WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE WIGGINSES.
Wintertime, er Summertime,
Of late years I notice I'm,
Kindo'-like, more subjec' to
What the weather is. Now, you
Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose,
Thinks its bully when it snows;
But the chap 'at chops and hauls
Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls,
And snapps tuggs and swingletrees,
And then has to walk er freeze,
Haint so much "stuck on" the snow
As stuck in it—Bless ye, no!—
When its packed, and sleighin's good,
And church in the neighborhood,
Them 'at's got their girls, I guess,
Takes 'em, likely, more er less,
Tell the plain facts o' the case,
No men-folks about our place
On'y me and Pap—and he
'Lows 'at young folks' company
Allus made him sick! So I
Jes don't want, and jes don't try!
Chinkypin, the dad-burn town,
'S too fur off to loaf aroun'
Either day er night—and no
Law compellin' me to go!—
'Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day,
Er big-doin's thataway—
Then, to tell the p'inted fac',
I've went more so's to come back
By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where
Minors has got licker there—
That's pervidin' we could show 'em
Old folks sent fer it from home!
Visit roun' the neighbors some,
When the boys wants me to come.—
Coon-hunt with 'em; er set traps
Fer mussrats; er jes, perhaps,
Lay in roun' the stove, you know,
And parch corn, and let her snow!
Mostly, nights like these, you'll be
(Ef you' got a writ fer me)
Ap' to skeer me up, I guess,
In about the Wigginses.
Nothin' roun' our place to keep
Me at home—with Pap asleep
'Fore it's dark; and Mother in
Mango pickles to her chin;
And the girls, all still as death,
Piecin' quilts.—Sence I drawed breath
Twenty year' ago, and heerd
Some girls whispern' so's it 'peared
Like they had a row o' pins
In their mouth—right there begins
My first rickollections, built
On that-air blame old piece-quilt!
Summertime, it's jes the same—
'Cause I've noticed,—and I claim,
As I said afore, I'm more
Subjec' to the weather, shore,
'Proachin' my majority,
Than I ever ust to be!
Callin' back last Summer, say,—
Don't seem hardly past away—
With night closin' in, and all
S' lonesome-like in the dew-fail:
Bats—ad-drat their ugly muggs!—
Flickern' by; and lightnin'-bugs
Huckstern' roun' the airly night
Little sickly gasps o' light;—
Whip-poor-wills, like all possessed,
Moanin' out their mournfullest;—
Frogs and katydids and things
Jes clubs in and sings and sings
Their ding-dangdest!—Stock's all fed,
And Pap's washed his feet fer bed;—
Mother and the girls all down
At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'—
No wunder 'at I git blue,
And lite out—and so would you!
I caint stay aroun' no place
Whur they haint no livin' face:—
'Crost the fields and thue the gaps
Of the hills they's friends, perhaps,
Waitin' somers, 'at kin be
Kindo' comfertin' to me!
Neighbors all 'is plenty good,
Scattered thue this neighberhood;
Yit, of all, I like to jes
Drap in on the Wigginses.—
Old man, and old lady too,
'Pear-like, makes so much o' you—,
Least, they've allus pampered me
Like one of the fambily.—
The boys, too, 's all thataway—
Want you jes to come and stay;—
Price, and Chape, and Mandaville,
Poke, Chasteen, and "Catfish Bill"—
Poke's the runt of all the rest,
But he's jes the beatinest
Little schemer, fer fourteen,
Anybody ever seen!—
"Like his namesake," old man claims,
"Jeems K. Poke, the first o' names!
Full o' tricks and jokes—and you
Never know what Poke's go' do!"
Genius, too, that-air boy is,
With them awk'ard hands o' his:
Gits this blame pokeberry-juice,
Er some stuff, fer ink—and goose-
Quill pen-p'ints: And then he'll draw
Dogdest pictures yevver saw!
Er make deers and eagles good
As a writin'-teacher could!
Then they's two twin boys they've riz
Of old Coonrod Wigginses
'At's deceast—and glad of it,
'Cause his widder's livin' yit!
Course the boys is mostly jes'
Why I go to Wigginses.—-
Though Melviney, sometimes, she
Gits her slate and algebry
And jes' sets there ciphern' thue
Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do!—
Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair
Forreds tel, 'pear-like, her hair
Jes' spills in her lap—and then
She jes' dips it up again
With her hands, as white, I swan,
As the apern she's got on!
Talk o' hospitality!—
Go to Wigginses with me—
Overhet, or froze plum thue,
You'll find welcome waitin' you:—
Th'ow out yer tobacker 'fore
You set foot acrost that floor,—
"Got to eat whatever's set—
Got to drink whatever's wet!"
Old man's sentimuns—them's his—-
And means jes the best they is!
Then he lights his pipe; and she,
The old lady, presen'ly
She lights her'n; and Chape and Poke.
I haint got none, ner don't smoke,—
(In the crick afore their door—
Sorto so's 'at I'd be shore—
Drownded mine one night and says
"I won't smoke at Wigginses!")
Price he's mostly talkin' 'bout
Politics, and "thieves turned out"—
What he's go' to be, ef he
Ever "gits there"—and "we'll see!"—
Poke he 'lows they's blame few men
Go' to hold their breath tel then!
Then Melviney smiles, as she
Goes on with her algebry,
And the clouds clear, and the room's
Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms!
(That Melviney, she' got some
Most surprisin' ways, I gum!—
Don't 'pear like she ever says
Nothin', yit you'll listen jes
Like she was a-talkin', and
Half-way seem to understand,
But not quite,—Poke does, I know,
'Cause he good as told me so,—
Poke's her favo-rite; and he—
That is, confidentially—
He's my favo-rite—and I
Got my whurfore and my why!)
I haint never ben no hand
Much at talkin', understand,
But they's thoughts o' mine 'at's jes
Jealous o' them Wigginses!—
Gift o' talkin 's what they got,
Whether they want to er not—
F'r instunce, start the old man on
Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone,
'Way back in the Forties, when
Bears stold pigs right out the pen,
Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm
With a bee-hive on their arm!—
And—sir, ping! the old man's gun
Has plumped-over many a one,
Firin' at him from afore
That-air very cabin-door!
Yes—and painters, prowlin' 'bout,
Allus darkest nights.—Lay out
Clost yer cattle.—Great, big red
Eyes a-blazin' in their head,
Glittern' 'long the timber-line—
Shine out some, and then un-shine,
And shine back—Then, stiddy! whizz!
'N there yer Mr. Painter is
With a hole bored spang between
Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen,
Say, on blooded racin'-stock,
Ef you want to hear him talk;
Er tobacker—how to raise,
Store, and k-yore it, so's she pays:
The old lady—and she'll cote
Scriptur' tel she'll git yer vote!
Prove to you 'at wrong is right,
Jes as plain as black is white:
Prove when you're asleep in bed
You're a-standin' on yer head,
And yer train 'at's goin' West,
'S goin' East its level best;
And when bees dies, it's their wings
Wears out—and a thousand things!
And the boys is "chips," you know;
"Off the old block"—So I go
To the Wigginses, 'cause—jes
'Cause I like the Wigginses—
Even ef Melviney she
Hardly 'pears to notice me!
Rid to Chinkypin this week—
Yisterd'y.—No snow to speak
Of, and didn't have no sleigh
Anyhow; so, as I say,
I rid in—and froze one ear
And both heels—and I don't keer!—
"Mother and the girls kin jes
Bother 'bout their Chris'mases
Next time fer theirse'vs, I jack!"
Thinks-says-I, a-startin' back,—
Whole durn meal-bag full of things
Wrapped in paper-sacks, and strings
Liable to snap their holt
Jes at any little jolt!
That in front o' me, and wind
With nicks in it, 'at jes skinned
Me alive!—I'm here to say
Nine mile' hossback thataway
Would a-walked my log! But, as
Somepin' allus comes to pass,
As I topped old Guthrie's hill.
Saw a buggy, front the 'Still,
P'inted home'ards, and a thin
Little chap jes climbin' in.
Six more minutes I were there
On the groun's'—And course it were—
It were little Poke—and he
Nearly fainted to see me!—
"You ben in to Chinky, too?"
"Yes; and go' ride back with you,"
I-says-I. He he'pped me find
Room fer my things in behind—
Stript my hoss's reins down, and
Put his mitt' on the right hand
So's to lead—"Pile in!" says he,
"But you 've struck pore company!"
Noticed he was pale—looked sick,
Kindo-like, and had a quick
Way o' flickin' them-air eyes
0' his roun' 'at didn't size
Up right with his usual style—
s' I, "You well?" He tried to smile,
But his chin shuck and tears come.—
"I've run 'Viney 'way from home!"
Don't know jes what all occurred
Next ten seconds—Nary word,
But my heart jes drapt, stobbed thue,
And whirlt over and come to.—
Wrenched a big quart bottle from
That fool-boy!—and cut my thumb
On his little fiste-teeth—helt
Him snug in one arm, and felt
That-air little heart o' his
Churn the blood o' Wigginses
Into that old bead 'at spun
Roun' her, spilt at Lexington!
His k'niptions, like enough,
He'pped us both,—though it was rough—
Rough on him, and rougher on
Me when last his nerve was gone,
And he laid there still, his face
Fishin' fer some hidin'-place
Jes a leetle lower down
In my breast than he 'd yit foun'!
Last I kindo' soothed him, so's
He could talk.—And what you s'pose
Them-air revelations of
Poke's was? . . . He'd ben writin' love-
Letters to Melviney, and
Givin her to understand
They was from "a young man who
Loved her," and—"the violet's blue
'N sugar's sweet"—and Lord knows what!
Tel, 'peared-like, Melviney got
S' interested in "the young
Man," Poke he says, 'at she brung
A' answer onc't fer him to take,
Statin' "she'd die fer his sake,"
And writ fifty xs "fer
Love-kisses fer him from her!"
I was standin' in the road
By the buggy, all I knowed
When Poke got that fer.—"That's why,"
Poke says, "I 'fessed up the lie—
Had to—'cause I see," says he,
"'Viney was in airnest—she
Cried, too, when I told her.—Then
She swore me, and smiled again,
And got Pap and Mother to
Let me hitch and drive her thue
Into Chinkypin, to be
At Aunt 'Rindy's Chris'mas-tree—
That's to-night." Says I, "Poke—durn
Your lyin' soul!—'s that beau o' hern—
That—she—loves—Does he live in
That hellhole o' Chinkypin?"
"No," says Poke, "er 'Viney would
Went some other neighborhood."
"Who is the blame whelp?" says I.
"Promised 'Viney, hope I'd die
Ef I ever told!" says Poke,
Pittiful and jes heart-broke—
"'Sides that's why she left the place,—
'She caint look him in the face
Now no more on earth!' she says.—"
And the child broke down and jes
Sobbed! Says I, "Poke, I p'tend
T' be your friend, and your Pap's friend,
And your Mother's friend, and all
The boys' friend, little, large and small—
The whole fambily's friend—and you
Know that means Melviney, too.—
Now—you hush yer troublin!'—I'm
Go' to he'p friends ever' time—
On'y in this case, you got
To he'p me—and, like as not
I kin he'p Melviney then,
And we'll have her home again.
And now, Poke, with your consent,
I'm go' go to that-air gent
She's in love with, and confer
With him on his views o' her.—
Blast him! give the man some show.—
Who is he?—I'm go' to know!"
Somepin' struck the little chap
Funny, 'peared-like.—Give a slap
On his leg—laughed thue the dew
In his eyes, and says: "It's you!"
Yes, and—'cordin' to the last
Love-letters of ours 'at passed
Thue his hands—we was to be
Married Chris'mas.—"Gee-mun-nee!
Poke," says I, "it's suddent—yit
We kin make it! You're to git
Up tomorry, say, 'bout three—
Tell your folks you're go' with me:—
We'll hitch up, and jes drive in
'N take the town o' Chinkypin!"
GO, WINTER!
Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again
The twitter of the bluebird and the wren;
Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine
Of Summer's sun—not thine.—
Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love
And all the heartening fervencies thereof,
It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin
Pathetic yearnings in.
So get thee from us! We are cold, God wot,
Even as thou art.—We remember not
How blithe we hailed thy coming.—That was O
Too long—too long ago!
Get from us utterly! Ho! Summer then
Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been,
And thy last icy footprint melt and mold
In her first marigold.
ELIZABETH.
May 1, 1891.
I.
Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
The first May-morning whispereth
Thy gentle name in every breeze
That lispeth through the young-leaved trees,
New raimented in white and green
Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen;—
And, as in odorous chorus, all
The orchard-blossoms sweetly call
Even as a singing voice that saith
Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
II.
Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair,
In deep, cool shadows of thy hair,
Thy face maintaineth its repose.—
Is it, O sister of the rose,
So better, sweeter, blooming thus
Than in this briery world with us?—
Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath
Of biting winter harrieth
With sleeted rains and blighting snows
All fairest blooms—Elizabeth!
III.
Nay, then!—So reign, Elizabeth,
Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death!
Put forth the scepter of thy love
In every star-tipped blossom of
The grassy dais of thy throne!
Sadder are we, thus left alone,
But gladder they that thrill to see
Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee.
Bereaved are we by life—not death—
Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
SLEEP.
Orphaned, I cry to thee:
Sweet sleep! O kneel and be
A mother unto me!
Calm thou my childish fears:
Fold—fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly,
And dry my tears.
Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed
And faint with languor,—slide
Thy dim face down beside
Mine own, and let me rest
And nestle in thy heart, and there abide,
A favored guest.
Good night to every care,
And shadow of despair!
Good night to all things where
Within is no delight!—
Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there,
I sob: Good night—good night!
DAN PAINE.
Old friend of mine, whose chiming name
Has been the burthen of a rhyme
Within my heart since first I came
To know thee in thy mellow prime;
With warm emotions in my breast
That can but coldly be expressed,
And hopes and wishes wild and vain,
I reach my hand to thee, Dan Paine.
In fancy, as I sit alone
In gloomy fellowship with care,
I hear again thy cheery tone,
And wheel for thee an easy chair;
And from my hand the pencil falls—
My book upon the carpet sprawls,
As eager soul and heart and brain,
Leap up to welcome thee, Dan Paine.
A something gentle in thy mein,
A something tender in thy voice,
Has made my trouble so serene,
I can but weep, from very choice.
And even then my tears, I guess,
Hold more of sweet than bitterness,
And more of gleaming shine than rain,
Because of thy bright smile, Dan Paine.
The wrinkles that the years have spun
And tangled round thy tawny face,
Are kinked with laughter, every one,
And fashioned in a mirthful grace.
And though the twinkle of thine eyes
Is keen as frost when Summer dies,
It can not long as frost remain
While thy warm soul shines out, Dan Paine.
And so I drain a health to thee;—
May merry Joy and jolly Mirth
Like children clamber on thy knee,
And ride thee round the happy earth!
And when, at last, the hand of Fate
Shall lift the latch of Canaan's gate,
And usher me in thy domain,
Smile on me just as now, Dan Paine.
OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM
I have jest about decided
It 'ud keep a town-boy hoppin'
Fer to work all winter, choppin'
Fer a' old fire-place, like I did!
Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!—
Blame backbone o' winter, 'peared-like,
Wouldn't break!—and I wuz skeerd-like
Clean on into Febuary!
Nothin' ever made we madder
Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin'
On a' extra fore-stick, sayin'
"Groun'hog's out and seed his shadder!"
AT UTTER LOAF.
I.
An afternoon as ripe with heat
As might the golden pippin be
With mellowness if at my feet
It dropped now from the apple-tree
My hammock swings in lazily.
II.
The boughs about me spread a shade
That shields me from the sun, but weaves
With breezy shuttles through the leaves
Blue rifts of skies, to gleam and fade
Upon the eyes that only see
Just of themselves, all drowsily.
III.
Above me drifts the fallen skein
Of some tired spider, looped and blown,
As fragile as a strand of rain,
Across the air, and upward thrown
By breaths of hayfields newly mown—
So glimmering it is and fine,
I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine.
IV.
Far-off and faint as voices pent
In mines, and heard from underground,
Come murmurs as of discontent,
And clamorings of sullen sound
The city sends me, as, I guess,
To vex me, though they do but bless
Me in my drowsy fastnesses.
V.
I have no care. I only know
My hammock hides and holds me here
In lands of shade a prisoner:
While lazily the breezes blow
Light leaves of sunshine over me,
And back and forth and to and fro
I swing, enwrapped in some hushed glee,
Smiling at all things drowsily.
A LOUNGER.
He leant against a lamp-post, lost
In some mysterious reverie:
His head was bowed; his arms were crossed;
He yawned, and glanced evasively:
Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put
Them back again, and scratched his side—
Shifted his weight from foot to foot,
And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed.
Grotesque of form and face and dress,
And picturesque in every way—
A figure that from day to day
Drooped with a limper laziness;
A figure such as artists lean,
In pictures where distress is seen,
Against low hovels where we guess
No happiness has ever been.
A SONG OF LONG AGO.
A song of Long Ago:
Sing it lightly—sing it low—
Sing it softly—like the lisping of the lips we used to know
When our baby-laughter spilled
From the glad hearts ever filled
With music blithe as robin ever trilled!
Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
And the leaves of locust-trees,
And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
All palpitate with glee,
Till the happy harmony
Brings back each childish joy to you and me.
Let the eyes of fancy turn
Where the tumbled pippins burn
Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,—
There let the old path wind
In and out and on behind
The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.
Blend in the song the moan
Of the dove that grieves alone,
And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone;
And the low of cows that call
Through the pasture-bars when all
The landscape fades away at evenfall.
Then, far away and clear,
Through the dusky atmosphere,
Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear:
O sad and sweet and low
As the memory may know
Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!
THE CHANT OF THE CROSS-BEARING CHILD.
I bear dis cross dis many a mile.
O de cross-bearin' chile—
De cross-bearin' chile!
I bear dis cross 'long many a road
Wha' de pink ain't bloom' an' de grass done mowed.
O de cross-bearin' chile—
De cross-bearin' chile!
Hits on my conscience all dese days
Fo' ter bear de cross ut de good Lord lays
On my po' soul, an' ter lif my praise.
O de cross-bearin' chile—
De cross-bearin' chile!
I 's nigh-'bout weak ez I mos' kin be,
Yit de Marstah call an' He say,—"You 's free
Fo' ter 'cept dis cross, an' ter cringe yo' knee
To no n'er man in de worl' but me!"
O de cross-bearin' chile—
De cross-bearin' chile!
Says you guess wrong, ef I let you guess—
Says you 'spec' mo', an'-a you git less:—
Says you go eas', says you go wes',
An' whense you fine de road ut you like bes'
You betteh take ch'ice er any er de res'!
O de cross-bearin' chile—
De cross-bearin' chile!
He build my feet, an' He fix de signs
Dat de shoe hit pinch an' de shoe hit bines
Ef I on'y w'ah eights an-a wanter w'ah nines;
I hone fo' de rain, an' de sun hit shines,
An' whilse I hunt de sun, hits de rain I fines.—
O-a trim my lamp, an-a gyrd my lines!
O de cross-bearin' chile—
De cross-bearin' chile!
I wade de wet, an' I walk de dry:
I done tromp long, an' I done clim high;
An' I pilgrim on ter de jasper sky,
An' I taken de resk fo' ter cas' my eye
Wha' de Gate swing wide an' de Lord draw nigh,
An' de Trump hit blow, an' I hear de cry,—
"You lay dat cross down by an' by!—
O de Cross-bearin' Chile—
Do Cross-bearin' Chile!"
THANKSGIVING.
Let us be thankful—not only because
Since last our universal thanks were told
We have grown greater in the world's applause,
And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old—
But thankful for all things that come as alms
From out the open hand of Providence:—
The winter clouds and storms—-the summer calms—
The sleepless dread—the drowse of indolence.
Let us be thankful—thankful for the prayers
Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed,
That they might fall upon us unawares,
And bless us, as in greater need, we prayed.
Let us be thankful for the loyal hand
That love held out in welcome to our own,
When love and only love could understand
The need of touches we had never known.
Let us be thankful for the longing eyes
That gave their secret to us as they wept,
Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise,
Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept.
And let us, too, be thankful that the tears
Of sorrow have not all been drained away,
That through them still, for all the coming years,
We may look on the dead face of To-day.
AUTUMN.
As a harvester, at dusk,
Faring down some woody trail
Leading homeward through the musk
Of may-apple and pawpaw,
Hazel-bush, and spice and haw,—
So comes Autumn, swart and hale,
Drooped of frame and slow of stride.
But withal an air of pride
Looming up in stature far
Higher than his shoulders are;
Weary both in arm and limb,
Yet the wholesome heart of him
Sheer at rest and satisfied.
Greet him as with glee of drums
And glad cymbals, as he comes!
Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.
He the Emperor—the King—
Royal lord of everything
Sagging Plenty's granary floors
And out-bulging all her doors;
He the god of corn and wine,
Honey, milk, and fruit and oil—
Lord of feast, as lord of toil—
Jocund host of yours and mine!
Ho! the revel of his laugh!—
Half is sound of winds, and half
Roar of ruddy blazes drawn
Up the throats of chimneys wide,
Circling which, from side to side,
Faces—lit as by the Dawn,
With her highest tintings on
Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin—
Smile at some old fairy-tale
Of enchanted lovers, in
Silken gown and coat of mail,
With a retinue of elves
Merry as their very selves,
Trooping ever, hand in hand,
Down the dales of Wonderland.
Then the glory of his song!—
Lifting up his dreamy eyes—
Singing haze across the skies;
Singing clouds that trail along
Towering tops of trees that seize
Tufts of them to stanch the breeze;
Singing slanted strands of rain
In between the sky and earth,
For the lyre to mate the mirth
And the might of his refrain:
Singing southward-flying birds
Down to us, and afterwards
Singing them to flight again;
Singing blushes to the cheeks
Of the leaves upon the trees—
Singing on and changing these
Into pallor, slowly wrought,
Till the little, moaning creeks
Bear them to their last farewell,
As Elaine, the lovable,
Was borne down to Lancelot.—
Singing drip of tears, and then
Drying them with smiles again.
Singing apple, peach and grape,
Into roundest, plumpest shape,
Rosy ripeness to the face
Of the pippin; and the grace
Of the dainty stamin-tip
To the huge bulk of the pear,
Pendant in the green caress
Of the leaves, and glowing through
With the tawny laziness
Of the gold that Ophir knew,—
Haply, too, within its rind
Such a cleft as bees may find,
Bungling on it half aware.
And wherein to see them sip
Fancy lifts an oozy lip,
And the singer's falter there.
Sweet as swallows swimming through
Eddyings of dusk and dew,
Singing happy scenes of home
Back to sight of eager eyes
That have longed for them to come,
Till their coming is surprise
Uttered only by the rush
Of quick tears and prayerful hush;
Singing on, in clearer key,
Hearty palms of you and me
Into grasps that tingle still
Rapturous, and ever will!
Singing twank and twang of strings—
Trill of flute and clarinet
In a melody that rings
Like the tunes we used to play,
And our dreams are playing yet!
Singing lovers, long astray,
Each to each, and, sweeter things—
Singing in their marriage-day,
And a banquet holding all
These delights for festival.
THE TWINS.
One 's the pictur' of his Pa,
And the other of her Ma—
Jes the bossest pair o' babies 'at a mortal ever saw!
And we love 'em as the bees
Loves the blossoms of the trees,
A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze!
One's got her Mammy's eyes—
Soft and blue as Apurl-skies—
With the same sort of a smile, like—Yes,
and mouth about her size,—
Dimples, too, in cheek and chin,
'At my lips jes wallers in,
A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin.
And the other—Well, they say
That he's got his Daddy's way
O' bein' ruther soberfied, er ruther extry gay,—
That he either cries his best,
Er he laughs his howlin'est—
Like all he lacked was buttons and a vest!
Look at her!—and look at him!—
Talk about yer "Cheru-bim!"
Roll 'em up in dreams together, rosy arm and chubby limb!
O we love 'em as the bees
Loves the blossoms of the trees,
A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze!
BEDOUIN.
O love is like an untamed steed!—
So hot of heart and wild of speed,
And with fierce freedom so in love,
The desert is not vast enough,
With all its leagues of glimmering sands,
To pasture it! Ah, that my hands
Were more than human in their strength,
That my deft lariat at length
Might safely noose this splendid thing
That so defies all conquering!
Ho! but to see it whirl and reel—
The sands spurt forward—and to feel
The quivering tension of the thong
That throned me high, with shriek and song!
To grapple tufts of tossing mane—
To spurn it to its feet again,
And then, sans saddle, rein or bit,
To lash the mad life out of it!
TUGG MARTIN.
I.
Tugg Martin's tough.—No doubt o' that!
And down there at
The town he come from word's bin sent
Advisin' this-here Settle-ment
To kindo' humor Tugg, and not
To git him hot—
Jest pass his imperfections by,
And he's as good as pie!
II.
They claim he's wanted back there.—Yit
The officers they mostly quit
Insistin' when
They notice Tugg's so back'ard, and
Sorto' gives 'em to understand
He druther not!—A Deputy
(The slickest one you ever see!)
Tackled him last—"disguisin' then,"
As Tugg says, "as a gentlemen!"—
You 'd ort o' hear Tugg tell it!—My!
I thought I'd die!
III.
The way it wuz;—Tugg and the rest
The boys wuz jest
A-kindo' gittin' thawed out, down
At "Guss's Place," fur-end o' town,
One night, when, first we knowed,
Some feller rode
Up in a buggy at the door,
And hollered fer some one to come
And fetch him some
Red-licker out—And whirped and swore
That colt he drove wuz "Thompson's" shore!
IV.
Guss went out, and come in agin
And filled a pint and tuck it out—
Stayed quite a spell—then peeked back in,
Half-hid-like where the light wuz dim,
And jieuked his head
At Tugg and said,—
"Come out a minute—here's a gent
Wants you to take a drink with him."
V.
Well—Tugg laid down his cards and went—
In fact, we all
Got up, you know,
Startin' to go—
When in reels Guss aginst the wall,
As white as snow,
Gaspin',—"He's tuck Tugg!—wher's my gun?"
And-sir, outside we heerd
The hoss snort and kick up his heels
Like he wuz skeerd,
And then the buggy-wheels
Scrape—and then Tugg's voice hollerun',—
"I'm bested!—Good-bye, fellers!" . . . 'Peared
S' all-fired suddent,
Nobody couldn't
Jest git it fixed,—tel hoss and man,
Buggy and Tugg, off through the dark
Went like the devil beatin' tan-
Bark!
VI.
What could we do? . . . We filed back to
The bar: And Guss jest looked at us,
And we looked back "The same as you,"
Still sayin' nothin'—And the sap
It stood in every eye,
And every hat and cap
Went off, as we teched glasses solemnly,
And Guss says-he:
"Ef it's 'good-bye' with Tugg, fer shore,—I say
God bless him!—Er ef they
Aint railly no need to pray,
I'm not reniggin!—board's the play,
And here's God bless him, anyway!"
VII.
It must a-bin an hour er so
We all set there,
Talkin o' pore
Old Tugg, you know,
'At never, wuz ketched up before—
When—all slow-like—the door-
Knob turned—and Tugg come shamblin' in,
Hand-cuffed'—'at's what he wuz, I swear!—
Yit smilin,' like he hadn't bin
Away at all! And when we ast him where
The Deputy wuz at,—"I don't know where," Tugg said,—
"All I know is—he's dead."
LET US FORGET.
Let us forget. What matters it that we
Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago,
And talked of love, and let our voices low,
And ruled for some brief sessions royally?
What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe?
It has availed not anything, and so
Let it go by that we may better know
How poor a thing is lost to you and me.
But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet
Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew
From your drenched lids—and missed, with no regret,
Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you;
And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet
With all this waste of tears, let us forget!
JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY.
We got up a Christmas-doin's
Last Christmas Eve—
Kindo' dimonstration
'At I railly believe
Give more satisfaction—
Take it up and down—
Than ary intertainment
Ever come to town!
Railly was a theater—
That's what it was,—
But, bein' in the church, you know,
We had a "Santy Clause"—
So 's to git the old folks
To patternize, you see,
And back the institootion up
Kindo' morally.
Schoolteacher writ the thing—
(Was a friend o' mine),
Got it out o' Longfeller's
Pome "Evangeline"—
Er some'rs—'bout the Purituns—.
Anyway, the part
"John Alden" fell to me—
And learnt it all by heart!
Claircy was "Percilly"—
(Schoolteacher 'lowed
Me and her could act them two
Best of all the crowd)—
Then—blame ef he didn't
Git her Pap, i jing!—
To take the part o' "Santy Clause,"
To wind up the thing.
Law! the fun o' practisun!—
Was a week er two
Me and Claircy didn't have
Nothin' else to do!—
Kep' us jes a-meetin' round,
Kindo' here and there,
Ever' night rehearsin'-like,
And gaddin' ever'where!
Game was wo'th the candle, though!—
Christmas Eve at last
Rolled around.—And 'tendance jes
Couldn't been surpassed!—
Neighbors from the country
Come from Clay and Rush—
Yes, and 'crost the county-line
Clean from Puckerbrush!
Meetin'-house jes trimbled
As "Old Santy" went
Round amongst the childern,
With their pepperment
And sassafrac and wintergreen
Candy, and "a ball
O' popcorn," the preacher 'nounced,
"Free fer each and all!"
Schoolteacher suddently
Whispered in my ear,—
"Guess I got you:—Christmas-gift!—
Christmas is here!"
I give him a gold pen,
And case to hold the thing,—
And Claircy whispered "Christmas-gift!"
And I give her a ring.
"And now," says I, "jes watch me—
Christmas-gift," says I,
"I'm a-goin' to git one—
'Santy's' comin' by!"—
Then I rech and grabbed him:
And, as you'll infer,
'Course I got the old man's,
And he gimme her!
REACH YOUR HAND TO ME.
Reach your hand to me, my friend,
With its heartiest caress—
Sometime there will come an end
To its present faithfulness—
Sometime I may ask in vain
For the touch of it again,
When between us land or sea
Holds it ever back from me.
Sometime I may need it so,
Groping somewhere in the night,
It will seem to me as though
Just a touch, however light,
Would make all the darkness day,
And along some sunny way
Lead me through an April-shower
Of my tears to this fair hour.
O the present is too sweet
To go on forever thus!
Round the corner of the street
Who can say what waits for us?—
Meeting—greeting, night and day,
Faring each the self-same way—
Still somewhere the path must end.—
Reach your hand to me, my friend!
THE ROSE.
It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through the waving frees
With a passion all in vain,—
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The honey-bee came there to sing
His love through the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king
Might boast of his palace-towers:
But my rose bowed in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,
Dipped down with a dalliant song,
And twanged his wings through the roundelay
Of love the whole day long:
Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The firefly came in the twilight dim
My red, red rose to woo—
Till quenched was the flame of love in him,
And the light of his lantern too,
As my rose wept with dew-drops three
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose—
Some day I will claim as mine
The priceless worth of the flower that knows
No change, but a bloom divine—
The bloom of a fadeless constancy
That hides in the leaves in wait for me!
But time passed by in a strange disguise,
And I marked it not, but lay
In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,
Till the summer slipped away,
And a chill wind sang in a minor key:
"Where is the rose that waits for thee?"
* * * * *
I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain
Of bloom on a withered stalk,
Pelted down by the autumn rain
In the dust of the garden-walk,
That an Angel-rose in the world to be
Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.
MY FRIEND.
"He is my friend," I said,—
"Be patient!" Overhead
The skies were drear and dim;
And lo! the thought of him
Smited on my heart—and then
The sun shone out again!
"He is my friend!" The words
Brought summer and the birds;
And all my winter-time
Thawed into running rhyme
And rippled into song,
Warm, tender, brave, and strong.
And so it sings to-day.—
So may it sing alway!
Though waving grasses grow
Between, and lilies blow
Their trills of perfume clear
As laughter to the ear,
Let each mute measure end
With "Still he is thy friend."
SUSPENSE.
A woman's figure, on a ground of night
Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare
Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there
As in vague hope some alien lance of light
Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight—
The salt and bitter blood of her despair—
Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair
And grip toward God with anguish infinite.
And O the carven mouth, with all its great
Intensity of longing frozen fast
In such a smile as well may designate
The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last,
Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate
Throbs Love's eternal lie—"Lo, I can wait!"
THE PASSING OF A HEART.
O touch me with your hands—
For pity's sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!
Touch—touch me with your hands.—
Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
And lo, to-day—
O touch me with your hands!
Just touch me with your hands,
And let them press
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,
That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.
BY HER WHITE BED.
By her white bed I muse a little space:
She fell asleep—not very long ago,—
And yet the grass was here and not the snow—
The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and—her face!—
Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace
Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow;
The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low
Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place
In thicker twilight for the roses' scent.
Then night.—She slept—in such tranquility,
I walk atiptoe still, nor dare to weep,
Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content—
That though God stood to wake her for me, she
Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord! Let him so sleep."
WE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING.
"Rain and rain! and rain and rain!"
Yesterday we muttered
Grimly as the grim refrain
That the thunders uttered:
All the heavens under cloud—
All the sunshine sleeping;
All the grasses limply bowed
With 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 fashioning
This for our To-morrow!
THE BLOSSOMS ON THE TREES.
Blossoms crimson, white, or blue,
Purple, pink, and every hue,
From sunny skies, to tintings drowned
In 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 breeze,
There's nothing all the world around
As half as sweet as you!
Could the rhymer only wring
All the sweetness to the lees
Of all the kisses clustering
In juicy Used-to-bes,
To dip his rhymes therein and sing
The blossoms on the trees,—
"O Blossoms on the Trees,"
He would twitter, trill and coo,
"However sweet, such songs as these
Are not as sweet as you:—
For you are blooming melodies
The eyes may listen to!"
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 there
Where the shadows are lost in her hair.
Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint
Round the lips of their favorite saint!
And that lace at her throat—and the fluttering hands
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands,
The flakes of their touches—first fluttering at
The bow—then the roses—the hair—and then that
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.
O 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 hair,
Nor the gold of her smile—O what artist could dare
To expect a result half so fair?
LAST NIGHT—AND THIS.
Last night—how deep the darkness was!
And well I knew its depths, because
I 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 fanned
The moon out, and the stars fled back
In heaven and hid—and all was black!
But ah! To-night a summons came,
Signed with a teardrop for a name,—
For as I wondering kissed it, lo,
A line beneath it told me so.
And now—the moon hangs over me
A disk of dazzling brilliancy,
And every star-tip stabs my sight
With splintered glitterings of light!
SEPTEMBER DARK.
I.
The air falls chill;
The whip-poor-will
Pipes lonesomely behind the hill:
The dusk grows dense,
The silence tense;
And lo, the katydids commence.
II.
Through shadowy rifts
Of woodland, lifts
The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
While left and right
The fireflies' light
Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.
III.
O Cloudland, gray
And level, lay
Thy mists across the face of Day!
At foot and head,
Above the dead,
O Dews, weep on uncomforted!
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 atmosphere
Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet
From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer
O'er the grasses, green and sweet.
And I peered through a vista of leaning trees,
Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept
To the face of a river, that answered these
With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze,
Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept
And kissed them, with quavering ecstacies,
And gurgled and laughed and wept.
And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear
I saw Pan lying,—his limbs in the dew
And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare
Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere,
Over, across, and around him blew
Filmy dragonflies hither and there,
And little white butterflies, two and two,
In eddies of odorous air.
OUT OF NAZARETH.
"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who 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 stars
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim
Dawn his courser neighed to him!
He said: "Let the sands be swarmed
With such thieves as I, and thou
Shalt at morning rise, unharmed,
Light as eyelash to the brow
Of thy camel, amber-eyed,
Ever munching either side,
Striding still, with nestled knees,
Through the midnight's oases.
"Who can rob thee an thou hast
More than this that thou hast cast
At my feet—this dust of gold?
Simply this and that, all told!
Hast thou not a treasure of
Such a thing as men call love?
"Can the dusky band I lead
Rob thee of thy daily need
Of a whiter soul, or steal
What thy lordly prayers reveal?
Who could be enriched of thee
By such hoard of poverty
As thy niggard hand pretends
To dole me—thy worst of friends?
Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless
One indeed who blesses thee;
Robbing thee, I dispossess
But myself.—Pray thou for me!"
He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes.
THE WANDERING JEW.
The stars are failing, and the sky
Is like a field of faded flowers;
The winds on weary wings go by;
The moon hides, and the temptest lowers;
And still through every clime and age
I wander on a pilgrimage
That 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 brink
Of cooling springs, with childish dreams
Returning as I bend to drink—
But suddenly, with startled eyes,
My face looks on its grim disguise
Of long gray beard; and so, distressed,
I hasten on, nor taste of rest.
I come upon a merry group
Of 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-face
Is like to one His hands have blessed
Who sent me forth in search of rest.
Sometimes I fain would stay my feet
In shady lanes, where huddled kine
Couch in the grasses cool and sweet,
And lift their patient eyes to mine;
But I, for thoughts that ever then
Go 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 reign
Have I not passed eternity?
Have I not drank the fetid breath
Of every fevered phase of death,
And come unscathed through every pest
And scourge and plague that promised rest?
Have I not seen the stars go out
That shed their light o'er Galilee,
And mighty kingdoms tossed about
And crumbled clod-like in the sea?
Dead ashes of dead ages blow
And cover me like drifting snow,
And time laughs on as 'twere a jest
That I have any need of rest.
LONGFELLOW.
The winds have talked with him confidingly;
The trees have whispered to him; and the night
Hath 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 twitterings
Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.—
Nor shall he cease to sing—in every lay
Of Nature's voice he sings—and will alway.
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 chair
By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!
And let their voices be gladly blent
With 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 glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old 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 don
A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone
Out on election days!
John, ah, John! did it prove your worth
To yield you the office you still maintain?
To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth
Of all the happier things on earth
To the hunger of heart and brain?
Under the dusk of your villa trees,
Edging the drives where your blooded span
Paw 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 do
Dutifully all that is willed of you,
And marry as you shall choose!—
But O for the old-home voices, blent
With 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!