[Illustration: Eugene Field]

JOHN SMITH

U.S.A.

BY

EUGENE FIELD

AUTHOR OF

THE CLINK OF THE ICE

IN WINK-A-WAY-LAND

HOOSIER LYRICS, ETC.

1905.

INTRODUCTION.

From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen, genius—rare and quaint presents itself is childlike simplicity. That he was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit. He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain, Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which his imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the poetry and prose here presented.

Though never possessing an intimate acquaintanceship with Field, owing largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond of friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college, engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not surprising that I am able to say of him that "the world is better off that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate."

Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor.

CHARLES WALTER Brown.

Chicago, January, 1905.

CONTENTS.

  John Smith
  The Fisherman's Feast
  To John J. Knickerbocker, Jr.
  The Bottle and the Bird
  The Man Who Worked with Dana on the "Sun"
  A Democratic Hymn
  The Blue and the Gray
  It is the Printer's Fault
  Summer Heat
  Plaint of the Missouri 'Coon in the Berlin Zoological Gardens
  The Bibliomaniac's Bride
  Ezra J. M'Manus to a Soubrette
  The Monstrous Pleasant Ballad of the Taylor Pup
  Long Meter
  To DeWitt Miller
  Francois Villon
  Lydia Dick
  The Tin Bank
  In New Orleans
  The Peter-Bird
  Dibdin's Ghost
  An Autumn Treasure-Trove
  When the Poet Came
  The Perpetual Wooing
  My Playmates
  Mediaeval Eventide Song
  Alaskan Balladry
  Armenian Folk-Song—The Stork
  The Vision of the Holy Grail
  The Divine Lullaby
  Mortality
  A Fickle Woman
  Egyptian Folk-Song
  Armenian Folk-Song—The Partridge
  Alaskan Balladry, No. 1
  Old Dutch Love Song
  An Eclogue from Virgil
  Horace to Maecenas
  Horace's "Sailor and Shade"
  Uhland's "Chapel"
  "The Happy Isles" of Horace
  Horatian Lyrics
  Hugo's "Pool in the Forest"
  Horace I., 4
  Love Song—Heine
  Horace II., 3
  The Two Coffins
  Horace I., 31
  Horace to His Lute
  Horace I., 22
  The "Ars Poetica" of Horace XXIII
  Marthy's Younkit
  Abu Midjan
  The Dying Year
  Dead Roses

JOHN SMITH.

  To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be
  With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea;
  There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed
  And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast.
  This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by—
  Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I!
  "Oh, for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh, for a friendly face!
  Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!"
  And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will,
  Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill
  And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's,
  Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes.
  The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight
  A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight—
  The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day—
  The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U.S.A."

  Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name—
  I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same.
  I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West—
  I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best.
  His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue,
  And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue;
  Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette—
  Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet;
  I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem
  To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream,
  Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme
  Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime;
  So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"—your pedigree confess
  In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess";
  Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may
  Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A."

  It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago
  Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow;
  Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills
  And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills;
  Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size,
  And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies;
  Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond,
  And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond;
  Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent
  Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent;
  Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir,
  Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire:
  Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week,
  And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak,
  And where our grandmas sleep their sleep—God rest their souls, I say!
  And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A."

  Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know
  In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow;
  Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn
  Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn;
  You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott—
  Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot;
  And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true
  As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue;
  Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight,
  Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night;
  Whar blooms the furtive 'possum—pride an' glory of the South—
  And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth!
  Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees
  And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze,
  Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay—
  Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."!

  Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West—
  That part of our republic I shall always love the best?
  Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine
  In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine?
  Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side
  And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide;
  Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat,
  Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote,
  And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago
  (Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)!
  Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high
      again,
  And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then;
  The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro,
  And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below;
  And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way,
  Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.

  You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall,
  And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all!
  For when a man sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done)
  He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one—
  And so they are! For well you know there's nothing in a name—-
  Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths are happily the same;
  All represent the spirit of the land across the sea,
  All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free!
  Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East—
  So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least;
  Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine,
  He is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine!
  Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known,
  Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone!
  And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day
  Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U.S.A."

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.

  Of all the gracious gifts of Spring,
    Is there another can safely surpass
  This delicate, voluptuous thing—
    This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
  Upon a damask napkin laid,
    What exhalations superfine
  Our gustatory nerves pervade,
    Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine.

  The ancients loved this noble fish,
    And, coming from the kitchen fire
  All piping hot upon a dish,
    What raptures did he not inspire!
  "Fish should swim twice," they used to say—
    Once in their native vapid brine,
  And then a better way—
    You understand? Fetch on the wine!

  Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
    How often have I cast for you—
  How often sadly seen you scud
    Where weeds and pussy willows grew!
  How often have you filched my bait!
    How often have you snapped my treacherous line!—
  Yet here I have you on this plate.
    You shall swim twice, and now in wine!

  And, harkee, garcon! let the blood
    Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him—
  Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood
    This piscatorial pride should swim;
  So, were he living, he should say
    He gladly died for me and mine,
  And, as it was his native spray,
    He'd lash the sauce—What, ho! the wine!

  I would it were ordained for me
    To share your fate, oh finny friend!
  I surely were not loath to be
    Reserved for such a noble end;
  For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
    At last reels in his ruthless line,
  What were my ecstacy to swim
    In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!

  Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
    And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,
  Come hither every year and bring
    The boons provocative of mirth;
  And should your stock of bass run low,
    However much I might repine,
  I think I might survive the blow
    If plied with wine, and still more wine!

TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR.

  Whereas, good friend, it doth appear
    You do possess the notion
  To his awhile away from here
    To lands across the ocean;
  Now, by these presents we would show
    That, wheresoever wend you,
  And wheresoever gales may blow,
    Our friendship shall attend you.

  What though on Scotia's banks and braes
    You pluck the bonnie gowan,
  Or chat of old Chicago days
    O'er Berlin brew with Cowen;
  What though you stroll some boulevard
    In Paris (c'est la belle ville!),
  Or make the round of Scotland Yard
    With our lamented Melville?

  Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine
    True heart from true hearts sever?
  No—in this draught of honest wine
    We pledge it, comrade—never!
  Though mountain waves between us roll,
    Come fortune or disaster—
  'Twill knit us closer soul to soul
    And bind our friendships faster.

  So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd
    To loyalty's devotion,
  And here's to fortune that shall waft
    Your ship across the ocean,
  And here's a smile for those who prate
    Of Davy Jones's locker,
  And here's a pray'r in every fate—
    God bless you, Knickerbocker!

THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.

  Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go
  To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show,
  And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights
  We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights;
  When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,
  He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!"

  Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies
  Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes!
  There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine—
  A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!
  How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say:
  "Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"

  But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate—
  How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!
  You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches
  That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes;
  To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred
  What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird.

  Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,
  And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!
  What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied
  To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside!
  And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then
  Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!

  The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so,
  But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know!
  The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,
  Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,
  And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,
  Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.

  Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right
  If ever it has been your wont to train around at night;
  How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine,
  And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline!
  How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast,
  And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!

  But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly
  Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie—
  I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,
  Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;
  Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine—
  I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!

  So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the tell-tale day—
  Come hither with your fillets and your wreathes of posies gay;
  We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine
  Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine,
  And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard
  Of the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.

THE MAN WHO WORKED WITH DANA ON THE "SUN".

  Thar showed up out 'n Denver in the spring of '81
  A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
  His name was Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he was a sight ter view
  Ez he walked into the orfice 'nd inquired for work to do;
  Thar warn't no places vacant then—fer, be it understood,
  That was the time when talent flourished at that altitood;
  But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest
  Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best—
  'Til finally he stated (quite by chance) that he had done
  A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

  Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cuss
  Who'd worked f'r Mr. Dana must be good enough for us!
  And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could,
  For if we didn't take him we knew John Arkins would—
  And Cooper, too, wuz mousin' round for enterprise 'nd brains,
  Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains.
  At any rate, we nailed him—which made ol' Cooper swear
  And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair—
  But we set back and cackled, 'nd had a power uv fun
  With our man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

  It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop
  Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop;
  It seems that Dana was the biggest man you ever saw—
  He lived on human bein's 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw!
  If he had democratic drugs to take, before he took 'em,
  As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em!
  The man that could set down 'nd write like Dana never grew
  And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew.
  The consequence appeared to be that nearly everyone
  Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun.

  This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in—
  He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin;
  Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk—
  He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work!
  If any other cuss had played the tricks he dare ter play,
  The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day;
  But, somehow, folks respected him and stood him to the last,
  Considerin' his superior connections in the past;
  So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun
  On the man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

  Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83—
  A very different party from the man we thought ter see!
  A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm—
  You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm!
  A certain hearty manner 'nd a fullness uv the vest
  Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best;
  His face was so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind,
  That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind,
  And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair
  In promise of the golden crown He meaneth him to wear;
  So, uv us boys that met him out 'n Denver there wuz none
  But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun.

  But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83
  His old friend, Cantell Whoppers, disappeared upon a spree;
  The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so
  (They hadn't been together fer a year or two, you know)
  That he borrowed all the stuff he could and started on a bat,
  And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that.
  So when ol' Dana hove in sight we couldn't understand
  Why he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand;
  No casual allusion—not a question, no, not one—
  For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!

  We broke it gently to him, but he didn't seem surprised—
  Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised;
  He said that Whoppers wuz a man he didn't never heerd about,
  But he might have carried papers on a Jersey City route—
  And then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laflin say
  That he fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day,
  Which, with more likker underneath than money in his vest,
  Had started on a freight train fur the great 'nd boundin' West—
  But further information or statistics he had none
  Uv the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."

  We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss—
  When we get played fer suckers—why, that's a horse on us!
  But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff
  To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff
  A man who's "worked with Dana"—'nd then we fellers wink
  And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think.
  It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say
  If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away;
  And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun
  The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!

  But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years,
  To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears;
  An' may I live a thousan', too—a thousan', less a day,
  For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away.
  And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff
  Nor biographic data put in your epitaph;
  But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know
  The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe;
  You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run
  That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."

A DEMOCRATIC HYMN.

  Republicans of differing views
    Are pro or con protection;
  If that's the issue they would choose,
    Why, we have no objection.
  The issue we propose concerns
    Our hearts and homes more nearly:
  A wife to whom the nation turns
    And venerates so dearly.
  So, confident of what shall be,
    Our gallant host advances,
  Giving three cheers for Grover C.
    And three times three for Frances!

  So gentle is that honored dame,
    And fair beyond all telling,
  The very mention of her name
    Sets every breast to swelling.
  She wears no mortal crown of gold—
    No courtiers fawn around her—
  But with their love young hearts and old
    In loyalty have crowned her—
  And so with Grover and his bride
    We're proud to take our chances,
  And it's three times three for the twain give we—
    But particularly for Frances!

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

  The Blue and the Gray collided one day
    In the future great town of Missouri,
  And if all that we hear is the truth, 'twould appear
    That they tackled each other with fury.

  While the weather waxed hot they hove and they sot,
    Like the scow in the famous old story,
  And what made the fight an enjoyable sight
    Was the fact that they fought con amore.

  They as participants fought in such wise as was taught,
    As beseemed the old days of the dragons,
  When you led to the dance and defended with lance
    The damsel you pledged in your flagons.

  In their dialect way the knights of the Gray
    Gave a flout at the buckeye bandana,
  And the buckeye came back with a gosh-awful whack,
    And that's what's the matter with Hannah.

  This resisted attack took the Grays all a-back,
    And feeling less coltish and frisky,
  They resolved to elate the cause of their state,
    And also their persons, with whisky.

  Having made ample use of the treacherous juice,
    Which some folks say stings like an adder,
  They went back again at the handkerchief men,
    Who slowly got madder and madder.

  You can bet it was h—l in the Southern Hotel
    And elsewhere, too many to mention,
  But the worst of it all was achieved in the hall
    Where the President held his convention.

  They ripped and they hewed and they, sweating imbrued,
    Volleyed and bellowed and thundered;
  There was nothing to do until these yawpers got through,
    So the rest of us waited and wondered.

  As the result of these frays it appears that the Grays,
    Who once were as chipper as daisies,
  Have changed their complexion to one of dejection,
    And at present are bluer than blazes.

IT IS THE PRINTER'S FAULT.

  In Mrs. Potter's latest play
    The costuming is fine;
  Her waist is made decollete—
    Her skirt is new design.

SUMMER HEAT.

  Nay, why discuss this summer heat,
    Of which vain people tell?
  Oh, sinner, rather were it meet
    To fix thy thoughts on hell!

  The punishment ordained for you
    In that infernal spot
  Is het by Satan's impish crew
    And kept forever hot.

  Sumatra might be reckoned nice,
    And Tophet passing cool,
  And Sodom were a cake of ice
    Beside that sulphur pool.

  An awful stench and dismal wail
    Come from the broiling souls,
  Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail
    Stirs up the brimstone coals.

  Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet
    That thou shouldst ponder well,
  For what, oh, what, is worldly heat
    Unto the heat of hell?

PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

  Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know,
  And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow;
  I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate
  Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble state,
  And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree,
  Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.
  Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near
  While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.

  My pedigree is noble—they used my grandsire's skin
  To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within—
  Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare
  With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear!
  Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole,
  All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole—
  We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings
  As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things.

  And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh,
  Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby;
  And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night
  That nary 'coon could wollop him in a stand-up barrel fight;
  We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzourians know
  That ary 'coon can beat a dog if the 'coon gets half a show!
  But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n
  And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n!

  Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days—
  I cannot get acclimated or used to German ways;
  The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine
  For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine!
  The 'coon that's been used to stanch democratic cheer
  Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!
  No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms,
  But send me back from whence I came and let me grub for worms!

  They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons
  And wonder what I am—alas! there are no German 'coons!
  For, if there were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree,
  A symbol of democracy that's woolly, blythe and free.
  And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot,
  For I have tasted liberty—these others, they have not!
  So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels
  Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels!

  Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill,
  To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel;
  My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest,
  Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest;
  Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all
  To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy Filley's gall;
  And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here
  By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.

THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE.

  The women folk are like to books—
    Most pleasing to the eye,
  Whereon if anybody looks
    He feels disposed to buy.

  I hear that many are for sale—
    Those that record no dates,
  And such editions as regale
    The view with colored plates.

  Of every quality and grade
    And size they may be found—
  Quite often beautifully made,
    As often poorly bound.

  Now, as for me, had I my choice,
    I'd choose no folio tall,
  But some octavo to rejoice
    My sight and heart withal.

  As plump and pudgy as a snipe—
  Well worth her weight in gold,
  Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
    And just the size to hold!

  With such a volume for my wife,
    How should I keep and con?
  How like a dream should speed my life
    Unto its colophon!

  Her frontispiece should be more fair
    Than any colored plate;
  Blooming with health she would not care
    To extra-illustrate.

  And in her pages there should be
    A wealth of prose and verse,
  With now and then a jeu d'esprit—
    But nothing ever worse!

  Prose for me when I wished for prose,
    Verse, when to verse inclined—
  Forever bringing sweet repose
    To body, heart, and mind.

  Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
    In bindings full and fine,
  And keep her where no human eyes
    Should see her charms, but mine!

  With such a fair unique as this,
    What happiness abounds!
  Who—who could paint my rapturous bliss,
    My joy unknown to Lowndes!

EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE.

  'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met,
    And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender
  My thoughts go back in Time's dull track
    To you, sweet pink of female gender!
  I shall not say—though others may—
    That time all human joy enhances;
  But the same old thrill comes to me still
    With memories of your songs and dances.

  Soubrettish ways these latter days
    Invite my praise, but never get it;
  I still am true to yours and you—
    My record's made—I'll not upset it!
  The pranks they play, the things they say—
    I'd blush to put the like on paper;
  And I'll avow they don't know how
    To dance, so awkwardly they caper!

  I used to sit down in the pit
    And see you flit like elf or fairy
  Across the stage, and I'll engage
    No moonbeam sprite were half so airy.
  Lo! everywhere about me there
    Were rivals reeking with pomatum,
  And if perchance they caught a glance
    In song or dance, how did I hate 'em!

  At half-past ten came rapture—then
    Of all those men was I most happy,
  For wine and things and food for kings
    And tete-a-tetes were on the tapis.
  Did you forget, my fair soubrette,
    Those suppers in the Cafe Rector—
  The cozy nook where we partook
    Of sweeter draughts than fabled nectar?

  Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways
    Knew every phase of harmless folly!
  Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights
    Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy!
  Gone are they all beyond recall,
    And I, a shade—a mere reflection—
  Am forced to feed my spirits' greed
    Upon the husks of retrospection.

  And lo! to-night the phantom light
    That as a sprite flits on the fender
  Reveals a face whose girlish grace
    Brings back the feeling, warm and tender;
  And all the while the old time smile
    Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,
  As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet
    Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled.

THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP.

  Now lithe and listen, gentles all,
    Now lithe ye all and hark
  Unto a ballad I shall sing
    About Buena Park.

  Of all the wonders happening there
    The strangest hap befell
  Upon a famous April morn,
    As you I now shall tell.

  It is about the Taylor pup
    And of his mistress eke,
  And of the pranking time they had
    That I would fain to speak.

FITTE THE FIRST.

  The pup was of a noble mein
    As e'er you gazed upon;
  They called his mother Lady
    And his father was a Don.

  And both his mother and his sire
    Were of the race Bernard—
  The family famed in histories
    And hymned of every bard.

  His form was of exuberant mold,
    Long, slim and loose of joints;
  There never was a pointer-dog
    So full as he of points.

  His hair was like a yellow fleece,
    His eyes were black and kind,
  And like a nodding, gilded plume
    His tail stuck up behind.

  His bark was very, very fierce
    And fierce his appetite,
  Yet was it only things to eat
    That he was prone to bite.

  But in that one particular
    He was so passing true
  That never did he quit a meal
    Until he had got through.

  Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash,
    Joint, chop, or chicken limb—
  So long as it was edible,
    'Twas all the same to him!

  And frequently when Hunger's pangs
    Assailed that callow pup,
  He masticated boots and gloves
    Or chewed a door-mat up.

  So was he much beholden of
    The folk that him did keep;
  They loved him when he was awake
    And better still asleep.

FITTE THE SECOND.

  Now once his master lingering o'er
    His breakfast coffee-cup,
  Observed unto his doting spouse:
    "You ought to wash the pup!"

  "That shall I do this very day,"
    His doting spouse replied;
  "You will not know the pretty thing
    When he is washed and dried.

  "But tell me, dear, before you go
    Unto your daily work,
  Shall I use Ivory soap on him,
    Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?"

  "Odzooks, it matters not a whit—
    They all are good to use!
  Take Pearline, if it pleases you—
    Sapolio, if you choose!

  "Take any soap, but take the pup
    And also water take,
  And mix the three discreetly up
    Till they a lather make.

  "Then mixing these constituent parts,
    Let nature take her way,"
  With such advice that sapient sir
    Had nothing more to say.

  Then fared he to his daily toil
    All in the Board of Trade,
  While Mistress Taylor for that bath
    Due preparations made.

FITTE THE THIRD.

  She whistled gayly to the pup
    And called him by his name,
  And presently the guileless thing
    All unsuspecting came.

  But when she shut the bath-room door
    And caught him as catch-can,
  And dove him in that odious tub,
    His sorrows then began.

  How did that callow, yellow thing
    Regret that April morn—
  Alas! how bitterly he rued
    The day that he was born!

  Twice and again, but all in vain
    He lifted up his wail;
  His voice was all the pup could lift,
    For thereby hangs this tale.

  'Twas by that tail she held him down
    And presently she spread
  The creamery lather on his back,
    His stomach and his head.

  His ears hung down in sorry wise,
    His eyes were, oh! so sad—
  He looked as though he just had lost
    The only friend he had.

  And higher yet the water rose,
    The lather still increased,
  And sadder still the countenance
    Of that poor martyred beast!

  Yet all this time his mistress spoke
    Such artful words of cheer
  As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!"
    And "There's a patient dear!"

  At last the trial had an end,
    At last the pup was free;
  She threw awide the bath-room door—
    "Now get you gone!" quoth she.

FITTE THE FOURTH.

  Then from that tub and from that room
    He gat with vast ado;
  At every hop he gave a shake
    And—how the water flew!

  He paddled down the winding stairs
    And to the parlor hied,
  Dispensing pools of foamy suds
    And slop on every side.

  Upon the carpet then he rolled
    And brushed against the wall,
  And, horror! whisked his lathery sides
    On overcoat and shawl.

  Attracted by the dreadful din,
    His mistress came below—
  Who, who can speak her wonderment—
    Who, who can paint her woe!

  Great smears of soap were here and there—
    Her startled vision met
  With blots of lather everywhere,
    And everything was wet!

  Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek
    Like one about to die;
  "Get out—get out, and don't you dare
    Come in till you are dry!"

  With that she opened wide the door
    And waved the critter through;
  Out in the circumambient air
    With grateful yelp he flew.

FITTE THE FIFTH.

  He whisked into the dusty street
    And to the Waller lot
  Where bonny Annie Evans played
    With charming Sissy Knott.

  And with these pretty little dears
    He mixed himself all up—
  Oh, fie upon such boisterous play—
    Fie, fie, you naughty pup!

  Woe, woe on Annie's India mull,
    And Sissy's blue percale!
  One got the pup's belathered flanks,
    And one his soapy tail!

  Forth to the rescue of those maids
    Rushed gallant Willie Clow;
  His panties they were white and clean—
    Where are those panties now?

  Where is the nicely laundered shirt
    That Kendall Evans wore,
  And Robbie James' tricot coat
    All buttoned up before?

  The leaven, which, as we are told,
    Leavens a monstrous lump,
  Hath far less reaching qualities
    Than a wet pup on the jump.

  This way and that he swung and swayed,
    He gamboled far and near,
  And everywhere he thrust himself
    He left a soapy smear.

FITTE THE SIXTH.

  That noon a dozen little dears
    Were spanked and put to bed
  With naught to stay their appetites
    But cheerless crusts of bread.

  That noon a dozen hired girls
    Washed out each gown and shirt
  Which that exuberant Taylor pup
    Had frescoed o'er with dirt.

  That whole day long the April sun
    Smiled sweetly from above
  On clothes lines flaunting to the breeze
    With emblems mothers love.

  That whole day long the Taylor pup
    This way and that did hie
  Upon his mad, erratic course
    Intent on getting dry.

  That night when Mr. Taylor came
    His vesper meal to eat,
  He uttered things my pious pen
    Would liefer not repeat.

  Yet still that noble Taylor pup
    Survives to romp and bark
  And stumble over folks and things
    In fair Buena Park.

  Good sooth, I wot he should be called
    Buena's favorite son
  Who's sired of such a noble sire
    And damned by every one.

LONG METER.

  All human joys are swift of wing
    For heaven doth so allot it
  That when you get an easy thing
    You find you haven't got it.

  Man never yet has loved a maid,
    But they were sure to part, sir;
  Nor never lacked a paltry spade
    But that he drew a heart, sir!

  Go, Chauncey! it is plain as day
    You much prefer a dinner
  To walking straight in wisdom's way—
    Go to, thou babbling sinner.

  The froward part that you have played
    To me this lesson teaches:
  To trust no man whose stock in trade
    Is after-dinner speeches.

TO DE WITT MILLER.

  Dear Miller: You and I despise
    The cad who gathers books to sell 'em,
  Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth
    Or stately folios garbed in vellum.

  But when one fellow has a prize
    Another bibliophile is needing,
  Why, then, a satisfactory trade
    Is quite a laudable proceeding.

  There's precedent in Bristol's case
    The great collector—preacher-farmer;
  And in the case of that divine
    Who shrives the soul of P.D. Armour.

  When from their sapient, saintly lips
    The words of wisdom are not dropping,
  They turn to trade—that is to say,
    When they're not preaching they are swapping!

  So to the flock it doth appear
    That this a most conspicuous fact is:
  That which these godly pastors do
    Must surely be a proper practice.

  Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed,
    On which De Vinne's art is lavished;
  Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing
    Is simply waiting to be ravished!

  And you have that for which I pine
    As you should pine for this fair creature:
  Come, now, suppose we make a trade—
    You take this gem, and send the Beecher!

  Surely, these graceful, tender songs
    (In samite garb with lots of gilt on)
  Are more to you than those dull tome?
    Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton!

FRANCOIS VILLON.

  If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
  What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly?
  He would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away,
  And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay!
  But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride,
  And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside,
  What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh
  If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?

  If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
  To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie;
  "Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel
  The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!"
  He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane—
  "Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!"
  And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly,
  If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

  If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
  We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high;
  He in his meager, shabby home, I in my roaring den—
  He with his babes around him, I with my hunted men!
  His virtue be his bulwark—my genius should be mine!—
  "Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!"

* * * * *

  So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality—
  If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

LYDIA DICK.

  When I was a boy at college,
  Filling up with classic knowledge,
    Frequently I wondered why
  Old Professor Demas Bently
  Used to praise so eloquently
    "Opera Horatii."

  Toiling on a season longer
  Till my reasoning power got stronger,
    As my observation grew,
  I became convinced that mellow,
  Massic-loving poet fellow
    Horace knew a thing or two

  Yes, we sophomores figured duly
  That, if we appraised him truly,
    Horace must have been a brick;
  And no wonder that with ranting
  Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
    Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!

  For that pink of female gender
  Tall and shapely was, and slender,
    Plump of neck and bust and arms;
  While the raiment that invested
  Her so jealously suggested
    Certain more potential charms.

  Those dark eyes of her that fired him—
  Those sweet accents that inspired him,
    And her crown of glorious hair—
  These things baffle my description;
  I should have a fit conniption
    If I tried—so I forbear!

  May be Lydia had her betters;
  Anyway, this man of letters
    Took that charmer as his pick;
  Glad—yes, glad I am to know it!
  I, a fin de siecle poet,
    Sympathize with Lydia Dick!

  Often in my arbor shady
  I fall thinking of that lady
    And the pranks she used to play;
  And I'm cheered—for all we sages
  Joy when from those distant ages
    Lydia dances down our way.

  Otherwise some folks might wonder
  With good reason why in thunder
    Learned professors, dry and prim,
  Find such solace in the giddy
  Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
    Or that Liddy played on him.

  Still this world of ours rejoices
  In those ancient singing voices,
    And our hearts beat high and quick,
  To the cadence of old Tiber
  Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
    And of charming Lydia Dick.

  Still, Digentia, downward flowing,
  Prattleth to the roses blowing
    By the dark, deserted grot;
  Still, Soracte, looming lonely,
  Watcheth for the coming only
    Of a ghost that cometh not.

THE TIN BANK.

  Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say
    That a bank of tin is far the best,
  And I know of one that has stood for years
    In a pleasant home away out west.
  It has stood for years on the mantelpiece
    Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate—
  A wonderful bank, as you'll concede
    When you've heard the things I'll now relate.

  This bank was made of McKinley tin,
    Well soldered up at sides and back;
  But it didn't resemble tin at all,
    For they'd painted it over an iron black.
  And that it really was a bank
    'Twas an easy thing to see and say,
  For above the door in gorgeous red
    Appeared the letters B-A-N-K!

  The bank had been so well devised
    And wrought so cunningly that when
  You put your money in at the hole
    It couldn't get out of that hole again!
  Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing
    A secret spring was hid away,
  But where it was or how it worked—
    Excuse me, please, but I will not say.

  Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow,
    Came pretty children oftentimes,
  And, standing up on stool or chair,
    Put in their divers pence and dimes.
  Once Uncle Hank came home from town
    After a cycle of grand events,
  And put in a round, blue, ivory thing,
    He said was good for 50 cents!

  The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink,
    And larger grew the precious sum
  Which grandma said she hoped would prove
    A gracious boon to heathendom!
  But there were those—I call no names—
    Who did not fancy any plan
  That did not in some wise involve
    The candy and banana man.

  Listen; once when the wind went "Yooooooo!"
    And the raven croaked in the tangled tarn—
  When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew
    Out of her lair in the haunted barn—
  There came three burglars down the road—
    Three burglars skilled in arts of sin,
  And they cried: "What's this? Aha! Oho!"
    And straightway tackled the bank of tin.

  They burgled from half-past ten p.m.,
    Till the village bell struck four o'clock;
  They hunted and searched and guessed and tried—
    But the little tin bank would not unlock!
  They couldn't discover the secret spring!
    So, when the barn-yard rooster crowed,
  They up with their tools and stole away
    With the bitter remark that they'd be blowed!

  Next morning came a sweet-faced child
    And reached her dimpled hand to take
  A nickel to send to the heathen poor
    And a nickel to spend for her stomach's sake.
  She pressed the hidden secret spring,
    And lo! the bank flew open then
  With a cheery creak that seemed to say:
    "I'm glad to see you; come again!"

  If you were I, and if I were you,
    What would we keep our money in?
  In a downtown bank of British steel,
    Or an at-home bank of McKinley tin?
  Some want silver and some want gold,
    But the little tin bank that wants the two
  And is run on the double standard plan—
    Why, that is the bank for me and you!

IN NEW ORLEANS

  'Twas in the Crescent city not long ago befell
  The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell;
  So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing
  Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing—
  No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem
  Of blowing twenty dollars in by 9 o'clock a.m.

  Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid,
  But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade;
  And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself,
  Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf,
  The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin
  That he doesn't spend his money—he simply blows it in!

  In Royal Street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop,
  And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop:
  To stop was hesitation—in a moment I was lost—
  That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost:
  I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem—
  And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of 8 a.m.!

  Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green,
  Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen;
  A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose,
  With its curious depression into which the gravy flows;
  Two dainty silver salters—oh, there was no resisting them.—
  And I'd blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.

  With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed,
  Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need;
  Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps,
  A gown—the gown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps!
  These and ten thousand other specters harrow and condemn
  The man who's blowing in twenty by 9 o'clock a.m.

  Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!)
  In asking one this question: "What did you buy it for?"
  Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade before the act,
  Before one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact—
  Before one's fallen victim to the Tempter's strategem
  And blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.?

  Ah, me! now the deed is done, how penitent I am!
  I was a roaring lion—behold a bleating lamb!
  I've packed and shipped those precious things to that most precious wife
  Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life,
  While he, who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth,
  Is far away, and means to keep his distance—for his health!

THE PETER-BIRD.

  Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
  From the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
  Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
  Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
  So let me tell you the tale, when, where and how it all happened,
  And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

  Once on a time, long ago, lived in the state of Kentucky
  One that was reckoned a witch—full of strange spells and devices;
  Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic—
  Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons and plantains!
  Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders—
  These were the guides of the witch through the dank deeps of the forest.
  Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning
  Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;
  And, when the people awoke, seeing the hillside and valley
  Sweltered in swathes as of mist—"Look!" they would whisper in terror—
  "Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"
  Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,
  Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

  One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,
  Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;
  Fonder of books than of chores you can imagine that Peter
  Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.
  "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!"
  "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
  So it was "Peter!" all day—calling, reminding and chiding—
  Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

  Peter got hold of some books—how I'm unable to tell you;
  Some have suspected the witch—this is no place for suspicions!
  It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.
  Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;
  What thing soever it was—done with a pen and a pencil,
  Wrought with the brain, not a hoe—surely 'twas hostile to farming!
  "Fudge on the readin'!" they quoth; "that's what's the ruin of Peter!"

  So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
  Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms.
  Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ringdoves a-mating,
  Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.
  "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!"
  "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
  "Peter!" and "Peter!" all day—calling, reminding and chiding—
  Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
  Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him—
  Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

  Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming
  Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter;
  For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys—
  "See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions!
  See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on wood land and meadow!
  Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron!
  She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices,
  Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish musical nostrums;
  Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires and spiders,
  Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salmanders and toadstools;
  Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight,
  Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!"

  Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer,
  Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos—
  Thinking the reading of books must have unsettled his reason!
  "There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy!
  I will go out in the wet—you all can't hender me, nuther!"

  Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning,
  Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow,
  Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley.
  Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor;
  Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened,
  Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had gone and done it!
  Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason—
  Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis,
  And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition.

  Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter
  And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
  Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter,
  Up from the spring-house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper,
  Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
  Such are the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter
  Decades and decades ago down in the state of Kentucky—
  Such are the voices that cry from the woodland and meadow,
  "Peter—O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding—
  Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it!
  These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse
  When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless,
  Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather,
  Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil.
  Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge!

  Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened,
  Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother.
  "Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"—
  Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden,
  Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smokehouse proceeded;
  Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping,
  Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor—
  Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow,
  Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter.
  Joining the search came the rest, brothers, and sisters and cousins,
  Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter!
  And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women.
  Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter.

  Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers,
  Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields and mint-beds and thickets.
  All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining.
  Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter.
  The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the
      Logans.
  The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the
      Morgans;
  The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays and
      Hardins,
  The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys and
      Slaughters—
  All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming.
  Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in the hunt for the
      truant.
  To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.

  Still on these prosperous farms were heirs and assigns of the people
  Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate—
  Still on these farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent)
  That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing,
  That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter.
  Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people;
  That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter,
  She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit
  (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a
      chicken),
  She changed all these folks into birds and shrieking with demoniac
      venom:
  "Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever,
  Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos,
  Crooning of Peter the fool who scouted at stories of witches.
  Crying for Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"

  This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend:
  As I have told, so tell the folk and the legend,
  That it is true I believe, for on the breeze of the morning
  Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter;
  Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers,
  Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places—
  Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming,
  Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis.
  Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden.
  Always neglecting his chores—given to books and to reading,
  Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief,
  Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.