MASTER JOHNNY’S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR.
It was Spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma moved in
Next door just as skating was over and marbles about to begin,
For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped through the slat,
There were ‘Johnny Jump-ups’ all around her, and I knew it was Spring just by that.
“I never knew whether she saw me—for she didn’t say nothing to me,
But ‘Ma! here’s a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next door can see.’
But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says I’ve a right,
And she calls out, ‘Well, peekin is manners!’ and I answered her, ‘Sass is perlite!’
“But I wasn’t a bit mad; no, Papa; and to prove it, the very next day,
When she ran past our fence, in the morning I happened to get in her way,
For you know I am ‘chunked’ and clumsy, as she says are all boys of my size,
And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in her eyes.
“And then we were friends, from that moment, for I knew that she told Kitty Sage—
And she wasn’t a girl that would flatter—‘that she thought I was tall for my age,’
And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my sled,
And—‘What am I telling you this for?’ Why, Papa, my neighbor is dead!
“You don’t hear one half I am saying—I really do think it’s too bad!
Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day I’ve been sad;
And they’ve got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have dressed her in white,
And I’ve never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died—at eleven last night.
“And Ma says its decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,
That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that you ought to attend;
But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,
And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn’t know just what to say.
“So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but I know
I’ll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I’ll tie to my toe,
And I’ll crawl through the fence and I’ll gather the ‘Johnny Jump-ups’ as they grew
Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I’ll give them to you.
“For you’re a big man, and you know, Pa, can come and go just where you choose,
And you’ll take the flowers into her and surely they’ll never refuse;
But, Papa, don’t say they’re from Johnny; they won’t understand, don’t you see;
But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she’ll know they’re from me.”
Bret Harte.
STONEWALL JACKSON’S DEATH.
Gen. Joseph Hooker, in command of the Army of the Potomac lying opposite Fredericksburg, Md., crossed the Rappahannock River early in May, 1863, and fought the severe battle of Chancellorsville, in which was killed the famous Southern general, Thomas J. Jackson, commonly known as Stonewall Jackson. He received this name at the first battle of Bull Run. Defeat seemed imminent, and one of the Confederate generals exclaimed: “Here stands Jackson like a stone wall, and here let us conquer or die!” Gen. Jackson’s last words were: “Let us cross over the river, and lie down under the trees.”
The lightning flashed across the heaven, the distant thunder rolled,
And, swayed by gusts of angry winds, the far-off church bell tolled,
The billows crashed against the rocks that kiss the ocean’s foam,
And eager pilots trimmed their sails and turned their skiffs for home.
As darkness fell upon the earth, and we were gathered round
Our blazing hearth, and listening to the storm’s terrific sound,
We all looked up to Uncle Tom, who sat beside the fire,
A-dreaming of the bygone days, and of disaster dire.
For memory brought us back again to times of darkest woe,
When, strong in hand and light in heart, he fought the Northern foe.
He often spoke of ’46—the fight on Mexic’s plain—
How Buena Vista heights were reached while bullets fell like rain.
How Shields had gained Chapultepec, how Santa Anna fled,
And how the Sisters labored even where the bullets sped;
And oft he spoke of later times, but always with a sigh,
When South and North rose up to fight en masse for cause or die.
And as beside the fire he sat and piped his meerschaum well,
We asked, to pass the time away, that he a tale should tell.
He paused a moment, then he laid his good old pipe aside,
And said, “I’ll tell you boys, to-night, how Stonewall Jackson died.
“We were retreating from the foe, for Fredericksburg was lost,
And on our flank, still threatening, appeared the Union host;
Down by the Rappahannock, in our dismal tents we lay,
And the lightest heart was heavy with our grave defeat that day.
“For ’tis better for a soldier like Montgomery to die,
Than live to see his comrades from a hated foeman fly;
But reverses often come upon defenders of the right,
And justice seldom conquers, boys, when nations go to fight.
“With heavy hearts we laid us down, but, mind you, not to sleep,
Nor did we turn aside to sing, or turn aside to weep,
But as we pondered o’er our griefs, a sudden moan was heard,
Far louder than the willow’s moan, when by the wind ’tis stirred.
“It woke the camp from reverie, it woke the camp to fear;
And louder, louder grew the wail, most dreadful then to hear.
And nearer came the weeping crowd, and something stiff and still
Was borne, we knew not what it was, but followed with a will.
“At last within our Gen’ral’s tent the precious load was laid,
And then a pallid soldier turned unto us all, and said:
‘We thought it hard, my comrades brave, to lose the field to-day;
But harder will our struggle be, to labor in the fray;
For he is gone, our gallant chief, who could our hopes restore,
And rout and ruin is our fate, since Stonewall is no more.’
“I cannot tell you how we felt, or how we acted then,
For words are weak to tell a tale when grief has mastered men;
But this I know, I pulled the cloth from off brave Jackson’s face,
And almost jumped with joy to see him gaze around the place.
“But, boys, it was a fleeting dream, a vacant stare he cast;
He did not see the canvas shaken by the sudden blast;
He did not see us weeping as we staunched the flowing blood,
But again in battle fighting, he was where the foemen stood.
“‘Order Gen’ral Hill to action!’ loud he cried, as he was wont;
And then he quickly added: ‘Bring the infantry to front!’
As he saw the corps pass by him—as it were—in duty’s call,
Suddenly he shouted: ‘Drive them! charge upon them, one and all!’
“Then he turned aside, and, smiling, said with voice of one in ease:
‘Let us cross the foaming river; let us rest beneath the trees.’
Then we waited, boys, and watched him, but no other word he said;
For adown the foaming river had our leader’s spirit sped.”
Paul M. Russell.
THE STORY OF NELL.
You’re a kind woman, Nan! Ay, kind and true!
God will be good to faithful folk like you!
You knew my Ned?
A better, kinder lad never drew breath.
We loved each other true, and we were wed
In church, like some who took him to his death;
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost
His senses when he took a drop too much.
Drink did it all—drink made him mad when crossed—
He was a poor man, and they’re hard on such
O Nan! that night! that night!
When I was sitting in this very chair,
Watching and waiting in the candle-light,
And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,
And turned and saw him standing yonder, white
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!
And when I caught his arm and called in fright,
He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed
To lock and bar it fast.
Then down he drops just like a lump of lead,
Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,
And—Nan—just then the light seemed growing brighter,
And I could see the hands that held his head,
All red! all bloody red!
What could I do but scream? He groaned to hear,
Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the wrist;
“Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hissed.
And I was still for fear.
“They’re after me—I’ve knifed a man!” he said,
“Be still!—the drink—drink did it!—he is dead!”
Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep;
All I could do was cling to Ned and hark,
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,
But breathing hard and deep.
The candle flickered out—the room grew dark
And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried—
When all grew cold and dim,
I shuddered—not for fear of them outside,
But just afraid to be alone with him.
“Ned! Ned!” I whispered—and he moaned and shook,
But did not heed or look!
“Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!”
At that he raised his head and looked so wild;
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
His arms around me, crying like a child,
And held me close—and not a word was spoken,
While I clung tighter to his heart and pressed him,
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken,
But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed him!
Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
With sound of falling rain—
When I could see his face, and it looked old,
Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,
That hurrying of feet,
And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had come.
“Run, Ned!” I cried, but he was deaf and dumb;
“Hide, Ned!” I screamed, and held him; “Hide thee, man!”
He stared with blood-shot eyes and hearkened, Nan!
And all the rest is like a dream—the sound
Of knocking at the door—
A rush of men—a struggle on the ground—
A mist—a tramp—a roar;
For when I got my senses back again,
The room was empty, and my head went round!
God help him? God will help him! Ay, no fear!
It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong
So kind! So good!—and I am useless here,
Now he is lost that loved me true and long.
That night before he died,
I didn’t cry—my heart was hard and dried;
But when the clocks went “one,” I took my shawl
To cover up my face, and stole away,
And walked along the silent streets, where all
Looked cold and still and gray.
Some men and lads went by,
And turning round, I gazed, and watched ’em go,
Then felt that they were going to see him die,
And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow.
More people passed me, a country cart with hay
Stopped close beside me, and two or three
Talked about it! I moaned, and crept away!
Next came a hollow sound I knew full well,
For something gripped me round the heart—and then
There came the solemn tolling of a bell!
O God! O God! how could I sit close by,
And neither scream nor cry?
As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,
I listened, listened, listened, still and dumb,
While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled,
And the day brightened, and his time had come.
All else was silent but the knell
Of the slow bell!
And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
And what I waited for I couldn’t tell—
At last there came a groaning deep and great—
St. Paul’s struck “eight”—
I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire and fell!
God bless him, alive or dead!
He never meant no wrong, was kind and true.
They’re wrought their fill of spite upon his head
Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too?
And there’s the dear old things he used to wear,
And there’s a lock of hair.
And Ned, my Ned! is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call.
God bless you, Nan, for all you’ve done and said!
But don’t mind me, my heart is broke, that’s all!
Robert Buchanan.
LITTLE NAN.
The wide gates swung open,
The music softly sounded,
And loving hands were heaping the soldiers’ graves with flowers;
With pansies, pinks, and roses,
And pure, gold-hearted lilies,
The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the spring-time bowers.
When down the walk came tripping
A wee, bare-headed girlie,
Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was grave and sweet;
Her small brown hands were crowded
With dandelions yellow—
The gallant, merry blossoms that children love to greet.
O, many smiled to see her,
That dimple-cheeked wee baby,
Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission bound;
And, pausing oft an instant,
Let fall from out her treasures
A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound.
The music died in silence,
A robin ceased its singing;
And in the fragrant stillness a bird-like whisper grew,
So sweet, so clear and solemn,
That smiles gave place to tear-drops;
“Nan loves ’oo darlin’ soldier; an’ here’s a f’ower for ’oo.”
ONE OF THE LITTLE ONES.
’Twas a crowded street, and a cry of joy
Came from a ragged, barefoot boy—
A cry of eager and glad surprise,
And he opened wide his great black eyes
As he held before him a coin of gold
He had found in a heap of rubbish old
By the curb stone there.
“How it sparkles!” the youngster cried,
As the golden piece he eagerly eyed:
“Oh, see it shine!” and he laughed aloud;
Little heeding the curious crowd
That gathered around, “Hurrah!” said he,
“How glad my poor mother will be!
I’ll buy her a brand-new Sunday hat,
And a pair of shoes for Nell, at that,
And baby sister shall have a dress—
There’ll be enough for all, I guess;
And then I’ll——”
“Here,” said a surly voice
“That money’s mine. You can take your choice
Of giving it up or going to jail.”
The youngster trembled, and then turned pale
As he looked and saw before him stand
A burly drayman with outstretched hand;
Rough and uncouth was the fellow’s face,
And without a single line or trace
Of the goodness that makes the world akin.
“Come, be quick! or I’ll take you in,”
Said he.
“For shame!” said the listening crowd.
The ruffian seemed for the moment cowed.
“The money’s mine,” he blurted out;
“I lost it yesterday hereabout.
I don’t want nothin’ but what’s my own
And I am going to have it.”
The lad alone
Was silent. A tear stood in his eye,
And he brushed it away; he would not cry.
“Here, mister,” he answered, “take it then;
If it’s yours, it’s yours; if it hadn’t been——”
A sob told all he would have said,
Of the hope so suddenly raised, now dead.
And then with a sigh, which volumes told,
He dropped the glittering piece of gold
Into the other’s hand. Once more
He sighed—and his dream of wealth was o’er.
But no! Humanity hath a heart
Always ready to take the part
Of childish sorrow, wherever found.
“Let’s make up a purse”—the word went round
Through the kindly crowd, and the hat was passed
And the coins came falling thick and fast.
“Here, sonny, take this,” said they. Behold,
Full twice as much as the piece of gold
He had given up was in the hand
Of the urchin. He could not understand
It all. The tears came thick and fast,
And his grateful heart found voice at last.
But, lo! when he spoke, the crowd had gone—
Left him, in gratitude, there alone.
Who’ll say there is not some sweet, good-will
And kindness left in this cold world still?
G. L. Catlin.
THE DRUNKARD’S DAUGHTER.
She was a bright and beautiful child, one who seemed born for a better career, yet one on whom the blight of intemperance had left its impress early.
Her father was a drunkard, a worthless, miserable sot, whose only aim and ambition in life seemed to be to contrive ways and means of satisfying the devouring fire that constantly burned within him.
Her mother had died when she was a mere child, leaving her to grow up a wild flower in the forest, uncultured and uncared for.
Yet she was very beautiful; her form and face were of wondrous perfection and loveliness; her disposition was happy and cheerful, notwithstanding the abuse to which she was continually subjected.
The years went by; she grew to be almost a woman. She could not go to school or church, because she had nothing respectable to wear; and had she gone her wicked father would have reviled her for her disposition to make something better of herself and for her simple piety. He sank lower and lower in the miserable slough of intemperance, and yet, when urged by well-meaning friends, to leave him she clung to him with an affection as unaccountable as it was earnest and sincere.
“If I should leave him he would die,” she said. “If I stay and suffer with him here, some time I may save him and make him a worthy man.”
Many would have given her a home, food and comfortable clothes, but she preferred to share her father’s misery rather than selfishly forsake him in his unhappy infirmity.
The summer passed, the berries ripened and disappeared from the bushes. The leaves turned to crimson and yellow, and fell from the trees. The cold November winds howled through the desolate hollows, while, scantily clad, she crouched in a corner of her inhospitable, unhappy home.
She was very ill; bad treatment, poor food, and exposure had brought on a fatal sickness. Her brow burned with fever. Even her wretched father, selfish and inebriated as he was, became alarmed at her condition as he staggered about the room upon his return at a late hour from the village tavern, where he had spent the evening with a company of dissolute companions.
“Father,” she said, “I am very sick; the doctor has been to see me; he left a prescription. Will you not go to the village and get it filled?”
“They won’t trust me, child,” he said, gruffly.
“But I will trust you,” she said sweetly. “There is a little money hidden in the old clock there, which I saved from picking and selling berries. You can take it; there is enough.”
His eyes sparkled with a dangerous glitter.
“Money!” he exclaimed almost fiercely. “I didn’t know you had money. Why didn’t you tell me before? Didn’t you know it belonged by right to me?”
She sighed pitifully.
He staggered to the clock, fumbled about for a few moments, and soon found what he was seeking.
“Yes, I’ll go,” he said, excitedly. “Give me the prescription.”
He snatched it from her extended hand, opened the door and disappeared.
The night grew colder. The sick girl crept into bed and tossed and turned restlessly. The oil in the old lamp burned out. The windows rattled, a storm came, and rain and hail beat upon the window panes. The old clock struck the hour of midnight. The drunkard did not return.
Poor girl, her soul became filled with apprehension and fear for him.
“I must go for him,” she said. “He will perish, and it will be my fault.” She crawled out of bed, drew on her scanty apparel and worn shoes, threw a ragged shawl over her head and shoulders, and went forth into the darkness, heroically facing the driving storm.
The morning came, clear, cloudless and beautiful. The earth was cold and frosty. A neighbor, going early to the village, found two lifeless forms lying by the roadway. Beside the dead man lay an empty black bottle. The girl’s white arms were clasped about his neck. Her soul had gone to intercede for him before the Mercy Seat on high.
Eugene J. Hall.
THE BEAUTIFUL.
Beautiful faces are those that wear—
It matters little if dark or fair—
Whole-souled honesty printed there.
Beautiful eyes are those that show,
Like crystal panes, where earth fires glow,
Beautiful thoughts that burn below.
Beautiful lips are those whose words
Leap from the heart like song of birds,
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.
Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.
Beautiful feet are those that go
On kindly ministry to and fro,
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.
Beautiful shoulders are those that bear
Heavy burdens of homely cart
With patience, grace and daily prayer.
Beautiful lives are those that bless—
Silent rivers of happiness,
Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.
Beautiful twilight at set of sun,
Beautiful goal with race well run,
Beautiful rest with work well done.
Beautiful grave where grasses creep,
Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep,
Over worn-out hands—oh, beautiful sleep.
TROUBLE IN THE AMEN CORNER.
’Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown,
And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town,
And the chorus, all the papers favorably commented on it,
For ’twas said each female member had a forty—dollar bonnet.
Now in the “amen corner” of the church sat Brother Eyer,
Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir;
He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white,
And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might.
His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords,
And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words
Of the hymns, and ’twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind,
And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind.
Then the pastor called together in the lecture-room one day
Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay,
And having asked God’s guidance in a printed prayer or two,
They put their heads together to determine what to do.
They debated, thought, suggested, till at last “dear Brother York,”
Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork,
Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer,
And proceed to rake him lively for “disturbin’ of the choir.”
Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four,
With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer’s door;
And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb,
As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jam.
They found the choir’s great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair,
And the summer’s golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair;
He was singing “Rock of Ages” in a voice both cracked and low,
But the angels understood him, ’twas all he cared to know.
Said York: “We’re here, dear brother, with the vestry’s approbation,
To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;”
“And the choir, too,” said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge,
“And the choir, too!” he echoed with the graveness of a judge.
“It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus
That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us;
If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother,
It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.
“We don’t want any singing except that what we’ve bought!
The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught;
And so we have decided—are you listening, Brother Eyer?—
That you’ll have to stop your singin’, for it flurrytates the choir.”
The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear,
And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear;
His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow,
As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low;
“I’ve sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years,
They’ve been my staff and comfort and calmed life’s many fears;
I’m sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I’m doing wrong;
But when my heart is filled with praise, I can’t keep back a song.
“I wonder if beyond the tide that’s breaking at my feet,
In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet,—
Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher.
If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven’s choir.”
A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head;
The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead!
Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us,
And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.
The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot,
A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not.
Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart’s desires,
Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs.
C. T. Harbaugh.
LITTLE MAG’S VICTORY.
’Twas a hovel all wretched, forlorn and poor,
With crumbling eves and a hingeless door,
And windows where pitiless midnight rains
Beat fiercely in through the broken panes,
And tottering chimneys, and moss-grown roof,
From the heart of the city far aloof,
Where Nanny, a hideous, wrinkled hag,
Dwelt with her grandchild, “Little Mag.”
The neighbors called old Nanny a witch.
The story went that she’d once been rich—
Aye, rich as any lady in town—
But trouble had come and dragged her down
And down; then sickness, and want, and age
Had filled the rest of her life’s sad page,
And driven her into the slums to hide
Her shame and misery till she died.
The boys, as she hobbled along the street,
Her coming with yells and hoots would greet;
E’en grown folks dreaded old Nan so much
That they’d shun, in passing, her very touch,
And a mocking word or glance would send.
Poor little Mag was her only friend:
Faithful and true was the child, indeed.
What did she ever care or heed
For those cruel words, and those looks of scorn
In patient silence they all were borne;
But she prayed that God would hasten the day
That would take her sorrow and care away.
Alas! that day—that longed-for boon,
That ending of sorrow—came all too soon.
For there came a day when a ruffian crowd,
With stones, and bludgeons, and hootings loud,
Surrounded old Nanny’s hovel door,
Led on by a drunken brute, who swore,
In blasphemous oaths, and in language wild,
She had stolen a necklace from off his child.
Crouched in a corner, dumb with fear,
The old hag sat, with her grandchild near,
As the furious mob of boys and men,
Yelling, entered her dingy den.
“Kill her!” shouted the brutal pack.
“Cowards!” screamed Little Mag. “Stand back!”
As she placed her fragile form before
Her poor old grandmother, on the floor,
And clasped her about the neck, and pressed
The thin gray hairs to her childish breast.
“Cowards!” she said. “Now, do your worst.
If either must die, let me die first!”
Cowed and abashed, the crowd stood still,
Awed by that child’s unaided will;
One by one, in silence and shame,
They all stole out by the way they came,
Till the fair young child and the withered crone
Were left once more in that room—alone.
But stop! What is it the child alarms?
Old Nan lies dead in her grandchild’s arms!
George L. Catlin.
LIFE’S BATTLE.
Alas! I’m growing old, my hair, once thick and brown,
Is now quite white and silky, and sparse about the crown;
A year, that once seemed endless, now, passes like a dream,
Yet my boat still rides the billows, as it floats along the stream.
My eye, once like the eagle’s, is now much dimmed by age,
And art alone enables me to read the printed page,
Yet still it rests with quickened glance upon each lovely scene.
As years roll by with silent pace and changes come between.
Life is full of gladness if we but make it so,
There’s not a wave of sorrow but has an undertow.
A stout heart and a simple faith gives victory o’er the grave,
And God awaits all patiently, all powerful to save.
’Tis not a cross to live, nor is it hard to die,
If we but view the future with steadfast, fearless eye,
Looking ever on the bright side, where falls the sun’s warm beam,
Our boats will ride the billows as they float along the stream.
Wayne Howe Parsons.
THE LOST KISS.
I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on, “Had I words to complete it,
Who’d read it, or who’d understand?”
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over it all.
So I gather it up—where was broken
The tear—faded thread of my theme,
Telling how, as one night I sat writing,
A fairy broke in on my dream.
A little inquisitive fairy
My own little girl, with the gold
Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy
Blue eyes of the fairies of old.
’Twas the dear little girl that I scolded—
“For was it a moment like this,”
I said, when she knew I was busy,
“To come romping in for a kiss?
Come rowdying up from her mother
And clamoring there at my knee
For ‘One ’ittle kiss for my dolly
And one ’ittle uzzer for me?’”
God pity the heart that repelled her
And the cold hand that turned her away!
And take from the lips that denied her
This answerless prayer of to-day!
Take, Lord, from my mem’ry forever
That pitiful sob of despair,
And the patter and trip of the little bare feet
And the one piercing cry on the stair!
I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on, “Had I words to complete it,
Who’d read it, or who’d understand?”
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over all.
James Whitcomb Riley.