Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse

    Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming
    Through the window, sets its gleaming,
  With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall,
    With its tassel torn and tattered,
    And its blade, deep-bruised and battered,
  Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall.

    None can tell its stirring story,
    None can sing its deeds of glory,
  None can say which cause it struck for, or from what limp hand it fell;
    On the battle-field they found it,
    Where the dead lay thick around it—
  Friend and foe—a gory tangle—tossed and torn by shot and shell.

    Who, I wonder, was its wearer,
    Was its stricken soldier bearer?
  Was he some proud Southern stripling, tall and straight and brave and true?
    Dusky locks and lashes had he?
    Or was he some Northern laddie,
  Fresh and fair, with cheeks of roses, and with eyes and coat of blue?

    From New England's fields of daisies,
    Or from Dixie's bowered mazes,
  Rode he proudly forth to conflict? What, I wonder, was his name?
    Did some sister, wife, or mother,
    Mourn a husband, son, or brother?
  Did some sweetheart look with longing for a love who never came?

    Fruitless question! Fate forever
    Keeps its secret, answering never.
  But the grim old blade shall blossom on this mild Memorial Day;
    I will wreathe its hilt with roses
    For the soldier who reposes
  Somewhere 'neath the Southern grasses in his garb of blue or gray.

    May the flowers be fair above him,
    May the bright buds bend and love him,
  May his sleep be deep and dreamless till the last great bugle-call;
    And may North and South be nearer
    To each other's heart, and dearer,
  For the memory of their heroes and the old swords on the wall.

  Pavements a-frying in street and in square,
  Never a breeze in the blistering air,
  Never a place where a fellow can run
  Out of the shine of the sizzling sun:
  "General Humidity" having his way,
  Killing us off by the hundred a day;
  Mercury climbing the tube like a shot,—
  Suffering Caesar! I tell you it's hot!

  Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck,
  Necktie and bosom and wristbands a wreck,
  Handkerchief dripping and worn to a shred
  Mopping and scouring my face and my head;
  Simply ablaze from my head to my feet,
  Back all afire with the prickles of heat,—
  Not on my cuticle one easy spot,—
  Jiminy Moses! I tell you it's hot!

  Give me a fan and a seat in the shade,
  Bring me a bucket of iced lemonade;
  Dress me in naught but the thinnest of clothes,
  Start up the windmill and turn on the hose:
  Set me afloat from my toes to my chin,
  Open the ice-box and fasten me in,—
  If it should freeze me, why, that matters not,—
  Brimstone and blazes! I tell you it's HOT!

  Summer nights at Grandpa's—ain't they soft and still!
  Just the curtains rustlin' on the window-sill,
  And the wind a-blowin', warm and wet and sweet—
  Smellin' like the meadows or the fields of wheat;
  Just the bullfrogs pipin' in amongst the grass,
  Where the water's shinin' like a lookin'-glass;
  Just a dog a-barkin' somewheres up along,
  So far off his yelpin' 's like a kind of song.

  Summer nights at Grandpa's—hear the crickets sing,
  And the water bubblin' down beside the spring;
  Hear the cattle chewin' fodder in the shed,
  And an owl a-hootin' high up overhead;
  Hear the "way-off noises," faint and awful far—
  So mixed-up a feller do'n't know what they are—
  But so sort er lazy that they seem ter keep
  Sayin' over 'n' over, "Sonny, go ter sleep."

  Summer nights at Grandpa's—ain't it fun ter lay
  In the early mornin' when it's gettin' day—
  When the sun is risin' and it's fresh and cool,
  And you 're feelin' happy coz there ain't no school?—
  When you hear the crowin' as the rooster wakes,
  And you think of breakfast and the buckwheat cakes;
  Sleepin' in the city's too much fuss and noise;
  Summer nights at Grandpa's are the things for boys.

  Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe.
    Out on the gnarled old tree,
  Out where the robin redbreasts pipe,
    And buzzes the bumblebee;
  Swinging high on the bending bough,
    Scenting the lazy breeze,
  What is the gods' ambrosia now
    To apples of gold like these?

  Ruddy the blush of their maiden cheeks
    After the sunbeam's kiss—
  Every quivering leaflet speaks,
    Telling a tale of bliss;
  Telling of dainties hung about,
    Each in a verdant wreath,
  Shimmering satin all without,
    Honey and cream beneath.

  Would ye haste to the banquet rare,
    Taste of the feast sublime?
  Brush from the brow the lines of care,
    Scoff at the touch of Time?
  Come in the glow of the olden days,
    Come with a youthful face,
  Come through the old familiar ways,
    Up from the dear, old place.

  Barefoot, trip through the meadow lane,
    Laughing at bruise and scratch;
  Come, with your hands all rich with stain
    Fresh from the blackberry patch;
  Come where the orchard spreads its store
    And the breath of the clover greets;
  Quick! they are waiting you here once more,—
    Grandfather's "summer sweets."

  Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe,
    Out on the gnarled, old tree—
  Out where the robin redbreasts pipe,
    And buzzes the bumblebee;
  Swinging high on the bending bough,
    Scenting the lazy breeze,
  What is the gods' ambrosia now
    To apples of gold like these?

  Sun like a furnace hung up overhead,
  Burnin' and blazin' and blisterin' red;
  Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep,
  One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep;
  Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still,
  Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,—Labor
  and laziness callin' to me:
  "Hoe or the fishin'-pole—which'll it be?"

  There's the old cornfield out there in the sun,
  Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done;
  There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout,
  Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out;
  But, there's the river, so clear and so cool,
  There's the white lilies afloat on the pool,
  Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree—
  "Hoe or the fishin'-pole—which'll it be?"

  Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat,
  Down by the river a robin sings sweet,
  Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say:
  "Who's the chump talkin' of workin' to-day?"
  Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait
  Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait;
  I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know:
  But, "Where's the fishin'-pole? Hang the old hoe!"

  Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin,
  With the grasses wet and shinin', and the air so clear and thin,
  When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know
  That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go";
  When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out,
  And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about,
  And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels,
  Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.

  There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe
  When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe;
  There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine,
  And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine;
  And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves,
  Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves;
  And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place,
  And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.

  Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass,
  Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass,
  Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat,
  Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that;
  And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane,
  Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,—
  For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew
  When he went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too.

  Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll
  Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul,
  And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme
  So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time;
  And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near
  That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here;
  That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn,
  But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.

  Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!
    Struttin' round so big and proud.
  Pretty quick I guess your beller
    Won't be goin' quite so loud.
  Say, I'd run and hide, I bet you,
    And I'd leave off eatin' some,
  Else the choppin'-block'll get you,—
    Don't you know November's come?

  Don't you know that Grandma's makin'
    Loads of mince and pun'kin pies?
  Don't you smell those goodies cookin'?
    Can't you see 'em? Where's your eyes?
  Tell that rooster there that's crowin',
    Cute folks now are keepin' mum;
  They don't show how fat they 're growin'
    When they know November's come.

  'Member when you tried ter lick me?
    Yes, you did, and hurt me, too!
  Thought't was big ter chase and pick me,—
    Well, I'll soon be pickin' you.
  Oh, I know you 're big and hearty,
    So you needn't strut and drum,—
  Better make your will out, smarty,
    'Cause, you know, November's come.

  "Gobble! gobble!" oh, no matter!
    Pretty quick you'll change your tune;
  You'll be dead and in a platter,
    And I'll gobble pretty soon.
  'F I was you I'd stop my puffin',
    And I'd look most awful glum;—
  Hope they give you lots of stuffin'!
    Ain't you glad November's come?

  A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white,
  The buildings blots of blackness, the windows gems of light,
  A moon, now clear, now hidden, as in its headlong race
  The north wind drags the cloud-wrack in tatters o'er its face;
  Mailed twigs that click and clatter upon the tossing tree,
  And, like a giant's chanting, the deep voice of the sea,
  As 'mid the stranded ice-cakes the bursting breakers foam,—
  The old familiar picture—a winter night at home.

  The old familiar picture—the firelight rich and red,
  The lamplight soft and mellow, the shadowed beams o'erhead;
  And father with his paper, and mother, calm and sweet,
  Mending the red yarn stockings stubbed through by careless feet.
  The little attic bedroom, the window 'neath the eaves,
  Decked by the Frost King's brushes with silvered sprays and leaves;
  The rattling sash which gossips with idle gusts that roam
  About the ice-fringed gables—the winter nights at home.

  What would I give to climb them—those narrow stairs so steep,—
  And reach that little chamber, and sleep a boy's sweet sleep!
  What would I give to view it—that old house by the sea—
  Filled with the dear lost faces which made it home for me!
  The sobbing wind sings softly the song of long ago,
  And in that country churchyard the graves are draped in snow;
  But there, beyond the arches of Heaven's star-jeweled dome,
  Perhaps they know I'm dreaming of winter nights at home.

  O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill,
  And the frosty Christmas holly shines and sparkles on the hill,
  And the Christmas sleigh-bells jingle and the Christmas laughter rings,
  As the last stray shoppers hurry, takin' home the Christmas things;
  And up yonder in the attic there's a little trundle bed
  Where there's Christmas dreams a-dancin' through a sleepy, curly head;
  And it's "Merry Christmas," Mary, once agin fer me and you,
  With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

  'Tisn't silk, that little stockin', and it isn't much fer show,
  And the darns are pretty plenty 'round about the heel and toe,
  And the color's kind er faded, and it's sort er worn and old,
  But it really is surprisin' what a lot of love 'twill hold;
  And the little hand that hung it by the chimney there along
  Has a grip upon our heartstrings that is mighty firm and strong;
  So old Santy won't fergit it, though it isn't fine and new,—
  That plain little worsted stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

  And the crops may fail and leave us with our plans all knocked ter smash,
  And the mortgage may hang heavy, and the bills use up the cash,
  But whenever comes the season, jest so long's we've got a dime,
  There'll be somethin' in that stockin'—won't there, Mary?—every time.
  And if in amongst our sunshine there's a shower or two of rain,
  Why, we'll face it bravely smilin', and we'll try not ter complain,
  Long as Christmas comes and finds us here together, me and you,
  With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

  You know the story—it's centuries old—
  How the Ant and the Grasshopper met, we're told,
  On a blustering day, when the wind was cold
      And the trees were bare and brown;
  And the Grasshopper, being a careless blade,
  Who all the summer had danced and played,
  Now came to the rich old Ant for aid,
       And the latter "turned him down."

  It's only fancy, but I suppose
  That the Grasshopper wore his summer clothes,
  And stood there kicking his frozen toes
      And shaking his bones apart;
  And the Ant, with a sealskin coat and hat,
  Commanded the Grasshopper, brusque and flat,
  To "Dance through the winter," and things like that,
      Which he thought were "cute" and "smart."

  But, mind you, the Ant, all summer long,
  Had heard the Grasshopper's merry song,
  And had laughed with the rest of the happy throng
      At the bubbling notes of glee;
  And he said to himself, as his cash he lent,
  Or started out to collect his rent,
  "The shif'less fool do'n't charge a cent,—
      I'm getting the whole show free."

  I've never been told how the pair came out—
  The Grasshopper starved to death, no doubt,
  And the Ant grew richer, and had the gout,
      As most of his brethren do;
  I know that it's better to save one's pelf,
  And the Ant is considered a wise old elf,
  But I like the Grasshopper more myself,—
      Though that is between we two.

  Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool,
  Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool,
  Where bushes over the water hung,
  And grasses nodded and rushes swung—
  Just where the brook flowed out of the bog—
  There lived a gouty and mean old Frog,
  Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak,
  And do just nothing but croak and croak.

  'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know,
  What is the trouble down there below?
  Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?"
  The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot!
  Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime,
  For me to look at the livelong time.
  'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke,
  And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.

  "But you're looking down!" the Blackbird said.
  "Look at the blossoms overhead;
  Look at the lovely summer skies;
  Look at the bees and butterflies—
  Look up, old fellow! Why, bless your soul,
  You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!"
  But still, with his gurgling sob and choke,
  The Frog continued to croak and croak.

  And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near,
  Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here:
  Don't shed your tears over him, for he
  Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be!
  He's one of the kind who won't be glad;
  It makes him happy to think he's sad.
  I'll tell you something—and it's no joke—
  Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"

  Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy,
  In the sunny little garden where I wandered when a boy!
  Oh, the morning-glories twining 'mongst the shining sunflowers tall,
  And the clematis a-tangle in the angle of the wall!
  How the mignonette's sweet blooming was perfuming all the walks,
  Where the hollyhocks stood proudly with their blossom-dotted stalks;
  While the old-maids' pinks were nodding groups of gossips, here and there,
  And the bluebells swung so lightly in the lazy, hazy air!

  Then the sleepy poppies, stooping low their drooping, drowsy heads,
  And the modest young sweet-williams hiding in their shady beds!
  By the edges of the hedges, where the spiders' webs were spun,
  How the marigolds lay, yellow as the mellow summer sun
  That made all the grass a-dapple 'neath the leafy apple tree,
  Whence you heard the locust drumming and the humming of the bee;
  While the soft breeze in the trellis, where the roses used to grow,
  Sent the silken petals flying like a scented shower of snow!

  Oh, the quaint old-fashioned garden, and the pathways cool and sweet,
  With the dewy branches splashing flashing jewels o'er my feet!
  And the dear old-fashioned blossoms, and the old home where they grew,
  And the mother-hands that plucked them, and the mother-love I knew!
  Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast,
  Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best;
  And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know,
  Like the sweet old-fashioned posies mother tended long ago.

  For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore;
  For years the surge has tossed its kelp and wrack about my door;
  I've heard the sea-wind sing its song in whispers 'round the place,
  And fought it when it flung the sand, like needles, in my face.
  I've seen the sun-rays turn the roof ter blist'rin', tarry coal;
  I've seen the ice-drift clog the bay from foamin' shoal ter shoal;
  I've faced the winter's snow and sleet, I've felt the summer's shower,
  But every night I've lit the lamp up yonder in the tower.

  I've seen the sunset flood the earth with streams of rosy light,
  And every foot of sea-line specked with twinklin' sails of white;
  I've woke ter find the sky a mess of scud and smoky wreath,
  A blind wind-devil overhead and hell let loose beneath.
  And then ter watch the rollers pound on ledges, bars and rips,
  And pray fer them that go, O Lord, down ter the sea in ships!
  Ter see the lamp, when darkness comes, throw out its shinin' track,
  And think of that one gleamin' speck in all the world of black.

  And often, through a night like that, I've waited fer the day
  That broke and showed a lonesome sea, a sky all cold and gray;
  And, may be, on the spit below, where sea-gulls whirl and screech,
  I've seen a somethin' stretched among the fresh weed on the beach;
  A draggled, frozen somethin', in the ocean's tangled scum,
  That meant a woman waitin' fer a man who'd never come;
  And all the drop of comfort in my sorrer I could git
  Was this: "I done my best ter save; thank God, the lamp was lit."

  And there's lots of comfort, really, to a strugglin' mortal's breast
  In the sayin', if it's truthful, of "I done my level best";
  It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right,
  No matter if yer rule a land or if yer tend a light.
  My lot is humble, but I've kept that lamp a-burnin' clear,
  And so, I reckon, when I die I'll know which course ter steer;
  The waves may roar around me and the darkness hide the view,
  But the lights'll mark the channel and the Lord'll tow me through.

  It stands at the bend where the road has its end,
    And the blackberries nod on the vine;
  And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown,
    Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine.
  The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked,
    And the grasses grow high at the door,
  But hid in my heart is an altar, apart,
    To the little old house by the shore.

  For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare,
    With the blossoms that clustered above,
  When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place
    As she sang at her labor of love.
  And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays
    With the dust and the leaves on the floor,
  Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet
    In the little old house by the shore.

  And again in my ears, through the dream of the years,
    They whisper, the playmates of old,
  The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies,
    The sister with ringlets of gold;
  And Father comes late to the path at the gate,
    As he did when the fishing was o'er,
  And the echoes ring out, at our welcoming shout,
    From the little old house by the shore.

  But the night-wind has blown and the vision has flown,
    And the sound of the children is still,
  And the shadowy mist, like a spirit, has kissed
    The graves by the church on the hill;
  But softly, afar, sing the waves on the bar,
    A song of the sunshine of yore:
  A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep
    Near the little old house by the shore.

  When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance
    Through the wiry sedge-grass near the shore;
  How the ripples spark in the sunbeam's glance,
    As they madly tumble the pebbles o'er!
  The barnacled rocks emerging seem,
    As their beards of seaweed are tossed about,
  Like giants who wake from a troubled dream
    And laugh for joy when the tide goes out.

  When the tide goes out, how the shining sands,
    Like silver, glisten, and gleam, and glow;
  How the sea-gulls whirl, in their joyous bands,
    O'er the shoals where the breakers come and go!
  The coal-black driftwood, gleaming wet,
    Relic of by-gone vessel stout,
  With its clinging shells, seems a bar of jet,
    Studded with pearls, when the tide goes out.

  When the tide goes out, how the breezes blow
    The nodding plumes of the pine-trees through;
  How the far-off ships, like flakes of snow,
    Are lightly sprinkled upon the blue!
  The Sea, as he moves in his slow retreat,
    Like a warrior struggling for each redoubt,
  But with flashing lances the sand-bars meet
    And drive him back, when the tide goes out.

  When the tide goes out, how each limpid pool
    Reflects the sky and the fleecy cloud;
  How the rills, like children set free from school,
    Prattle and plash and sing aloud!
  The shore-birds cheerily call, the while
    They dart and circle in merry rout,—
  The face of the ocean seems to smile
    And the earth to laugh, when the tide goes out.

  When the tide goes out, as the years roll by,
    And Life sweeps on to the outer bar,
  And I feel the chill of the depths that lie
    Beyond the shoals where the breakers are,
  I will not rail at a kindly Fate,
    Or welcome Age with a peevish pout,
  But still, with a heart of Youth, await
    The final wave, when the tide goes out.

  When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore,
  And the tossing waves grow dim, and the white sails flash no more,
  Then, over the shrouded sea, where the winding mist-wreaths creep,
  The deep-voiced Watchers call, the Watchers who guard the Deep.

  "Hear! hear! hear! Hark to the word I bring!
  Toilers upon the sea, list to the Bell-buoy's ring!
  List, as I clash and clang! list, as I toss and toll!
  Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal
  Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew,
  And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the ship it slew.
  Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear!
  Toilers upon the sea, here is the shoal! Beware!"

  "Hear! hear! hear! Hark to me, one and all!
  Toilers upon the sea, list to the Fog-horn's call!
  List to my buzzing cry! list, as I growl and groan:
  Here is the sullen shore where the white-toothed breakers moan;
  Where the silky ripples run with the wolf-like wave behind,
  To leap on the struggling wreck and worry and gnaw and grind,
  To toss on the cruel crag the dead with his streaming hair!
  Toilers upon the sea, here are the rocks! Beware!"

  "Hear! hear! hear! Hark to my stormy shriek!
  Toilers upon the sea, the Whistling-buoy would speak!
  List to my sobbing shout! list, for my word is brief:
  Death is beneath me here! death on the sunken reef
  Where the jagged ledge is hid and the slimy seaweeds grow,
  And the long kelp streamers wave in the dark green depths below,
  Where, under the shell-clad hulk, the gaunt shark makes his lair,—
  Toilers upon the sea, here is the reef! Beware!"

  And then, o'er the silent sea, an answer from unseen lips,
  Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound
     ships,—
  A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,—
  "Thanks, O Guard of the Deep! Watchers, we hear! we hear!"

  He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,"
    Ter sparkle in the sun;
  He do'n't parade with gay cockade,
    And posies in his gun;
  He ain't no "pretty soldier boy,"
    So lovely, spick and span,—
  He wears a crust of tan and dust,
    The Reg'lar Army man;
      The marchin', parchin',
      Pipe-clay starchin',
  Reg'lar Army man.

  He ain't at home in Sunday-school,
    Nor yet a social tea,
  And on the day he gets his pay
    He's apt to spend it free;
  He ain't no temp'rance advocate,
    He likes ter fill the "can,"
  He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough,
    The Reg'lar Army man;
      The r'arin', tearin',
      Sometimes swearin',
    Reg'lar Army man.

  No State'll call him "noble son,"
    He ain't no ladies' pet,
  But, let a row start anyhow,
    They'll send for him, you bet!
  He "do'n't cut any ice" at all
    In Fash'n's social plan,—
  He gits the job ter face a mob,
    The Reg'lar Army man;
      The millin', drilling
      Made fer killin',
    Reg'lar Army man.

  They ain't no tears shed over him
    When he goes off ter war,
  He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach"
    From mayor or governor;
  He packs his little knapsack up
    And trots off in the van,
  Ter start the fight and start it right,
    The Reg'lar Army man;
      The rattlin', battlin',
      Colt or Gatlin',
    Reg'lar Army man.

  He makes no fuss about the job,
    He do'n't talk big or brave,—
  He knows he's in ter fight and win,
    Or help fill up a grave;
  He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but
    He does the best he can,
  And he's the chap that wins the scrap,
    The Reg'lar Army man;
      The dandy, handy,
      Cool and sandy,
    Reg'lar Army man.

  A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell,
  Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell;
  A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread,
  With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red;
  Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose
  A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose,
  The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk,
  Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.

  Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown,
  And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down;
  And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare,
  And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air;
  Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet,
  He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street;
  Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade,
  But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid.

  Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain
  To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane;
  Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway,
  And barely leaps to safety as the crashing roof gives way;
  Sometimes, penned in and stifling fast, he waits, with courage grim,
  And hears the willing axes ply that strive to rescue him;
  But sometime, somewhere, somehow, help may come a bit too late
  For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight.

  And then the morning paper may have half a column filled
  With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed";
  And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead,
  And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed
  And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall
  On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball;
  But, maybe, on the other side, on God's great roll of fame,
  Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same.

  Little bare feet, sunburned and brown,
  Patterin', patterin' up and down,
  Dancin' over the kitchen floor,
  Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,—
  Right on the go from morn till late,
  From the garden path ter the old front gate,—
  There hain't no music ter me so sweet
  As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet.

  When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea,
  Them little bare feet trot there with me,
  And a shrill little voice I love'll say:
  "Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day."
  And I know when my dory comes ter land,
  There's a spry little form somewheres on hand;
  And the very fust sound my ears'll meet
  Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet.

  Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed
  Yer prints of love in my worn old breast!
  And I sometimes think, when I come ter die,
  'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by;
  That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear
  That little child's voice, so sweet and clear;
  That even there, on the golden street,
  I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.

  Kind er like a stormy day, take it all together,—
  Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather;
  If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin',
  And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.

  Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water dashin'
  From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splashin',
  With the leaves and twigs around, shinin' wet and drippin',
  Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'.

  Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder,
  Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder,
  Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges,
  Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges.

  Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over,
  Like ter see the di'mon's shine on the bendin' clover,
  Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin'
  And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'.

  But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin',
  And myself, with chores all done, settin' round and dreaming
  With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin',
  And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'.

  Kind er like a stormy day, take it all together,
  Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather;
  If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining
  And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.

  When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down.
    And hushed is the roar and the din,
  When Evening is cooling the sweltering town,
    'Tis then that the frolics begin;
  And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement,
    Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall,
  'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night,
    They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball.

  'Tis not a society function, you see,
    But quite an informal affair;
  The costumes are varied, yet simple and free,
    And gems are exceedingly rare;
  The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching,
    And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all.
  In a jacket, they say, one's not rated au fait    By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball.

  There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "shines";
    There's Beppo who peddles "banan'";
  There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines—
    His skin has a very deep tan;
  There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles,
    And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall;
  She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand,"
    She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball.

  Professor Spaghetti the music supplies,
    From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime;
  His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies,
    Is merrily thumping the rollicking time;
  The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper,
    The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall,
  And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in
    To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball.

  The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street,
    The mothers lean out from the windows to see,
  While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet,
    And tenement babies crow loud in their glee;
  And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,—
    Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;—
  There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light,
    In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball.

  Want to see me, hey, old chap?
  Want to curl up in my lap,
    Do yer, Jim?
  See him sit and purr and blink—
  Don't yer bet he knows I think
    Lots of him?

  Little kitten, nothin' more,
  When we found him at the door.
    In the cold,
  And the baby, half undressed,
  Picked him up, and he was jest
    All she'd hold.

  Put him up fer me to see,
  And she says, so 'cute, says she,
    "Baby's cat."
  And we never had the heart
  Fer to keep them two apart
    After that.

  Seem's if I must hear the beat
  Of her toddlin' little feet
    'Round about;
  Seem to see her tucked in bed,
  With the kitten's furry head
    Peekin' out.

  Seem's if I could hear her say,
  In the cunnin' baby way
    That she had:
  "Say 'dood-night' to Jimmie, do,
  'Coz if 'oo fordetted to
    He'd feel bad."

  Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy?
  Day do'n't seem to bring no joy
    With the dawn;
  Look's if night was everywhere,—
  But there's glory over there
    Where she's gone.

  Seems as if my heart would break,
  But I love yer for her sake,
      Don't I, Jim?
  See him sit and purr and blink,
  Don't yer bet he knows I think
      Lots of him?

  In Mother's room still stands the chair
  Beside the sunny window, where
    The flowers she loved now lightly stir
    In April's breeze, as though they were
  Forlorn without her loving care.

  Her books, her work-box, all are there,
  And still the snowy curtains bear
    The soft, sweet scent of lavender
      In Mother's room.

  Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair,
  Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare,
    On me your fragrant peace confer,
    Make my life sweet with thoughts of her,
  As lavender makes sweet the air
      In Mother's room.