This side of
"out-of-reach."
"A BRAVE REFRAIN"
When snow is here, and the trees look weird,
And the knuckled twigs are
gloved with frost;
When the breath congeals in the drover's beard,
And the old pathway to the barn
is lost;
When the rooster's crow is sad to hear,
And the stamp of the stabled
horse is vain,
And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear—
O then is the time for a brave
refrain!
When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg,
And the tallow gleams in frozen
streaks;
And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg,
And the pump sounds hoarse and
the handle squeaks;
When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap,
And the frost is scratched from
the window-pane
And anxious eyes from the inside peep—
O then is the time for a brave
refrain!
When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb,
And hob-nailed shoes on the
hearth below,
And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm,
And the eight-day clock ticks
loud and slow;
When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil
'Neath the kitchen-loft, and
the drowsy brain
Sniffs the breath of the morning meal—
O then is the time for a brave
refrain!
ENVOI
When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering
hot
Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot,
And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain—
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
IN THE EVENING
I
In the evening of our days,
When the first far stars
above
Glimmer dimmer, through the haze,
Than the dewy eyes of
love,
Shall we mournfully revert
To the vanished morns and
Mays
Of our youth, with hearts that hurt,—
In the evening of our
days?
II
Shall the hand that holds your own
Till the twain are thrilled as
now,
Be withheld, or colder grown?
Shall my kiss upon your
brow
Falter from its high estate?
And, in all forgetful
ways,
Shall we sit apart and wait—
In the evening of our
days?
III
Nay, my wife—my life!—the gloom
Shall enfold us
velvetwise,
And my smile shall be the groom
Of the gladness of your
eyes:
Gently, gently as the dew
Mingles with the darkening
maze,
I shall fall asleep with you—
In the evening of our
days.
JIM
He was jes a plain, ever'-day, all-round kind of a
jour.,
Consumpted-lookin'—but
la!
The jokiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin',
laughin'est,
jolliest
Feller you ever saw!
Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine
enough in his talk,
And his feelin's,
too!
Lordy! ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day,
a-carryin' on
Like he ust to do!
Any shop-mate'll tell you there never was, on top o'
dirt,
A better feller'n
Jim!
You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else—
You could git it o'
him!
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I
guess!
Give up ever' nickel he's
worth—
And, ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it
was his,
He'd a-give you the
earth!
Allus a-reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some
Pore feller onto his
feet—
He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f,
So's the feller got
somepin' to eat!
Didn't make no differ'nee at all to him how
he
was
dressed,
He ust to say to
me,—
"You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in
winter-time, a-huntin' a
job,
And he'll git along!" says
he.
Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly
much
O' this world's goods at a
time.—
'Fore now I've saw him, more'n one't, lend a dollar,
and haf to, more'n
like,
Turn round and borry a
dime!
Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer a while—
then jerk his coat.
And kindo' square his
chin,
Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old
shoe-bench,
And go to peggin'
ag'in!
Patientest feller, too, I reckon, 'at ever jes
natchurly
Coughed hisse'f to
death!
Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a
whisper and say
He could git ever'thing but his
breath—
"
You fellers
," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say,
"Is a-pilin' onto me
A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested
ghost o' mine to
pack
Through all
Eternity!"
Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me,
'At ortn't a-never
a-died!
"But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss
said—
"On'y to Jim!" and
cried:
And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the
shop—
Er the whole blame
neighborhood,—
He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do
anything else that
day
But jes set around and feel
good!"
THE BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH
I quarrel not with Destiny,
But make the best of everything—
The best is good enough for me.
Leave Discontent alone, and she
Will shut her month and let
you
sing.
I quarrel not with Destiny.
I take some things, or let 'em be—
Good gold has always got the ring;
The best is good enough for me.
Since Fate insists on secrecy,
I have no arguments to bring—
quarrel not with Destiny.
The fellow that goes "haw" for "gee"
Will find he hasn't got full swing.
The best is good enough for me.
One only knows our needs, and He
Does all of the distributing.
I quarrel not with Destiny;
The best is good enough for me.
HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB
How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting
Upon the dead sea of the
Past!—A view—
Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lifting
A far-off "Ooh!
ooh-ooh!"
And suddenly we find ourselves astray
In some wood's-pasture of the
Long Ago—
Or idly dream again upon a day
Of rest we used to
know.
I bit an apple but a moment since—
A wilted apple that the worm
had spurned.—
Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints
Of good old days
returned.—
And so my heart, like some enraptured lute,
Tinkles a tune so tender and
complete,
God's blessing must be resting on the fruit—
So bitter, yet so
sweet!
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, C's,
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 singin' 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.
WE MUST BELIEVE
"
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief.
"
We must believe—
Being from birth endowed with love and trust—
Born unto loving;—and how simply just
That love—that faith!—even in the blossom-face
The babe drops dreamward in its resting-place,
Intuitively conscious of the sure
Awakening to rapture ever pure
And sweet and saintly as the mother's own,
Or the awed father's, as his arms are thrown
O'er wife and child, to round about them weave
And wind and bind them as one
harvest-sheaf
Of love—to cleave to, and
forever
cleave....
Lord, I believe:
Help Thou mine
unbelief.
We must believe—
Impelled since infancy to seek some clear