon the grayAnd mist-bedrizzled moon amidst the dearthCame crawling, like a sickly child, to layIts pale face next mine own and weep for day. 2Wait for the morning! Ah! We wait indeedFor daylight, we who toss about through stressOf vacant-armed desires and emptinessOf all the warm, warm touches that we need, And the warm kisses upon which we feedOur famished lips in fancy! May God blessThe starved lips of us with but one caressWarm as the yearning blood our poor hearts bleed. .. !A wild prayer--! Bite thy pillow, praying so--Toss this side, and whirl that, and moan for dawn;Let the clock's seconds dribble out their woe, And Time be drained of sorrow! Long agoWe heard the crowing cock, with answer drawnAs hoarsely sad at throat as sobs. .. Pray on! GrantAt Rest-- August 8, 1885 Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held nopath but as wild adventure led him. .. And he returned and came again to hishorse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; andunlaced his helm, and ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep uponhis shield before the cross. --Age of Chivalary _Grant_ What shall we say of the soldier. Grant, His sword put by and his great soul free?How shall we cheer him now or chantHis requiem befittingly?The fields of his conquest now are seenRanged no more with his armed men--But the rank and file of the gold and greenOf the waving grain is there again. Though his valiant life is a nation's pride, And his death heroic and half divine, And our grief as great as the world is wide, There breaks in speech but a single line--:We loved him living, revere him dead--!A silence then on our lips is laid:We can say no thing that has not been said, Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed. But a spirit within us speaks: and lo, We lean and listen to wondrous wordsThat have a sound as of winds that blow, And the voice of waters and low of herds;And we hear, as the song flows on serene, The neigh of horses, and then the beatOf hooves that skurry o'er pastures green, And the patter and pad of a boy's bare feet. A brave lad, wearing a manly brow, Knit as with problems of grave dispute, And a face, like the bloom of the orchard bough, Pink and pallid, but resolute;And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom, And fresh it gleams as the morning dew, As he reins his steed where the quick quails boomUp from the grasses he races through. And ho! As he rides what dreams are his?And what have the breezes to suggest--?Do they whisper to him of shells that whizO'er fields made ruddy with wrongs redressed?Does the hawk above him an Eagle float?Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high, Hearing the ribbon about his throatFlap as a Flag as the winds go by? And does he dream of the Warrior's fame--This Western boy in his rustic dress?For in miniature, this is the man that cameRiding out of the Wilderness--!The selfsame figure-- the knitted brow--The eyes full steady-- the lips full mute--And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough, Pink and pallid, but resolute. Ay, this is the man, with features grimAnd stoical as the Sphinx's own, That heard the harsh guns calling him, As musical as the bugle blown, When the sweet spring heavens were clouded o'erWith a tempest, glowering and wild, And our country's flag bowed down beforeIts bursting wrath as a stricken child. Thus, ready mounted and booted and spurred, He loosed his bridle and dashed away--!Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard, Like the shriek of the fife his charger's neigh!And over his shoulder and backward blown, We heard his voice, and we saw the sodReel, as our wild steeds chased his ownAs though hurled on by the hand of God! And still, in fancy, we see him rideIn the blood-red front of a hundred frays, His face set stolid, but glorifiedAs a knight's of the old Arthurian days:And victor ever as courtly too, Gently lifting the vanquished foe, And staying him with a hand as trueAs dealt the deadly avenging blow. So brighter than all of the cluster of starsOf the flag enshrouding his form to-day, His face shines forth from the grime of warsWith a glory that shall not pass away:He rests at last: he has borne his partOf salutes and salvos and cheers on cheers--But O the sobs of his country's heart, And the driving rain of a nations tears! In Dialect _Old Fashioned Roses_ They ain't no style about 'em, And they're sorto' pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without 'em, Would be lonesomer, and shadedWith a good 'eal blacker shudderThan the morning-glories makes, And the sunshine would look sadderFer their good old-fashion' sakes. I like 'em 'cause they kindo'--Sorto' make a feller like 'em!And I tell you, when I find aBunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It allus sets me thinkin'O' the ones 'at used to growAnd peek in thro' the chinkin'O' the cabin, don't you know! And then I think o' mother, And how she ust to love 'em--When they wuzn't any other, 'Less she found 'em up above 'em!And her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile and saidWe must pick a bunch and putt 'emIn her hand when she wuz dead. But as I wuz a-sayin', They ain't no style about 'emVery gaudy er displayin', But I wouldn't be without 'em--, 'Cause I'm happier in these posies, And the hollyhawks and sich, Than the hummin'-bird 'at nosesIn the roses of the rich. _Griggsby's Station_ Pap's got his patent-right, and rich is all creation;But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before?Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pityTo see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! City! CityAnd nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres! Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and see! Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--Back where the latch-strings a-hangin' from the door, And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation--Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin', A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through;And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin'Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do! I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin';And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land. Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more, Shet away safe in the woods around the old location--Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin', And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone, And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin', And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin' on. And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty, Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried-- forHis own sake and Katy's--, and I want to cry with KatyAs she reads all his letters over, writ from The War. What's in all this grand life and high situation, And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door--?Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! _Knee Deep in June_ 1Tell you what I like the best--'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries meltsOn the vine--, some afternoonLike to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else! 2Orchard's where I'd ruther be--Needn't fence it in fer me--!Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath--Sorto' so's a man kin breatheLike he ort, and kindo' hasElbow-room to keerlesslySprawl out len'thways on the grassWhere the shadders thick and softAs the kivvers on the bedMother fixes in the loftAllus, when they's company! 3Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there--S'lazy, 'at you peeks and peerThrough the wavin' leaves above, Like a feller 'ats in loveAnd don't know it, ner don't keer!Ever'thing you hear and seeGot some sort o' interest--Maybe find a bluebird's nestTucked up there conveenentlyFer the boy 'at's ap' to beUp some other apple-tree!Watch the swallers skootin' past'Bout as peert as you could ast;Er the Bob-white raise and whizWhere some other's whistle is. 4Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow--Er a hawk--, away up there'Pearantly froze in the air--!Hear the old hen squawk, and squatOver ever' chick she's got, Suddent-like--! And she knows whereThat-air hawk is, well as you--!You jes' bet yer life she do--!Eyes a-glittern' like glass, Waitin' till he makes a pass! 5Pee-wees' singin', to expressMy opinion, 's second class, Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, Weedin' out the lonesomeness;Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, In them base-ball clothes o' his, Sportin' round the orchard jes'Life he owned the premises!Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade's where glory is!That's jes' what I'd like to doStiddy fer a year er two! 6Plague! Ef they ain't somepin' inWork 'at kindo' goes ag'in'My convictions--! 'Long aboutHere in June especially--!Under some old apple-tree, Jes' a-restin' through and through, I could git along withoutNothin' else at all to doOnly jes' a-wishin' youWuz a-gittin' there like me, And June was eternity! 7Lay out there and try to seeJes' how lazy you kin be--!Tumble round and souse yer headIn the clover-bloom, er pullYer straw hat acrost yer eyesAnd peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, Maybe, smilin' back at youIn betwixt the 'beautifulClouds o' gold and white and blue--!Month a man kin railly loveJune, you know, I'm talkin' of! 8March ain't never nothin' new--!Aprile's altogether tooBrash fer me! And May-- I jes''Bominate its promises--, Little hints o' sunshine andGreen around the timber-land--A few blossoms, and a fewChip-birds, and a sprout er two--, Drap asleep, and it turns in'Fore daylight and snows ag'in--!But when June comes-- Clear my th'oatWith wild honey--! Rench my hairIn the dew! And hold my coat!Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat--!June wants me, and I'm to spare!Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll git down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that! _When The Hearse Comes Back_ A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meetIs some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:The slow hearse and the hosses-- slow enough, to say at least, Fer to even tax the patience of gentleman deceased!The low scrunch of the gravel-- and the slow grind of the wheels--, The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whip-lash crackA quickstep fer the hosses, When the Hearse Comes Back! Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes--But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise--You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look awayAnd 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest--Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!And this is why-- when airth and sky's a gittin blurred and black--I like the flash and hurry When the Hearse Comes Back! It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes, Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks--;I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps--Fer my hearth's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's--, I've buried father, mother-- But I'll haf to jes' git youTo "excuse me, " as the feller says--. The p'int I'm drivin' toIs simply when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack, It he'ps to shape us up like, When the Hearse Comes Back! The idy! Wadin round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe, When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine don't you know!When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars, And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars. And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend'At wants expressed my last request-- I'll mebby, rickommendTo drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track, But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em When the Hearse Comes Back!" _A Canary At the Farm_ Folks has be'n to town, and SahryFetched 'er home a pet canary--, And of all the blame', contrary, Aggervatin' things alive!I love music-- that I love itWhen it's free-- and plenty of it--;But I kindo' git above it, At a dollar-eighty-five! Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin'--, Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'Out yer money, and a-payin'Fer a willer-cage and bird, When the medder-larks is wingin'Round you, and the woods is ringin'With the beautifullest singin'That a mortal ever heard! Sahry's sot, tho'--. So I tell herHe's a purty little feller, With his wings o' creamy-yeller, And his eyes keen as a cat;And the twitter o' the critter'Pears to absolutely glitter!Guess I'll haf to go and git herA high-priceter cage 'n that! _A Liz Town Humorist_ Settin' round the stove, last night, Down at Wess's store, was meAnd Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White, And Doc Bills, and two er threeFellers o' the Mudsock tribeNo use tryin' to describe!And says Doc, he says, says he--, "Talkin' 'bout good things to eat, Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat!" I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowedWortermillon beat the mush--. "Red, " he says, "and juicy-- Hush--!I'll jes' leave it to the crowd!"Then a Mudsock chap, says he--, "Punkin's good enough fer me--Punkin pies, I mean, " he says--, Them beats millons--! What say, Wess? I chawed on. And Wess says--, "Well, You jes' fetch that wife of mineAll yer wortermillon-rine--, And she'll bile it down a spell--In with sorghum, I suppose, And what else, Lord only knows--!But I'm here to tell all handsThem p'serves meets my demands!" I chawed on. And White he says--, "Well, I'll jes' stand, in with Wess--I'm no hog!" And Tunk says--, "IGuess I'll pastur' out on pieWith the Mudsock boys!" says he;"Now what's yourn?" he says to me:I chawed on-- fer-- quite a spellThen I speaks up, slow and dry--, Jes' tobacker!" I-says-I--. And you'd ort o' heerd 'em yell! _Kingry's Mill_ On old Brandywine-- aboutWhere White's Lots is now laid out, And the old crick narries downTo the ditch that splits the town--, Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly seeWhere the old dam ust to be;Shallor, long, dry trought o' grassWhere the old race ust to pass! That's be'n forty years ago--Forty years o' frost and snow--Forty years o' shade and shineSence them boyhood-days o' mine--!All the old landmarks o' town. Changed about, er rotted down!Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still?Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill? Don't seem furder back, to me, I'll be dogg'd! Than yisterd'y, Since us fellers, in bare feetAnd straw hats, went through the wheat, Cuttin' 'crost the shortest shootFer that-air old ellum rootJest above the mill-dam-- whereThe blame' cars now crosses there! Through the willers down the crickWe could see the old mill stickIts red gable up, as ifIt jest knowed we'd stol'd the skiff!See the winders in the sunBlink like they wuz wonderun'What the miller ort to doWith sich boys as me and you! But old Kingry--! Who could fearThat old chap, with all his cheer--?Leanin' at the window-sill, Er the half-door o' the mill, Swoppin' lies, and pokin' fun, 'N jigglin' like his hoppers done--Laughin' grists o' gold and redRight out o' the wagon-bed! What did he keer where we went--?"Jest keep out o' devilment, And don't fool around the belts, Bolts, ner burrs, ner nothin' else'Bout the blame machinery, And that's all I ast!" says-ee. Then we'd climb the stairs, and playIn the bran-bins half the day! Rickollect the dusty wall, And the spider-webs, and all!Rickollect the trimblin' spoutWhere the meal come josslln' out--Stand and comb yer fingers throughThe fool-truck an hour er two--Felt so sorto' warm-like andSoothin' to a feller's hand! Climb, high up above the stream, And "coon" out the wobbly beamAnd peek down from out the lof'Where the weather-boards was off--Gee-mun-nee! w'y, it takes gritEven jest to think of it--!Lookin' 'way down there belowOn the worter roarin' so! Rickollect the flume, and wheel, And the worter slosh and reelAnd jest ravel out in frothFlossier'n satin cloth!Rickollect them paddles jestKnock the bubbles galley-west, And plunge under, and come upDrippin' like a worter-pup! And to see them old things goneThat I onc't was bettin' on, In rale p'int o' fact, I feelkindo' like that worter-wheel--, Sorto' drippy-like and wetRound the eyes-- but paddlin' yet, And in mem'ry, loafin' stillDown around old Kingry's Mill! _Joney_ Had a hare-lip-- Joney had:Spiled his looks, and Joney knowed it:Fellers tried to bore him, bad--But ef ever he got mad, He kep' still and never showed it. 'Druther have his mouth all poutedAnd split up, and like it wuz, Than the ones 'at laughed about it. Purty is as purty does! Had to listen ruther clos't'Fore you knowed "what he wuz givin'You; and yet, without no boast, Joney he wuz jest the mostEntertainin' talker livin'!Take the Scriptur's and run through 'em, Might say, like a' auctioneer, And 'ud argy and review 'em'At wuz beautiful to hear! Hare-lip and inpediment, Both wuz bad, and both ag'in' him--But the old folks where he went, 'Preared like, knowin' his intent, 'Scused his mouth fer what wuz in him. And the childern all loved Joney--And he loved 'em back, you bet--!Putt their arms around him-- on'yNone had ever kissed him yet! In young company, someway, Boys 'ud grin at one anotherOn the sly; and girls 'ud layLow, with nothin' much to say, Er leave Joney with their mother. Many and many a time he's fetched 'emCandy by the paper sack, And turned right around and ketched 'emMakin mouths behind his back! S'prised sometimes, the slurs he took--. Chap said onc't his mouth looked sorterLike a fish's mouth 'ud lookWhen he'd be'n jerked off the hookAnd plunked back into the worter--. Same durn feller-- it's su'prisin', But it's facts-- 'at stood and cherredFrom the bank that big babtizin''Pike-bridge accident occurred--! Cherred for Joney while he giveLife to little childern drowndin'!Which wuz fittenest to live--Him 'at cherred, er him 'at div'And saved thirteen lives. .. ? They found oneBody, three days later, floatedDown the by-o, eight mile' south, All so colored-up and bloated--On'y knowed him by his mouth! Had a hare-lip-- Joney had--Folks 'at filed apast all knowed it--. Them 'at ust to smile looked sad, But ef he thought good er bad, He kep' still and never showed it. 'Druther have that mouth, all poutedAnd split up, and like it wuz, Than the ones 'at laughed about it--. Purty is as purty does! _Like His Mother Used To Make_ "Uncle Jake's Place, " St. Jo, Mo. , 1874 "I was born in Indiany, " says a stranger, lank and slim, As us fellers in the restarunt was kindo' guyin' him, And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another punkin pieAnd a' extry cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye. "I was born in Indiany-- more'n forty year' ago--I hain't be'n back in twenty-- and I'm workin' back'ards slow;But I've et in ever' restarunt 'twixt here and Santy Fee, And I want to state this coffee tastes like gittin' home, to me!" "Pour us out another, Daddy, " says the feller, warmin' up, A-speakin' 'cost a saucerful, as Uncle tuk his cup--, "When I seed yer sign out yander, " he went on, to Uncle Jake- -, "'Come in and git some coffee like yer mother used to make'--I thought of my old mother, and the Posey County farm, And me a little kid ag'in, a-hangin' in her arm, As she set the pot: a-bilin', broke the eggs and poured 'em in--"And the feller kindo' halted, with a trimble in his chin: And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stoodAs solemn, fer a minute, as a' undertaker would;Then he sorto' turned and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen door-- and nex', Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs--And she rushes fer the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him--!Thank God we've met him comin'--! Don't you know, yer mother, Jim?"And the feller, as he grabbed her, says--, "You bet I hain't forgot--But, " wipin' of his eyes, says he, "yer coffee's mighty hot!" _The Train Misser_ At Union Station 'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin--Ef I hain't missed that train ag'in!Chuff! And whistle! And toot! And ring!But blast and blister the dasted train--!How it does it I can't explain!Git here thirty-five minutes beforeThe durn things due--! And, drat the thingIt'll manage to git past-shore! The more I travel around, the moreI got no sense--! To stand right hereAnd let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!Ticket Agent's a dad-burned bore--!Sell you a tickets all they keer--!Ticket Agents ort to all be Prosecuted-- and that's jes what--!How'd I know which train's fer me?And how'd I know which train was not--?Goern and comin' and gone astray, And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way! Ef I could jes sneak round behindMyse'f, where I could git full swing, I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing!Till I jes got jerked up and fined--!Fer here I stood, as a durn fool's aptTo, and let that train jes chuff and chooRight apast me-- and mouth jes gappedLike a blamed old sandwitch warped in two! _Granny_ Granny's come to our house, And ho! My lawzy-daisy!All the childern round the placeIs ist a-runnin' crazy!Fetched a cake fer little Jake, And fetched a pie fer Nanny, And fetched a pear fer all the packThat runs to kiss their Granny! Lucy Ellen's in her lap, And Wade and Silas WalkerBoth's a ridin' on her foot, And 'Pollos on the rocker;And Marthy's twins, from Aunt Marinn'sAnd little Orphant Annie, All's a-eatin' gingerbreadAnd giggle-un at Granny! Tells us all the fairy talesEver thought er wundered--And 'bundance o' other stories--Bet she knows a hunderd--! Bob's the one fer "Whittington, "And "Golden Locks" fer Fanny!Hear 'em laugh and clap their hands, Listenin' at Granny! "Jack the Giant-Killer" 's good;And "Bean-Stalk" 's another--!So's the one of "Cinderell'"And her old godmother--;That-un's best of all the rest--Bestest one of any--, Where the mices scampers homeLike we runs to Granny! Granny's come to our house, Ho! My lawzy-daisy!All the childern round the placeIs ist a runnin' crazy!Fetched a cake fer little Jake, And fetched a pie fer Nanny, And fetched a pear fer all the packThat runs to kiss their Granny! _Old October_ Old October's purt' nigh gone, And the frosts is comin' onLittle heavier every day--Like our hearts is thataway!Leaves is changin' overheadBack from green to gray and red, Brown and yeller, with their stemsLoosenin' on the oaks and e'ms;And the balance of the treesGittin' balder every breeze--Like the heads we're scratchin' on!Old October's purt' nigh gone. I love Old October so, I can't bear to see her go--Seems to me like losin' someOld-home relative er chum--'Pears like sorto' settin' bySome old friend 'at sigh by sighWas a-passin' out o' sightInto everlastin' night!Hickernuts a feller hearsRattlin' down is more like tearsDrappin' on the leaves below--I love Old October so! Can't tell what it is aboutOld October knock me out--!I sleep well enough at night--And the blamedest appetiteEver mortal man possessed--, Last thing et, it tastes the best--!Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws, 'Iles and limbers up my jawsFer raal service, sich as newPork, spareribs, and sausage, too--. Yit fer all, they's somepin' 'boutOld October knocks me out! _Jim_ He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour. , Consumpted-Iookin'-- but la!The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliestFeller you ever saw!Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk, And his feelin's too!Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' onLike he ust to do! Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt, A better feller'n Jim!You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else--You could git it o' him!Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!Give up ever' nickel he's worth--And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his, He'd a-give you the earth! Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' somePore feller onto his feet--He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f, So's the feller got somepin' to eat!Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed, He ust to say to me--, "You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job, And he'll git along!" says he. Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly muchO' this world's goods at a time--. 'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'nlikely, Turn round and borry a dime!Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile-- then jerk his coat, And kindo' square his chin, Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench, And go to peggin' ag'in! Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurlyCoughed hisse'f to death!Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and sayHe could git ever'thing but his breath--"You fellers, " he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say, "Is a-pilin' onto meA mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to packThrough all Eternity!" Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me, 'At ortn't a-never a-died!"But death hain't a-showin' no favors, " the old boss said--"On'y to Jim!" and cried:And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop--Er the whole blame neighborhood--, He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that dayBut jes set around and feel good!" _To Robert Burns_ Sweet Singer that I loe the maistO' ony, sin' wi' eager hasteI smacket bairn-lips ower the tasteO' hinnied sang, I hail thee, though a blessed ghaistIn Heaven lang! For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase, Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways, Could gar me freer blame, or praise, Or proffer hand, Where "Rantin' Robbie" and his laysThegither stand. And sae these hamely lines I send, Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end, In echo o' the sangs that wendFrae thee to meLike simmer-brooks, wi mony a bendO' wimplin' glee. In fancy, as wi' dewy een, I part the clouds aboon the sceneWhere thou wast born, and peer atween, I see nae spotIn a' the Hielands half sae greenAnd unforgot? I see nae storied castle-hall, Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wallAnd serf and page in ready call, Sae grand to meAs ane puir cotter's hut, wi' allIts poverty. There where the simple daisy grewSae bonnie sweet, and modest too, Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu'O' sic a grace, It aye is weepin' tears o' dewWi' droopit face. Frae where the heather bluebells flingTheir sangs o' fragrance to the Spring, To where the lavrock soars to sing, Still lives thy strain, For' a' the birds are twitteringSangs like thine ain. And aye, by light o' sun or moon, By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon, The waters lilt nae tender tuneBut sweeter seemsBecause they poured their limpid runeThrough a' thy dreams. Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee, Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee, Yet had nae niggart sympathyWhere Sorrow bowed, But gavest a' thy tears as freeAs a' thy gowd. And sae it is we be thy nameTo see bleeze up wi' sic a flame, That a' pretentious stars o' fameMaun blink asklent, To see how simple worth may shameTheir brightest glent. _A New Year's Time at Willards's_ 1 The Hired Man Talks There's old man Willards; an' his wife;An' Marg'et-- S'repty's sister--; an'There's me-- an' I'm the hired man;An' Tomps McClure, you better yer life! Well now, old Willards hain't so bad, Considerin' the chance he's had. Of course, he's rich, an' sleeps an' eatsWhenever he's a mind to: TakesAn' leans back in the Amen-seatsAn' thanks the Lord fer all he makes--. That's purty much all folks has gotAg'inst the old man, like as not!But there's his woman-- jes the turnOf them-air two wild girls o' hern--Marg'et an' S'repty-- allus inFer any cuttin'-up concern--Church festibals, and foolishin'Round Christmas-trees, an' New Year's sprees--Set up to watch the Old Year goAn' New Year come-- sich things as these;An' turkey-dinners, don't you know!S'repty's younger, an' more gay, An' purtier, an' finer dressedThan Marg'et is-- but, lawzy-day!She hain't the independentest!"Take care!" old Willards used to say, "Take care--! Let Marg'et have her way, An' S'repty, you go off an' playOn your melodeum--!" But, bestOf all, comes Tomps! An' I'll be bound, Ef he hain't jes the beatin'estYoung chap in all the country round!Ef you knowed Tomps you'd like him, shore!They hain't no man on top o' groundWalks into my affections more--!An' all the Settlement'll sayThat Tomps was liked jes thatawayBy ever'body, till he tukA shine to S'repty Willards--. ThenYou'd ort'o see the old man buckAn' h'ist hisse'f, an' paw the dirt, An' hint that "common workin'-menThat didn't want their feelin's hurt'Ud better hunt fer 'comp'ny' whereThe folks was pore an' didn't care--!"The pine-blank facts is--, the old man, Last Christmas was a year ago, Found out some presents Tomps had gotFer S'repty, an' hit made him hot--Set down an' tuk his pen in handAn' writ to Tomps an' told him soOn legal cap, in white an' black, An' give him jes to understand"No Christmas-gifts o' 'lily-white'An' bear's-ile could fix matters right, "An' wropped 'em up an' sent 'em back!Well, S'repty cried an' snuffled roundConsid'able. But Marg'et sheToed out another sock, an' woundHer knittin' up, an' drawed the tea, An' then set on the supper-things, An' went up in the loft an' dressed--An' through it all you'd never guessedWhat she was up to! An' she bringsHer best hat with her an her shawl, An' gloves, an' redicule, an' all, An' injirubbers, an' comes downAn' tells 'em she's a-goin' to townTo he'p the Christmas goin's-onHer Church got up. An' go she does--The best hosswoman ever was!"An" what'll We do while you're gone?"The old man says, a-tryin' to beAgreeable. "Oh! You?" says she--, "You kin jaw S'repty, like you did, An' slander Tomps!" An' off she rid! Now, this is all I'm goin' to tellOf this-here story-- that is, IHave done my very level bestAs fur as this, an' here I "dwell, "As auctioneers says, winkin' sly:Hit's old man Willards tells the rest. 2 The Old Man Talks Adzackly jes one year ago, This New Year's day, Tomps comes to me--In my own house, an' whilse the folksWas gittin' dinner--, an' he pokesHis nose right in, an' says, says he:"I got yer note-- an' read it slow!You don't like me, ner I don't you, "He says--, "we're even there, you know!But you've said, furder that no galOf yourn kin marry me, er shall, An' I'd best shet off comin', too!"An' then he says--, "Well, them's Your views--;But havin' talked with S'repty, weHave both agreed to disagreeWith your peculiar notions-- some;An', that s the reason, I refuseTo quit a-comin' here, but come--Not fer to threat, ner raise no skeerAn' spile yer turkey-dinner here--, But jes fer S'repty's sake, to sheerYer New Year's. Shall I take a cheer?" Well, blame-don! Ef I ever seeSich impidence! I couldn't sayNot nary word! But Mother sheSot out a cheer fer Tomps, an' theyShuk hands an' turnt their back on me. Then I riz-- mad as mad could be--!But Marg'et says--, "Now, Pap! You setRight where you're settin'--! Don't you fret!An' Tomps-- you warm yer feet!" says she, "An throw yer mitts an' comfert onThe bed there! Where is S'repty gone!The cabbage is a-scortchin'! Ma, Stop cryin' there an' stir the slaw!"Well--! What was Mother cryin' fer--?I half riz up-- but Marg'et's chinHit squared-- an' I set down ag'in--I allus was afeard o' her, I was, by jucks! So there I set, Betwixt a sinkin'-chill an' sweat, An' scuffled with my wrath, an' shetMy teeth to mighty tight, you bet!An' yit, fer all that I could do, I eeched to jes git up an' whetThe carvin'-knife a rasp er twoOn Tomps's ribs-- an' so would you--!Fer he had riz an' faced around, An' stood there, smilin', as they brungThe turkey in, all stuffed an' browned--Too sweet fer nose, er tooth, er tongue!With sniffs o' sage, an' p'r'aps a dashOf old burnt brandy, steamin'-hotMixed kindo' in with apple-mashAn' mince-meat, an' the Lord knows what!Nobody was a-talkin' then, To 'filiate any awk'ardness--No noise o' any kind but jesThe rattle o' the dishes whenThey'd fetch 'em in an' set 'em down, An' fix an' change 'em round an' round, Like women does-- till Mother says--, "Vittels is ready; Abner, callDown S'repty-- she's up-stairs, I guess--. "And Marg'et she says, "Ef you bawlLike that, she'll not come down at all!Besides, we needn't wait till sheGits down! Here Temps, set down by me, An' Pap: say grace. .. !" Well, there I was--!What could I do! I drapped my headBehind my fists an' groaned; an' said--:"Indulgent Parent! In Thy causeWe bow the head an' bend the kneeAn' break the bread, an' pour the wine, Feelin'--" (The stair-door suddentlyWent bang! An' S'repty flounced by me--)"Feelin', " I says, "this feast is Thine--This New Year's feast--" an' rap-rap-rap!Went Marg'ets case-knife on her plate--An' next, I heerd a sasser drap--, Then I looked up, an' strange to state, There S'repty set in Tomps lap--An' huggin' him, as shore as fate!An' Mother kissin' him k-slap!An' Marg'et-- she chips in to drapThe ruther peert remark to me--:"That 'grace' o' yourn, " she says, "won't 'gee'--This hain't no 'New Year's feast, '" says she--, "This is a' Infair-Dinner, Pap!" An' so it was--! Be'n married ferPurt' nigh a week--! 'Twas Marg'et plannedThe whole thing fer 'em, through an' through. I'm rickonciled; an' understand, I take things jes as they occur--, Ef Marg'et liked Tomps, Tomps 'ud do--!But I-says-I, a-holt his hand--, "I'm glad you didn't marry Her--'Cause Marg'et's my guardeen-- yes-sir--!An' S'repty's good enough fer you!" _The Town Karnteel_ The Town Karnteel--! It's who'll revealIts praises jushtifiable?For who can sing av anythingSo lovely and reliable?Whin Summer, Spring, or Winter liesFrom Malin's Head to Tipperary, There's no such town for interpriseBechuxt Youghal and Londonderry! There's not its likes in Ireland--For twic't the week, be gorries!They're playing jigs upon the band, And joomping there in sacks-- and-- and--And racing, wid wheelborries! Kanteel-- it's there, like any fair, The purty gurrls is plinty, sure--!And man-alive! At forty-fiveThe leg's av me air twinty, sure!I lave me cares, and hoein' too, Behint me, as is sinsible, And it's Karnteel I'm goin' to, To cilebrate in principle! For there's the town av all the land!And twic't the week, be-gorries!They're playing jigs upon the band, And joomping there in sacks-- and-- and--And racing, wid wheelborries! And whilst I feel for owld KarnteelThat I've no phrases glorious, It stands above the need av loveThat boasts in voice uproarious--!Lave that for Cork, and Dublin too, And Armagh and Killarney thin--, And Karnteel won't be troublin' youWid any jilous blarney, thin! For there's the town av all the landWhere twic't the week, be-gorries!They're playing jigs upon the band, And joomping there in sacks-- and-- and--And racing, wid wheelborries! _Regardin' Terry Hut_ Sence I tuk holt o' Gibbses' ChurnAnd be'n a-handlin' the concern, I've travelled round the grand old StateOf Indiany, lots, o' late--!I've canvassed Crawferdsville and sweatAround the town o' Layfayette;I've saw a many a County-seatI ust to think was hard to beat:At constant dreenage and expenseI've worked Greencastle and Vincennes--Drapped out o' Putnam into Clay, Owen, and on down thatawayPlum into Knox, on the back-trackFer home ag'in-- and glad I'm back--!I've saw these towns, as I say-- butThey's none 'at beats old Terry Hut! It's more'n likely you'll insistI claim this 'cause I'm prejudist, Bein' born'd here in ole VygoIn sight o' Terry Hut--; but no, Yer clean dead wrong--! And I maintainThey's nary drap in ary veinO' mine but what's as free as airTo jest take issue with you there--!'Cause, boy and man, fer forty year, I've argied ag'inst livin' here, And jawed around and traded liesAbout our lack o' enterprise, And tuk and turned in and agreedAll other towns was in the lead, When-- drat my melts--! They couldn't cutNo shine a-tall with Terry Hut! Take even, statesmanship, and wit, And ginerel git-up-and-git, Old Terry Hut is sound clean through--!Turn old Dick Thompson loose, er DanVorehees-- and where's they any manKin even hold a candle toTheir eloquence--? And where's as cleanA fi-nan-seer as Rile' McKeen--Er puorer, in his daily walk, In railroad er in racin' stock!And there's 'Gene Debs-- a man 'at standsAnd jest holds out in his two handsAs warm a heart as ever beatBetwixt here and the Jedgement Seat--!All these is reasons why I puttSich bulk o' faith in Terry Hut. So I've come back, with eyes 'at seesMy faults, at last--, to make my peaceWith this old place, and truthful' swear--Like Gineral Tom Nelson does--, "They hain't no city anywhereOn God's green earth lays over us!"Our city government is grand--"Ner is they better farmin'-landSun-kissed--" as Tom goes on and says--"Er dower'd with sich advantages!"And I've come back, with welcome tread, From journeyin's vain, as I have said, To settle down in ca'm content, And cuss the towns where I have went, And brag on ourn, and boast and strutAround the streets o' Terry Hut! _Leedle Dutch Baby_ Leedle Dutch baby haff come ter town!Jabber und jump till der day gone down--Jabber und sphlutter und sphlit hees jaws--Vot a Dutch baby dees Londsmon vas!I dink dose mout' vas leedle too videOber he laugh fon dot altso-side!Haff got blenty off deemple und vrown--?Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town! Leedle Dutch baby, I dink me proudOber your fader can schquall dot loudVen he vas leedle Dutch baby like youUnd yoost don't gare, like he alvays do--!Guess ven dey vean him on beer, you betDot's der because dot he aind veaned yet--!Vot you said off he dringk you down--?Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town! Leedle Dutch baby, yoost schquall avay--Schquall fon preakfast till gisterday!Better you all time gry und shoutDan shmile me vonce fon der coffin out!Vot I gare off you keek my noseDownside-up mit your heels und toes--Downside, oder der oopside-down--?Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town! _Down On Wriggle Crick_ "Best time to kill a hog's when he's fat. " --Old Saw. Mostly folks is law-abidin'Down on Wriggle Crick--, Seein' they's no Squire residin'In our bailywick;No grand juries, no suppeenies, Ner no vested rights to pickOut yer man, jerk up and jail efHe's outragin' Wriggle Crick! Wriggle Crick hain't got no lawin', Ner no suits to beat;Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin'Like a County-seat;Hain't no waitin' round fer verdick, Ner non-gittin' witness-fees;Ner no thiefs 'at gits "new heain's, "By some lawyer slick as grease! Wriggle Cricks's leadin' spiritIs old Johnts Culwell--, Keeps post-office, and right near itOwns what's called "The Grand Hotel--"(Warehouse now--) buys wheat and ships it;Gits out ties, and trades in stock, And knows all the high-toned drummers'Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk' Last year comes along a feller--Sharper 'an a lance--Stovepipe-hat and silk umbreller, And a boughten all-wool pants--, Tinkerin of clocks and watches:Says a trial's all he wants--And rents out the tavern-officeNext to Uncle Johnts. Well--. He tacked up his k'dentials, And got down to biz--. Captured Johnts by cuttin' stenchilsFer them old wheat-sacks o' his--. Fixed his clock, in the post-office--Painted fer him, clean and slick, 'Crost his safe, in gold-leaf letters, "J. Culwells's Wriggle Crick. " Any kindo' job you keered toResk him with, and bring, He'd fix fer you-- jest appeared toTurn his hand to anything--!Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers--Glue a cheer er chany doll--, W'y, of all the beatin' fellers, He Jest beat 'em all! Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there--, One mistake he learnt, That was, sleepin' in his shop there--. And one Sund'y night it burnt!Come in one o' jest a-sweepin'All the whole town high and dry--And that feller, when they waked him, Suffocatin', mighty nigh! Johnts he drug him from the buildin', He'pless-- 'peared to be--, And the women and the childernDrenchin' him with sympathy!But I noticed Johnts helt on himWith a' extry lovin' grip, And the men-folks gethered round himIn most warmest pardership! That's the whole mess, grease-and-dopin'!Johnt's safe was saved--, But the lock was found sprung open, And the inside caved. Was no trial-- ner no jury--Ner no jedge ner court-house-click--. Circumstances alters casesDown on Wriggle Crick! _When De Folks Is Gone_ What dat scratchin' at de kitchin do'?Done heah'n dat foh an hour er mo'!Tell you Mr. Niggah, das sho's yo' bo'n, Hit's mighty lonesome waitin' when de folks is gone! Blame my trap! How de wind do blow!An' dis is das de night foh de witches, sho'!Dey's trouble gon' to waste when de old slut whine, An' you heah de cat a-spittin' when de moon don't shine! Chune my fiddle, an' de bridge go "bang!"An' I lef' 'er right back whah she allus hang, An' de tribble snap short an' de apern splitWhen dey no mortal man wah a-tetchin' hit! Dah! Now, what? How de ole j'ice cracks!'Spec' dis house, ef hit tell plain fac's, 'Ud talk about de ha'nts wid dey long tails onWhat das'n't on'y come when de folks is gone! What I tuk an' done ef a sho'-nuff ghos'Pop right up by de ole bed-pos'?What dat shinin' fru de front do' crack. .. ?God bress de Lo'd! Hit's de folks got back! _The Little Town O' Tailholt_ You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth and size, And brag about yer County-seats, and business enterprise, And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery--But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me! You kin harp about yer churches, with their steeples in the clouds, And gas about yer graded streets, and blow about yer crowds;You kin talk about yer "theaters, " and all you've got to see--But the little Town o' Tailholt is show enough fer me! They hain't no style in our town-- hit's little-like and small--They hain't no "churches, " nuther--, jes' the meetin' house is all;They's no sidewalks, to speak of-- but the highway's allus free, And the little Town o' Tailholt is wide enough fer me! Some find it discommodin'-like, I'm willin' to admit, To hev but one post-office, and a womern keepin' hit, And the drug-store, and shoe-shop, and grocery, all three--But the little Town o' Tailholt is handy 'nough fer me! You kin smile and turn yer nose up, and joke and hev yer fun, And laugh and holler "Tail-holts is better holts'n none!Ef the city suits you better w'y, hit's where you'd ort'o be--But the little Town o' Tailholt's good enough fer me! _Little Orphant Annie_ Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest funA-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out! Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers--, An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;But all they found was thist his pants an' roundabout--:An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin, An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;An' onc't, when they was "company, " an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightn'-bugs in dew is all squenched away--, You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all aboutEr the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!