Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest,"
And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counter-fitters' Nest"—
Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted—that a man was murdered thare,
And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.
And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two—
You know we talked about the times when that old road was new:
How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State
Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't
dim
-onstrate?
Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;
But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;
And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end,
I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.
With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane,
And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane,
I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,
Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the
same!
A BACKWARD LOOK
As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
And lazily leaning back in my
chair,
Enjoying myself in a general way—
Allowing my thoughts a holiday
From weariness, toil and
care,—
My fancies—doubtless, for ventilation—
Left ajar the gates of my
mind,—
And Memory, seeing the situation,
Slipped out in street of "Auld
Lang Syne."
Wandering ever with tireless feet
Through scenes of silence, and
jubilee
Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet
Were thronging the shadowy side of the street
As far as the eye could
see;
Dreaming again, in anticipation,
The same old dreams of our
boyhood's days
That never come true, from the vague sensation
Of walking asleep in the
world's strange ways.
Away to the house where I was born!
And there was the selfsame
clock that ticked
From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,
When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn
And helped when the apples were
picked.
And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf,
With the gilded collar and
yellow eyes,
Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself
Sound asleep with the dear
surprise.
And down to the swing in the locust tree,
Where the grass was worn from
the trampled ground
And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three
Or four such other boys used to be
Doin' "sky-scrapers," or
"whirlin' round:"
And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest,
And again "had shows" in the
buggy-shed
Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed,
The old ghosts romp through the
best days dead!
And again I gazed from the old school-room
With a wistful look of a long
June day,
When on my cheek was the hectic bloom
Caught of Mischief, as I presume—
He had such a "partial"
way,
It seemed, toward me.—And again I thought
Of a probable likelihood to
be
Kept in after school—for a girl was caught
Catching a note from
me.
And down through the woods to the swimming-hole—
Where the big, white, hollow,
old sycamore grows,—
And we never cared when the water was cold.
And always "clucked" the boy that told
On the fellow that tied the
clothes.—
When life went so like a dreamy rhyme
That it seems to me now that
then
The world was having a jollier time
Than it ever will have
again.
AT SEA
O we go down to sea in ships—
But Hope remains
behind,
And Love, with laughter on his lips,
And Peace, of passive
mind;
While out across the deeps of night,
With lifted sails of
prayer,
We voyage off in quest of light,
Nor find it
anywhere.
O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea,
Yet keepest from our
eyes
The shores of an eternity
In calms of
Paradise,
Blow back upon our foolish quest
With all the driving
rain
Of blinding tears and wild unrest,
And waft us home
again.
THE OLD GUITAR
Neglected now is the old guitar
And moldering into
decay;
Fretted with many a rift and scar
That the dull dust hides
away,
While the spider spins a silver star
In its silent lips
to-day.
The keys hold only nerveless strings—
The sinews of brave old
airs
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings
So closely here
declares
A sad regret in its ravelings
And the faded hue it
wears.
But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,
Has cherished a smile for
me;
And its features hint of a fairer face
That comes with a
memory
Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place
And a moonlit
balcony.
Music sweeter than words confess
Or the minstrel's powers
invent,
Thrilled here once at the light caress
Of the fairy hands that
lent
This excuse for the kiss I press
On the dear old
instrument.
The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem
Still blooms; and the tiny
sets
In the circle all are here; the gem
In the keys, and the silver
frets;
But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them—
Alas for the heart's
regrets!—
Alas for the loosened strings to-day,
And the wounds of rift and
scar
On a worn old heart, with its roundelay
Enthralled with a stronger
bar
That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay
Like that of the old
guitar!
JOHN McKEEN
John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and
swarthy throat;
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's
vote!
Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his
Windsor chair
By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets
everywhere!
And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans
and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And old-time
fiddle-tunes!
Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
And fill the hearing with
childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old book of the
Used-to-be!
John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John,
To have grown ambitious in
worldly ways!—
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don
A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone
Out on election
days!
John, ah, John! did it prove your worth
To yield you the office you
still maintain?
To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth
Of all the happier things on earth
To the hunger of heart and
brain?
Under the dusk of your villa trees,
Edging the drives where your
blooded span
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,—
Where are the children about your knees,
And the mirth, and the happy
man?
The blinds of your mansion are battened to;
Your faded wife is a close
recluse;
And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do
Dutifully all that is willed of you,
And marry as you shall
choose!—
But O for the old-home voices, blent
With the watery jingle of pans
and spoons,
And the motherly chirrup of glad content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And the old-time
fiddle-tunes!
Child shepherd and animals
THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND
Where do you go when you go to sleep,
Little Boy! Little Boy!
where?
'Way—'way in where's Little Bo-Peep,
And Little Boy Blue, and the Cows and Sheep
A-wandering 'way in
there;—in there—
A-wandering 'way in
there!
And what do you see when lost in dreams,
Little Boy, 'way in
there?
Firefly-glimmers and glowworm-gleams,
And silvery, low, slow-sliding streams,
And mermaids, smiling
out—'way in where
They're a-hiding—'way in
there!
Where do you go when the Fairies call,
Little Boy! Little Boy!
where?
Wade through the clews of the grasses tall,
Hearing the weir and the waterfall
And the Wee Folk—'way in
there—in there—
And the Kelpies—'way in
there!
And what do you do when you wake at dawn,
Little Boy! Little Boy!
what?
Hug my Mommy and kiss her on
Her smiling eyelids, sweet and wan,
And tell her everything I've
forgot
About, a-wandering 'way in
there—
Through the blind-world 'way in
there!
"THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS"
Pap he allus ust to say,
"Chris'mus comes but onc't a
year!"
Liked to hear him that-a-way,
In his old split-bottomed
cheer
By the fireplace here at night—
Wood all in,—and room all bright,
Warm and snug, and folks all here:
"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"