DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL.
I.
Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin
Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'!
Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin'
I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fishin'!
II.
On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over,
Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover:
Fish all out a visitin'—'cept some dratted minnor!
Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner.
III.
Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin'
In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':—
Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me!
And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me!
NESSMUK.
I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone
Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry!
True forester thou art, and still to be,
Even in happier fields than thou hast known.
Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown
Of groves delectable—"preserves" for thee—
Ranged but by friends of thine—I name thee three:—
First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown
With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green,
Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood;
And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene:
These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise,
Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise
To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should.
AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY.
I've thought a power on men and things,
As my uncle ust to say,—
And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings!
W'y, they ain't no use to pray!
Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set
A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet,
And tears won't bring it, w'y, you try sweat,
As my uncle ust to say.
They's some don't know their A, B, Cs,
As my uncle ust to say,
And yit don't waste no candle-grease,
Ner whistle their lives away!
But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme
No ringin' song fer to last all time,
They can blaze the way fer the march sublime,
As my uncle ust to say.
Whoever's Foreman of all things here,
As my uncle ust to say,
He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer,
And our round-up, night and day:
And a-sizin' His work, east and west,
And north and south, and worst and best
I ain't got nothin' to suggest,
As my uncle ust to say.
THE SINGER.
While with Ambition's hectic flame
He wastes the midnight oil,
And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame,
To rest him from his toil,—
Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse,
Above him spreads her wings,
And fans the embers of his lips
To ashes as he sings.
A FULL HARVEST.
Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day
Git down and roll and waller, don't you know,
In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow,
Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say
There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway
Afore this season!—Folks is keerless tho',
And too fergitful—'caze we'd ort 'o show
More thankfulness!—Jes' looky hyonder, hey?—
And watch that little reaper wadin' thue
That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground—
Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two
Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around
The field—like it had nothin' else to do
On'y jes' waste it all on me and you!
BLIND.
You think it is a sorry thing
That I am blind. Your pitying
Is welcome to me; yet indeed,
I think I have but little need
Of it. Though you may marvel much
That we, who see by sense of touch
And taste and hearing, see things you
May never look upon; and true
Is it that even in the scent
Of blossoms we find something meant
No eyes have in their faces read,
Or wept to see interpreted.
And you might think it strange if now
I told you you were smiling. How
Do I know that? I hold your hand—
Its language I can understand—
Give both to me, and I will show
You many other things I know.
Listen: We never met before
Till now?—Well, you are something lower
Than five-feet-eight in height; and you
Are slender; and your eyes are blue—
Your mother's eyes—your mother's hair—
Your mother's likeness everywhere
Save in your walk—and that is quite
Your father's; nervous.—Am I right?
I thought so. And you used to sing,
But have neglected everything
Of vocalism—though you may
Still thrum on the guitar, and play
A little on the violin,—
I know that by the callous in
The finger-tips of your left hand—
And, by-the-bye, though nature planned
You as most men, you are, I see,
"Left-handed," too,—the mystery
Is clear, though,—your right arm has been
Broken, to "break" the left one in.
And so, you see, though blind of sight,
I still have ways of seeing quite
Too well for you to sympathize
Excessively, with your good eyes.—
Though once, perhaps, to be sincere,
Within the whole asylum here,
From cupola to basement hall,
I was the blindest of them all!
Let us move further down the walk—
The man here waiting hears my talk,
And is disturbed; besides, he may
Not be quite friendly anyway.
In fact—(this will be far enough;
Sit down)—the man just spoken of
Was once a friend of mine. He came
For treatment here from Burlingame—
A rich though brilliant student there,
Who read his eyes out of repair,
And groped his way up here, where we
Became acquainted, and where he
Met one of our girl-teachers, and,
If you 'll believe me, asked her hand
In marriage, though the girl was blind
As I am—and the girl declined.
Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see
Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he?
And handsome, eloquently wide
And high of brow, and dignified
With every outward grace, his sight
Restored to him, clear and bright
As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still
For the blind girl that never will
Be wife of his. How do I know?
You will recall a while ago
I told you he and I were friends.
In all that friendship comprehends,
I was his friend, I swear! why now,
Remembering his love, and how
His confidence was all my own,
I hear, in fancy, the low tone
Of his deep voice, so full of pride
And passion, yet so pacified
With his affliction, that it seems
An utterance sent out of dreams
Of saddest melody, withal
So sorrowfully musical
It was, and is, must ever be—
But I'm digressing, pardon me.
I knew not anything of love
In those days, but of that above
All worldly passion,—for my art—
Music,—and that, with all my heart
And soul, blent in a love too great
For words of mine to estimate.
And though among my pupils she
Whose love my friend sought came to me
I only knew her fingers' touch
Because they loitered overmuch
In simple scales, and needs must be
Untangled almost constantly.
But she was bright in other ways,
And quick of thought, with ready plays
Of wit, and with a voice as sweet
To listen to as one might meet
In any oratorio—
And once I gravely told her so,—
And, at my words, her limpid tone
Of laughter faltered to a moan,
And fell from that into a sigh
That quavered all so wearily,
That I, without the tear that crept
Between the keys, had known she wept;
And yet the hand I reached for then
She caught away, and laughed again.
And when that evening I strolled
With my old friend, I, smiling, told
Him I believed the girl and he
Were matched and mated perfectly:
He was so noble; she, so fair
Of speech, and womanly of air;
He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild
And artless even as a child;
And with a nature, I was sure,
As worshipful as it was pure
And sweet, and brimmed with tender things
Beyond his rarest fancyings.
He stopped me solemnly. He knew,
He said, how good, and just, and true
Was all I said of her; but as
For his own virtues, let them pass,
Since they were nothing to the one
That he had set his heart upon;
For but that morning she had turned
Forever from him. Then I learned
That for a month he had delayed
His going from us, with no aid
Of hope to hold him,—meeting still
Her ever firm denial, till
Not even in his new-found sight
He found one comfort or delight.
And as his voice broke there, I felt
The brother-heart within me melt
In warm compassion for his own
That throbbed so utterly alone.
And then a sudden fancy hit
Along my brain; and coupling it
With a belief that I, indeed,
Might help my friend in his great need,
I warmly said that I would go
Myself, if he decided so,
And see her for him—that I knew
My pleadings would be listened to
Most seriously, and that she
Should love him, listening to me.
Go; bless me! And that was the last—
The last time his warm hand shut fast
Within my own—so empty since,
That the remembered finger-prints
I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet
Them with the tears of all regret!
I know not how to rightly tell
How fared my quest, and what befell
Me, coming in the presence of
That blind girl, and her blinder love.
I know but little else than that
Above the chair in which she sat
I leant—reached for, and found her hand,
And held it for a moment, and
Took up the other—held them both—
As might a friend, I will take oath:
Spoke leisurely, as might a man
Praying for no thing other than
He thinks Heaven's justice;—She was blind,
I said, and yet a noble mind
Most truly loved her; one whose fond
Clear-sighted vision looked beyond
The bounds of her infirmity,
And saw the woman, perfectly
Modeled, and wrought out pure and true
And lovable. She quailed, and drew
Her hands away, but closer still
I caught them. "Rack me as you will!"
She cried out sharply—"Call me 'blind'—
Love ever is—I am resigned!
Blind is your friend; as blind as he
Am I—but blindest of the three—
Yea, blind as death—you will not see
My love for you is killing me!"
There is a memory that may
Not ever wholly fade away
From out my heart, so bright and fair
The light of it still glimmers there.
Why, it did seem as though my sight
Flamed back upon me, dazzling white
And godlike. Not one other word
Of hers I listened for or heard,
But I saw songs sung in her eyes
Till they did swoon up drowning-wise,
As my mad lips did strike her own
And we flashed one and one alone!
Ah! was it treachery for me
To kneel there, drinking eagerly
That torrent-flow of words that swept
Out laughingly the tears she wept?—
Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe,
Than light of day to those that see,—
God knows, who did the rapture send
To me, and hold it from my friend.
And we were married half a year
Ago,—and he is—waiting here,
Heedless of that—or anything,
But just that he is lingering
To say good-bye to her, and bow—
As you may see him doing now,—
For there's her footstep in the hall;
God bless her!—help him!—save us all!
RIGHT HERE AT HOME.
Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom,
Where strangers allus joke us when they come,
And brag o' their old States and interprize—
Yit settle here; and 'fore they realize,
They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live
Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive!
Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess,
Fer me and you and plain old happiness:
We hear the World's lots grander—likely so,—
We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.—
We know its ways aint our ways—so we'll stay
Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.
Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do
Man's plenty rich enough—and knows it, too,
And's got a' extry dollar, any time,
To boost a feller up 'at wants to climb
And 's got the git-up in him to go in
And git there, like he purt'-nigh allus kin!
Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!—
Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's';
And where a common feller's jes as good
As ary other in the neighborhood:
The World at large don't worry you and me
Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!
Right here at home, boys—jes right where we air!—
Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere:
Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows
Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,—
All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight,
Right here at home, boys, ef we size 'em right.
Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place
Is sacerd to us as our mother's face,
Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled
And kissed us—dyin' so and rickonciled,
Seein' us all at home here—none astray—
Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day.
THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR.
He seemed so strange to me, every way—
In manner, and form, and size,
From the boy I knew but yesterday,—
I could hardly believe my eyes!
To hear his name called over there,
My memory thrilled with glee
And leaped to picture him young and fair
In youth, as he used to be.
But looking, only as glad eyes can,
For the boy I knew of yore,
I smiled on a portly little man
I had never seen before!—
Grave as a judge in courtliness—
Professor-like and bland—
A little fat doctor and nothing less,
With his hat in his kimboed hand.
But how we talked old times, and "chaffed"
Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"—-
And how the little fat doctor laughed,
And how I laughed with him!
"And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see
The face of the youth that was,
To know no boy could smile on me
As the little fat doctor does!"
THE SHOEMAKER.
Thou Poet, who, like any lark,
Dost whet thy beak and trill
From misty morn till murky dark,
Nor ever pipe thy fill:
Hast thou not, in thy cheery note,
One poor chirp to confer—
One verseful twitter to devote
Unto the Shoe-ma-ker?
At early dawn he doth peg in
His noble work and brave;
And eke from cark and wordly sin
He seeketh soles to save;
And all day long, with quip and song,
Thus stitcheth he the way
Our feet may know the right from wrong,
Nor ever go a stray.
Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker,
Nor slight his lasting fame:
Alway he waxeth tenderer
In warmth of our acclaim;—
Aye, more than any artisan
We glory in his art
Who ne'er, to help the under man,
Neglects the upper part.
But toe the mark for him, and heel
Respond to thee in kine—
Or kid—or calf, shouldst thou reveal
A taste so superfine:
Thus let him jest—join in his laugh—
Draw on his stock, and be
A shoer'd there's no rival half
Sole liberal as he.
Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker
For all his goodly deeds,—
Yea, bless him free for booting thee—
The first of all thy needs!
And when at last his eyes grow dim,
And nerveless drops his clamp,
In golden shoon pray think of him
Upon his latest tramp.
THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN.
The old sea captain has sailed the seas
So long, that the waves at mirth,
Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these,
Were as near playmates from birth:
He has loved both the storm and the calm, because
They seemed as his brothers twain,—
The flapping sail was his soul's applause,
And his rapture, the roaring main.
But now—like a battered hulk seems he,
Cast high on a foreign strand,
Though he feels "in port," as it need must be,
And the stay of a daughter's hand—
Yet ever the round of the listless hours,—
His pipe, in the languid air—
The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers,
And the strange earth everywhere!
And so betimes he is restless here
In this little inland town,
With never a wing in the atmosphere
But the wind-mill's, up and down;
His daughter's home in this peaceful vale,
And his grandchild 'twixt his knees—
But never the hail of a passing sail,
Nor the surge of the angry seas!
He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck—
Would speak, though he coughs instead,
Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck
With a reeling mast o'erhead!
Ho! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm,
And his eyes gleam grim and weird,
As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm,
In the cloud of his beetling beard.
ROBERT BURNS WILSON.
What intuition named thee?—Through what thrill
Of the awed soul came the command divine
Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine
Should palpitate with his whose raptures will
Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill
Their undulating ways up through the fine
Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line
Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still
The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised
His voice therein, and, quit of every stress
Of earthly ache and longing and despair,
Knew certainly each simple thing he praised
Was no less worthy, for its lowliness,
Than any joy of all the glory There.
TO THE SERENADER.
Tinkle on, O sweet guitar,
Let the dancing fingers
Loiter where the low notes are
Blended with the singer's:
Let the midnight pour the moon's
Mellow wine of glory
Down upon him through the tune's
Old romantic story!
I am listening, my love,
Through the cautious lattice,
Wondering why the stars above
All are blinking at us;
Wondering if his eyes from there
Catch the moonbeam's shimmer
As it lights the robe I wear
With a ghostly glimmer.
Lilt thy song, and lute away
In the wildest fashion:—
Pour thy rippling roundelay
O'er the heights of passion!—
Flash it down the fretted strings
Till thy mad lips, missing
All but smothered whisperings,
Press this rose I'm kissing.
THE WIFE-BLESSÉD.
I.
In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur,
Lorn-faced and long of hair—
In youth—in youth he painted her
A sister of the air—
Could clasp her not, but felt the stir
Of pinions everywhere.
II.
She lured his gaze, in braver days,
And tranced him sirenwise;
And he did paint her, through a haze
Of sullen paradise,
With scars of kisses on her face
And embers in her eyes.
III.
And now—nor dream nor wild conceit—
Though faltering, as before—
Through tears he paints her, as is meet,
Tracing the dear face o'er
With lilied patience meek and sweet
As Mother Mary wore.
SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION.
I thought the deacon liked me, yit
I warn't adzackly shore of it—
Fer, mind ye, time and time agin,
When jiners 'ud be comin' in,
I'd seed him shakin' hands as free
With all the sistern as with me!
But jurin' last Revival, where
He called on me to lead in prayer,
An' kneeled there with me, side by side,
A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified
Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"—
That settled things as fur as them-
Thare other wimmin was concerned!—
And—well!—I know I must a-turned
A dozen colors!—Flurried?—la!—
No mortal sinner never saw
A gladder widder than the one
A-kneelin' there and wonderun'
Who'd pray'—So glad, upon my word,
I railly could n't thank the Lord!
THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT.
All hope of rest withdrawn me?—
What dread command hath put
This awful curse upon me—
The curse of the wandering foot!
Forward and backward and thither,
And hither and yon again—
Wandering ever! And whither?
Answer them, God! Amen.
The blue skies are far o'er me—-
The bleak fields near below:
Where the mother that bore me?—
Where her grave in the snow?—
Glad in her trough of a coffin—
The sad eyes frozen shut
That wept so often, often,
The curse of the wandering foot!
Here in your marts I care not
Whatsoever ye think.
Good folk many who dare not
Give me to eat and drink:
Give me to sup of your pity—
Feast me on prayers!—O ye,
Met I your Christ in the city
He would fare forth with me—
Forward and onward and thither,
And hither again and yon,
With milk for our drink together
And honey to feed upon—
Nor hope of rest withdrawn us,
Since the one Father put
The blesséd curse upon us—
The curse of the wandering foot.
A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS.
A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it oft
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
THE RIVAL.
I so loved once, when Death came by I hid
Away my face,
And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid
To make my hiding-place.
The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and
I turned me then
To calm my love—kiss down her shielding hand
And comfort her again.
And lo! she answered not: And she did sit
All fixedly,
With her fair face and the sweet smile of it,
In love with Death, not me.
IRY AND BILLY AND JO.
Iry an' Billy an' Jo!—
Iry an' Billy's the boys,
An' Jo's their dog, you know,—
Their pictures took all in a row.
Bet they kin kick up a noise—
Iry and Billy, the boys,
And that-air little dog Jo!
Iry's the one 'at stands
Up there a-lookin' so mild
An' meek—with his hat in his hands,
Like such a 'bediant child—
(Sakes-alive!)—An' Billy he sets
In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' sweats
Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good! Ho-ho!
Iry an' Billy an' Jo!
Yit the way them boys, you know,
Usen to jes turn in
An' fight over that dog Jo
Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin !—
Iry he'd argy 'at, by gee-whizz!
That-air little Jo-dog wuz his!—
An' Billy he'd claim it wuzn't so—
'Cause the dog wuz his'n!—An' at it they'd go,
Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know—
Iry an' Billy an' Jo!
But their Pa—(He wuz the marshal then)
He 'tended-like 'at he jerked 'em up;
An' got a jury o' Brickyard men
An' helt a trial about the pup:
An' he says he jes like to a-died
When the rest o' us town-boys testified—
Regardin', you know,
Iry an' Billy an' Jo.—
'Cause we all knowed, when the Gypsies they
Camped down here by the crick last Fall,
They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away
To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all!—
So the jury fetched in the verdick so
Jo he ain't neether o' theirn fer shore—
He's both their dog, an' jes no more!
An' so
They've quit quarrelin' long ago,
Iry an' Billy an' Jo.
A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME.
In its color, shade and shine,
'T was a summer warm as wine,
With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine,
And a fragrance and a taste
Of ripe roses gone to waste,
And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced.
'Twas a summer such as broods
O'er enchanted solitudes,
Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods,
And with lavish love out-pours
All the wealth of out-of-doors,
And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors.
'Twas a summertime long dead,—
And its roses, white and red,
And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed,—
O they all are ghostly things—
For the ripple never sings,
And the rocking lily never even rustles as it rings!
HER BEAUTIFUL EYES.
O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew
On the violet's bloom when the morning is new,
And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun
O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run:
As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies—
So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.
And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me,
When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,
And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,
And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet
And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies—
So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.
O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own
As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne;
And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar
Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star,
And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise—
So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes.
DOT LEEDLE BOY.
Ot's a leedle Christmas story
Dot I told der leedle folks—
Und I vant you stop dot laughin'
Und grackin' funny jokes'—
So-help me Peter-Moses!
Ot's no time for monkeyshine',
Ober I vas told you somedings
Of dot leedle boy of mine!
Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder,
Ven der snow vas all about—
Dot you have to chop der hatchet
Eef you got der saur kraut!
Und der cheekens on der hind-leg
Vas standin' in der shine
Der sun shmile out dot morning
On dot leedle boy of mine.
He vas yoost a leedle baby
Not bigger as a doll
Dot time I got acquaintet—
Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!—
I grackys! dot's der moosic
Ot make me feel so fine
Ven first I vas been marriet—
Oh, dot leedle boy of mine!
He look' yoost like his fader!—
So, ven der vimmen said
"Vot a purty leedle baby!"
Katrina shake der head.
I dink she must a-notice
Dot der baby vas a-gryin',
Und she cover up der blankets
Of dot leedle boy of mine.
Vel, ven he vas got bigger,
Dot he grawl und bump his nose,
Und make der table over,
Und molasses on his glothes—
Dot make 'im all der sveeter,—
So I say to my Katrine
"Better you vas quit a-shpankin'
Dot leedle boy of mine!"
I vish you could a-seen id—
Ven he glimb up on der chair
Und shmash der lookin' glasses
Ven he try to comb his hair
Mit a hammer!—Und Katrina
Say "Dot's an ugly sign!"
But I laugh und vink my fingers
At dot leedle boy of mine.
But vonce, dot Vinter morning,
He shlip out in der snow
Mitout no stockin's on 'im.—
He say he "vant to go
Und fly some mit der birdies!"
Und ve give 'im medi-cine
Ven he catch der "parrygoric"—
Dot leedle boy of mine!
Und so I set und nurse 'im,
Vile der Christmas vas come roun',
Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle,"
How he come der chimbly down:
Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im
Eef he bring 'im someding fine?
"Nicht besser as mein fader,"
Say dot leedle boy of mine.—
Und he put his arms aroun' me
Und hug so close und tight,
I hear der gclock a-tickin'
All der balance of der night! . . .
Someding make me feel so funny
Ven I say to my Katrine
"Let us go und fill der stockin's
Of dot leedle boy of mine."
Veil.—Ve buyed a leedle horses
Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring,
Und a leedle fancy jay-bird—
Eef you vant to hear 'im sing
You took 'im by der top-knot
Und yoost blow in behine—
Und dot make much spectakel—
For dot leedle boy of mine!
Und gandles, nuts and raizens—
Unt I buy a leedle drum
Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle
Ven der Gristmas morning come!
Und a leedle shmall tin rooster
Dot vould crow so loud und fine
Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning,
Dot leedle boy of mine!
Und—vile ve vas a-fixin'—
Dot leedle boy vake out!
I fought he been a-dreamin'
"Kriss Kringle" vas about,—
For he say—"Dot's him!—I see 'im
Mit der shtars dot make der shine!"
Und he yoost keep on a-gryin'—
Dot leedle boy of mine,—
Und gottin' vorse und vorser—
Und tumble on der bed!
So—ven der doctor seen id,
He kindo' shake his head,
Und feel his pulse—und visper
"Der boy is a-dyin'."
You dink I could believe id?—
Dot leedle boy of mine?
I told you, friends—dot's someding,
Der last time dot he speak
Und say "Goot-bye, Kriss Kringle!"
—Dot make me feel so veak
I yoost kneel down und drimble,
Und bur-sed out a-gryin'
"Mein Goit, mein Gott im Himmel!—
Dot leedle boy, of mine!"
* * * * *
Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas!
. . . Eef dot leedle boy vould liff'd—
No deefer-en'! for Heaven vas
His leedle Gristmas-gift! . . .
Und der rooster, und der gandy,
Und me—und my Katrine—
Und der jay-bird—is a-vaiting
For dot leedle boy of mine.
DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE.
Donn Piatt—of Mac-o-chee,—
Not the one of History,
Who, with flaming tongue and pen,
Scathes the vanities of men;
Not the one whose biting wit
Cuts pretense and etches it
On the brazen brow that dares
Filch the laurel that it wears:
Not the Donn Piatt whose praise
Echoes in the noisy ways
Of the faction, onward led
By the statesman!—But, instead,
Give the simple man to me,—
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
II.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
Branches of the old oak tree,
Drape him royally in fine
Purple shade and golden shine!
Emerald plush of sloping lawn
Be the throne he sits upon!
And, O Summer sunset, thou
Be his crown, and gild a brow
Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed
By the breezes, mellow-palmed
As Erata's white hand agleam
On the forehead of a dream.—
So forever rule o'er me,
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
III.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee:
Through a lilied memory
Plays the wayward little creek
Round thy home at hide-and-seek—
As I see and hear it, still
Romping round the wooded hill,
Till its laugh-and-babble blends
With the silence while it sends
Glances back to kiss the sight,
In its babyish delight,
Ere it strays amid the gloom
Of the glens that burst in bloom
Of the rarest rhyme for thee,
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
IV.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
What a darling destiny
Has been mine—to meet him there—
Lolling in an easy chair
On the terrace, while he told
Reminiscences of old—
Letting my cigar die out,
Hearing poems talked about;
And entranced to hear him say
Gentle things of Thackeray,
Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest,
Known to him as host and guest—
Known to him as he to me—
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
THEM FLOWERS.
Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf,
All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore—
Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself
With a stiff upper-lip any more;
Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room
As dark as the tomb, and as grim,
And then take and send him some roses in bloom,
And you can have fun out o' him!
You've ketched him 'fore now—when his liver was sound
And his appetite notched like a saw—
A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round
With a big posy-bunch in yer paw;
But you ketch him, say, when his health is away,
And he's flat on his back in distress,
And then you kin trot out yer little bokay
And not be insulted, I guess!
You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is,—
Them flowers makes him think of the days
Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his,
And the roses that she us't to raise:—
So here, all alone with the roses you send—
Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint,—
My eyes is—my eyes is—my eyes is—old friend—
Is a-leakin'—I'm blamed ef they ain't!
THE QUIET LODGER.
The man that rooms next door to me:
Two weeks ago, this very night,
He took possession quietly,
As any other lodger might—
But why the room next mine should so
Attract him I was vexed to know,—
Because his quietude, in fine,
Was far superior to mine.
"Now, I like quiet, truth to tell,
A tranquil life is sweet to me—
But this," I sneered, "suits me too well.—
He shuts his door so noiselessly,
And glides about so very mute,
In each mysterious pursuit,
His silence is oppressive, and
Too deep for me to understand."
Sometimes, forgetting book or pen,
I've found my head in breathless poise
Lifted, and dropped in shame again,
Hearing some alien ghost of noise—
Some smothered sound that seemed to be
A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly,
Or the crisp writhings of some quire
Of manuscript thrust in the fire.
Then I have climbed, and closed in vain
My transom, opening in the hall;
Or close against the window-pane
Have pressed my fevered face,—but all
The day or night without held not
A sight or sound or counter-thought
To set my mind one instant free
Of this man's silent mastery.
And often I have paced the floor
With muttering anger, far at night,
Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er,
The muffled noises, and the light
And tireless movements of this guest
Whose silence raged above my rest
Hoarser than howling storms at sea—
The man that rooms next door to me.
But twice or thrice, upon the stair,
I've seen his face—most strangely wan,—
Each time upon me unaware
He came—smooth'd past me, and was gone.
So like a whisper he went by,
I listened after, ear and eye,
Nor could my chafing fancy tell
The meaning of one syllable.
Last night I caught him, face to face,—
He entering his room, and I
Glaring from mine: He paused a space
And met my scowl all shrinkingly,
But with full gentleness: The key
Turned in his door—and I could see
It tremblingly withdrawn and put
Inside, and then—the door was shut.
Then silence. Silence!—why, last night
The silence was tumultuous,
And thundered on till broad daylight;—
O never has it stunned me thus!—
It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet.—
Ah, God! how loud may silence get
When man mocks at a brother man
Who answers but as silence can!
The silence grew, and grew, and grew,
Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard
Throughout the house; and men flocked through
The echoing halls, with faces blurred
With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe,
And shuddering at what they saw—
The quiet lodger, as he lay
Stark of the life he cast away.
* * * * *
So strange to-night—those voices there,
Where all so quiet was before;
They say the face has not a care
Nor sorrow in it any more—
His latest scrawl:—"Forgive me—You
Who prayed, 'they know not what they do!'"
My tears wilt never let me see
This man that rooms next door to me!
THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT.
O the waiting in the watches of the night!
In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright;
The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight:
The ever weary memory that ever weary goes
Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows—
The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose—
In the dreary, weary watches of the night!
Dark—stifling dark—the watches of the night!
With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white
With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight!—
What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought
that may not be redressed—
Of tears we did not brush away—of lips we left unpressed,
And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed!
Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night!
What solace in the watches of the night?—
What frailest staff of hope to stay—what faintest shaft of light?
Do we dream and dare believe it, that by never weight of right
Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last—
Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past,
In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom
that flees aghast—
Shall we survive the watches of the night?
One leads us through the watches of the night—
By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight
He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might;—
With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears,
Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears,
And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears
In the waning of the watches of the night.
HIS VIGIL.
Close the book and dim the light,
I shall read no more to-night.
No—I am not sleepy, dear—
Do not go: sit by me here
In the darkness and the deep
Silence of the watch I keep.
Something in your presence so
Soothes me—as in long ago
I first felt your hand—as now—
In the darkness touch my brow;
I've no other wish than you
Thus should fold mine eyelids to,
Saying nought of sigh or tear—
Just as God were sitting here.
THE PLAINT HUMAN
Season of snows, and season of flowers,
Seasons of loss and gain!—
Since grief and joy must alike be ours,
Why do we still complain?
Ever our failing, from sun to sun,
O my intolerent brother:—
We want just a little too little of one,
And much too much of the other.
BY ANY OTHER NAME.
First the teacher called the roll,
Clos't to the beginnin',
"Addeliney Bowersox!"
Set the school a-grinnin'.
Wintertime, and stingin'-cold
When the session took up—
Cold as we all looked at her,
Though she couldn't look up!
Total stranger to us, too—
Country-folks ain't allus
Nigh so shameful unpolite
As some people call us!—
But the honest facts is, then,
Addeliney Bower-
Sox's feelin's was so hurt
She cried half an hour!
My dest was acrost from her 'n:
Set and watched her tryin'
To p'tend she didn't keer,
And a kind o' dryin'
Up her tears with smiles—-tel I
Thought, "Well, 'Addeliney
Bowersox' is plain, but she's
Purty as a piney!"
It's be'n many of a year
Sence that most oncommon
Cur'ous name o' Bowersox
Struck me so abomin-
Nubble and outlandish-like!—
I changed it to Adde-
Liney Daubenspeck—and that
Nearly killed her Daddy!
TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST.
Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost!
Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin
Impalpable transparency of grin;
And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost
Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast
Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin,
And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in,
Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast
That I am helpless to combat thee! Well,
Have at thee, then! Yet if a doom most dire
Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst!—Revile
Me not, Miasmic Mist!—Rank Air! retire!
One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll
Inhale thee, O thou wraith despicable!
THE QUARREL.
They faced each other: Topaz-brown
And lambent burnt her eyes and shot
Sharp flame at his of amethyst.—
"I hate you! Go, and be forgot
As death forgets!" their glitter hissed
(So seemed it) in their hatred. Ho!
Dared any mortal front her so?—
Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down—
Tense nostril, mouth—no muscle slack,—
And black—the suffocating black—
The stifling blackness of her frown!
Ah! but the lifted face of her!
And the twitched lip and tilted head!
Yet he did neither wince nor stir,—
Only—his hands clenched; and, instead
Of words, he answered with a stare
That stammered not in aught it said,
As might his voice if trusted there.
And what—what spake his steady gaze?—
Was there a look that harshly fell
To scoff her?—or a syllable
Of anger?—or the bitter phrase
That myrrhs the honey of love's lips,
Or curdles blood as poison drips?
What made their breasts to heave and swell
As billows under bows of ships
In broken seas on stormy days?
We may not know—nor they indeed—
What mercy found them in their need.
A sudden sunlight smote the gloom;
And round about them swept a breeze,
With faint breaths as of clover-bloom;
A bird was heard, through drone of bees,—
Then, far and clear and eerily,
A child's voice from an orchard-tree—
Then laughter, sweet as the perfume
Of lilacs, could the hearing see.
And he—O Love! he fed thy name
On bruiséd kisses, while her dim
Deep eyes, with all their inner flame,
Like drowning gems were turned on him.
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.
I.
As one in sorrow looks upon
The dead face of a loyal friend,
By the dim light of New Year's dawn
I saw the Old Year end.
Upon the pallid features lay
The dear old smile—so warm and bright
Ere thus its cheer had died away
In ashes of delight.
The hands that I had learned to love
With strength of passion half divine,
Were folded now, all heedless of
The emptiness of mine.
The eyes that once had shed their bright
Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,
And ever lidded from the light
That made them beautiful.
II.
The chimes of bells were in the air,
And sounds of mirth in hall and street,
With pealing laughter everywhere
And throb of dancing feet:
The mirth and the convivial din
Of revelers in wanton glee,
With tunes of harp and violin
In tangled harmony.
But with a sense of nameless dread,
I turned me, from the merry face
Of this newcomer, to my dead;
And, kneeling there a space,
I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:—
By this dear face so fixed and cold,
O Lord, let not this New Year be
As happy as the old!
THE HEREAFTER.
Hereafter! O we need not waste
Our smiles or tears, whatever befall:
No happiness but holds a taste
Of something sweeter, after all;—
No depth of agony but feels
Some fragment of abiding trust,—
Whatever death unlocks or seals,
The mute beyond is just.
JOHN BROWN.
Writ in between the lines of his life-deed
We trace the sacred service of a heart
Answering the Divine command, in every part
Bearing on human weal: His love did feed
The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead
The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart
Of other wounds than rankled at the dart
In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed.
He served the lowliest first—nay, them alone—
The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath
In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat
Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.—
For these doomed there it was he went to death.
God! how the merest man loves one like that!
A CUP OF TEA.
I have sipped, with drooping lashes,
Dreamy draughts of Verzenay;
I have flourished brandy-smashes
In the wildest sort of way;
I have joked with "Tom and Jerry"
Till wee hours ayont the twal'—
But I've found my tea the very
Safest tipple of them all!
'Tis a mystical potation
That exceeds in warmth of glow
And divine exhilaration
All the drugs of long ago—
All of old magicians' potions—
Of Medea's filtered spells—
Or of fabled isles and oceans
Where the Lotos-eater dwells!
Though I've reveled o'er late lunches
With blasé dramatic stars,
And absorbed their wit and punches
And the fumes of their cigars—
Drank in the latest story,
With a cock-tail either end,—
I have drained a deeper glory
In a cup of tea, my friend.
Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa,
Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey—
No odds the name it knows—ah!
Fill a cup of it for me!
And, as I clink my china
Against your goblet's brim,
My tea in steam shall twine a
Fragrant laurel round its rim.
JUDITH.
O her eyes are amber-fine—
Dark and deep as wells of wine,
While her smile is like the noon
Splendor of a day of June.
If she sorrow—lo! her face
It is like a flowery space
In bright meadows, overlaid
With light clouds and lulled with shade
If she laugh—it is the trill
Of the wayward whippoorwill
Over upland pastures, heard
Echoed by the mocking-bird
In dim thickets dense with bloom
And blurred cloyings of perfume.
If she sigh—a zephyr swells
Over odorous asphodels
And wan lilies in lush plots
Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.
Then, the soft touch of her hand—
Takes all breath to understand
What to liken it thereto!—
Never roseleaf rinsed with dew
Might slip soother-suave than slips
Her slow palm, the while her lips
Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss
Sweet as heated honey is.
THE ARTEMUS OF MICHIGAN.
Grand Haven is in Michigan, and in possession, too,
Of as many rare attractions as our party ever knew:—
The fine hotel, the landlord, and the lordly bill of fare,
And the dainty-neat completeness of the pretty waiters there;
The touch on the piano in the parlor, and the trill
Of the exquisite soprano, in our fancy singing still;
Our cozy room, its comfort, and our thousand grateful tho'ts,
And at our door the gentle face
Of
H.
Y.
Potts!
His artless observations, and his drollery of style,
Bewildered with that sorrowful serenity of smile—
The eye's elusive twinkle, and the twitching of the lid,
Like he didn't go to say it and was sorry that he did.
O Artemus of Michigan! so worthy of the name,
Our manager indorses it, and Bill Nye does the same—
You tickled our affection in so many tender spots
That even Recollection laughs
At
H.
Y.
Potts!
And hark ye! O Grand Haven! count your rare attractions o'er—
The commerce of your ships at sea, and ships along the shore;
Your railroads, and your industries, and interests untold,
Your Opera House—our lecture, and the gate-receipts in gold!—
Ay, Banner Town of Michigan! count all your treasures through—
Your crowds of summer tourists, and your Sanitarium, too;
Your lake, your beach, your drives, your breezy groves
and grassy plots,
But head the list of all of these
With
H.
Y.
Potts!
THE HOODOO.
Owned a pair o' skates onc't.—Traded
Fer 'em,—stropped 'em on and waded
Up and down the crick, a-waitin'
Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'.
Mildest winter I remember—
More like Spring- than Winter-weather!—
Did n't frost tel bout December-
Git up airly ketch a' feather
Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder—
Sunshine swinge it like a cinder!
Well—I waited—and kep' waitin'!
Couldn't see my money's w'oth in
Them-air skates and was no skatin',
Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin'!
So, one day—along in airly
Spring—I swopped 'em off—and barely
Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather
Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet,
And crick—tail-race—all together,
Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it!
THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE
A TRAGI-COMEDY, IN ONE ACT.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
BILLY MILLER ) The Rivals
JOHNNY WILLIAMS )
TOMMY WELLS Conspirator
TIME—Noon: SCENE—Country Town—Rear-view of the Miller Mansion, showing Barn, with practical loft-window opening on alley-way, with colored-crayon poster beneath, announcing:—"BILLY MILLER'S Big Show and Monstur Circus and Equareum! A shour-bath fer Each and All fer 20 pins. This Afternoon! Don't fer git the date!" Enter TOMMY WELLS and JOHNNY WILLIAMS, who gaze awhile at poster, TOMMY secretly smiling and winking at BILLY MILLER, concealed at loft-window above.
TOMMY (to JOHNNY).
Guess 'at Billy haint got back,—
Can't see nothin' through the crack—-
Can't hear nothin' neither—No!
. . . Thinks he's got the dandy show,
Don't he?
JOHNNY (scornfully)—
'Course' but what I care?—
He haint got no show in there!—
What's he got in there but that
Old hen, cooped up with a cat
An' a turkle, an' that thing
'At he calls his "circus-ring?"
"What a circus-ring!" I'd quit!
Bet mine's twic't as big as it!
TOMMY—
Yes, but you got no machine
Wat you bathe with, painted green,
With a string to work it, guess!
JOHNNY (contemptuously)—
Folks don't bathe in circuses!—
Ladies comes to mine, you bet!
I' got seats where girls can set;
An' a dressin'-room, an' all,
Fixed up in my pony's stall—
Yes, an' I' got carpet, too,
Fer the tumblers, and a blue
Center-pole!
TOMMY—
Well, Billy, he's
Got a tight-rope an' trapeze,
An' a hoop 'at he jumps through
Head-first!
JOHNNY—
Well, what's that to do—
Lightin' on a pile o' hay?
Haint no actin' thataway!
TOMMY—
Don't care what you say, he draws
Bigger crowds than you do, 'cause
Sense he started up, I know
All the fellers says his show
Is the best-un!
JOHNNY—
Yes, an' he
Better not tell things on me!
His old circus haint no good!—
'Cause he's got the neighborhood
Down on me he thinks 'at I'm
Goin' to stand it all the time;
Thinks ist 'cause my Pa don't 'low
Me to fight, he's got me now.
An' can say I lie, an' call
Me ist anything at all!
Billy Miller thinks I am
'Feared to say 'at he says "dam"—
Yes, and worser ones! and I'm
Goin' to tell his folks sometime!—
An' ef he don't shet his head
I'll tell worse 'an that he said
When he fighted Willie King—
An' got licked like ever'thing!—
Billy Miller better shin
Down his Daddy's lane agin,
Like a cowardy-calf, an' climb
In fer home another time!
Better—
[Here BILLY leaps down from the loft upon his unsuspecting victim; and two minutes, later, JOHNNY, with the half of a straw hat, a bleeding nose, and a straight rent across one trouser-knee, makes his inglorious—exit.]