Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star,—Silvery star with a tinkling song;To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes,—Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping—Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"
Up from the sea there floats the sobOf the waves that are breaking upon the shore,As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
I like the Anglo-Saxon speechWith its direct revealings;It takes a hold, and seems to reach'Way down into your feelings;That some folk deem it rude, I know,And therefore they abuse it;But I have never found it so,—Before all else I choose it.I don't object that men should airThe Gallic they have paid for,With "Au revoir," "Adieu, ma chère,"For that's what French was made for.But when a crony takes your handAt parting, to address you,He drops all foreign lingo andHe says, "Good-by—God bless you!"
This seems to me a sacred phrase,With reverence impassioned,—A thing come down from righteous days,Quaintly but nobly fashioned;It well becomes an honest face,A voice that's round and cheerful;It stays the sturdy in his place,And soothes the weak and fearful.Into the porches of the earsIt steals with subtle unction,And in your heart of hearts appearsTo work its gracious function;And all day long with pleasing songIt lingers to caress you,—I'm sure no human heart goes wrongThat's told "Good-by—God bless you!"
I love the words,—perhaps because,When I was leaving Mother,Standing at last in solemn pauseWe looked at one another,And I—I saw in Mother's eyesThe love she could not tell me,—A love eternal as the skies,Whatever fate befell me;She put her arms about my neckAnd soothed the pain of leaving,And though her heart was like to break,She spoke no word of grieving;She let no tear bedim her eye,For fearthatmight distress me,But, kissing me, she said good-by,And asked our God to bless me.
Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wineThat fairly reeks with precious juices,And in your tresses you shall twineThe loveliest flowers this vale produces.
My cottage wears a gracious smile,—The altar, decked in floral glory,Yearns for the lamb which bleats the whileAs though it pined for honors gory.
Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,—The boys agog, the maidens snickering;And savory smells possess the airAs skyward kitchen flames are flickering.
You ask what means this grand display,This festive throng, and goodly diet?Well, since you're bound to have your way,I don't mind telling, on the quiet.
'Tis April 13, as you know,—A day and month devote to Venus,Whereon was born, some years ago,My very worthy friend Maecenas.
Nay, pay no heed to Telephus,—Your friends agree he doesn't love you;The way he flirts convinces usHe really is not worthy of you!
Aurora's son, unhappy lad!You know the fate that overtook him?And Pegasus a rider had—I say hehadbefore he shook him!
Haec docet (as you must agree):'T is meet that Phyllis should discoverA wisdom in preferring meAnd mittening every other lover.
So come, O Phyllis, last and bestOf loves with which this heart's been smitten,—Come, sing my jealous fears to rest,And let your songs be thoseI'vewritten.
God rest you, Chrysten gentil men,Wherever you may be,—God rest you all in fielde or hall,Or on ye stormy sea;For on this morn oure Chryst is bornThat saveth you and me.
Last night ye shepherds in ye eastSaw many a wondrous thing;Ye sky last night flamed passing brightWhiles that ye stars did sing,And angels came to bless ye nameOf Jesus Chryst, oure Kyng.
God rest you, Chrysten gentil men,Faring where'er you may;In noblesse court do thou no sport,In tournament no playe,In paynim lands hold thou thy handsFrom bloudy works this daye.
But thinking on ye gentil LordThat died upon ye tree,Let troublings cease and deeds of peaceAbound in Chrystantie;For on this morn ye Chryst is bornThat saveth you and me.
I thought myself indeed secure,So fast the door, so firm the lock;But, lo! he toddling comes to lureMy parent ear with timorous knock.
My heart were stone could it withstandThe sweetness of my baby's plea,—That timorous, baby knocking and"Please let me in,—it's only me."
I threw aside the unfinished book,Regardless of its tempting charms,And opening wide the door, I tookMy laughing darling in my arms.
Who knows but in Eternity,I, like a truant child, shall waitThe glories of a life to be,Beyond the Heavenly Father's gate?
And will that Heavenly Father heedThe truant's supplicating cry,As at the outer door I plead,"'T is I, O Father! only I"?
1886.
Strange that the city thoroughfare,Noisy and bustling all the day,Should with the night renounce its care,And lend itself to children's play!
Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys,And have been so since Abel's birth,And shall be so till dolls and toysAre with the children swept from earth.
The self-same sport that crowns the dayOf many a Syrian shepherd's son,Beguiles the little lads at playBy night in stately Babylon.
I hear their voices in the street,Yet 't is so different now from then!Come, brother! from your winding-sheet,And let us two be boys again!
1886.
Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin doo?Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin' on the lea?Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me—Got a lump o' sugar an' a posie for you,Only bring back my wee, wee croodlin doo!
Why, here you are, my little croodlin doo!Looked in er cradle, but didn't find you there,Looked f'r my wee, wee croodlin doo ever'where;Ben kind lonesome all er day withouten you;Where you ben, my little wee, wee croodlin doo?
Now you go balow, my little croodlin doo;Now you go rockaby ever so far,—Rockaby, rockaby, up to the starThat's winkin' an' blinkin' an' singin' to youAs you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin doo!
Oh, come with me to the Happy IslesIn the golden haze off yonder,Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles,And the ocean loves to wander.
Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills,Proudly the fig rejoices;Merrily dance the virgin rills,Blending their myriad voices.
Our herds shall fear no evil there,But peacefully feed and rest them;Neither shall serpent nor prowling bearEver come there to molest them.
Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold,Nor feverish drouth distress us,But he that compasseth heat and coldShall temper them both to bless us.
There no vandal foot has trod,And the pirate hosts that wanderShall never profane the sacred sodOf those beautiful Isles out yonder.
Never a spell shall blight our vines,Nor Sirius blaze above us,But you and I shall drink our winesAnd sing to the loved that love us.
So come with me where Fortune smilesAnd the gods invite devotion,—Oh, come with me to the Happy IslesIn the haze of that far-off ocean!
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe,—Sailed on a river of misty lightInto a sea of dew."Where are you going, and what do you wish?"The old moon asked the three."We have come to fish for the herring-fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we,"Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sung a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe;And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew;The little stars were the herring-fishThat lived in the beautiful sea."Now cast your nets wherever you wish,But never afeard are we!"So cried the stars to the fishermen three,Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
All night long their nets they threwFor the fish in the twinkling foam,Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home;'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemedAs if it could not be;And some folk thought 't was a dream they'd dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea;But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one's trundle-bed;So shut your eyes while Mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock on the misty seaWhere the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,—Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
Sweet, bide with me and let my loveBe an enduring tether;Oh, wanton not from spot to spot,But let us dwell together.
You've come each morn to sip the sweetsWith which you found me dripping,Yet never knew it was not dewBut tears that you were sipping.
You gambol over honey meadsWhere siren bees are humming;But mine the fate to watch and waitFor my beloved's coming.
The sunshine that delights you nowShall fade to darkness gloomy;You should not fear if, biding here,You nestled closer to me.
So rest you, love, and be my love,That my enraptured bloomingMay fill your sight with tender light,Your wings with sweet perfuming.
Or, if you will not bide with meUpon this quiet heather,Oh, give me wing, thou beauteous thing,That we may soar together.
Whenas ye plaisaunt Aperille shoures have washed and purged awayeYe poysons and ye rheums of earth to make a merrie May,Ye shraddy boscage of ye woods ben full of birds that syngRight merrilie a madrigal unto ye waking spring,Ye whiles that when ye face of earth ben washed and wiped ycleaneHer peeping posies blink and stare like they had ben her een;
Then, wit ye well, ye harte of man ben turned to thoughts of love,And, tho' it ben a lyon erst, it now ben like a dove!And many a goodly damosel in innocence beguilesHer owne trewe love with sweet discourse and divers plaisaunt wiles.In soche a time ye noblesse liege that ben Kyng Arthure hightLet cry a joust and tournament for evereche errant knyght,And, lo! from distant Joyous-garde and eche adjacent spotA company of noblesse lords fared unto Camelot,Wherein were mighty feastings and passing merrie cheere,And eke a deale of dismal dole, as you shall quickly heare.
It so befell upon a daye when jousts ben had and whileSir Launcelot did ramp around ye ring in gallaunt style,There came an horseman shriking sore and rashing wildly home,—A mediaeval horseman with ye usual flecks of foame;And he did brast into ye ring, wherein his horse did drop,Upon ye which ye rider did with like abruptness stop,And with fatigue and fearfulness continued in a swoundYe space of half an hour or more before a leech was founde."Now tell me straight," quod Launcelot, "what varlet knyght you be,Ere that I chine you with my sworde and cleave your harte in three!"Then rolled that knyght his bloudy een, and answered with a groane,—"By worthy God that hath me made and shope ye sun and mone,There fareth hence an evil thing whose like ben never seene,And tho' he sayeth nony worde, he bode the ill, I ween.So take your parting, evereche one, and gird you for ye fraye,By all that's pure, ye Divell sure doth trend his path this way!"Ye which he quoth and fell again into a deadly swound,And on that spot, perchance (God wot), his bones mought yet be founde.
Then evereche knight girt on his sworde and shield and hied him straightTo meet ye straunger sarasen hard by ye city gate;Full sorely moaned ye damosels and tore their beautyse haireFor that they feared an hippogriff wolde come to eate them there;But as they moaned and swounded there too numerous to relate,Kyng Arthure and Sir Launcelot stode at ye city gate,And at eche side and round about stode many a noblesse knyghtWith helm and speare and sworde and shield and mickle valor dight.
Anon there came a straunger, but not a gyaunt grim,Nor yet a draggon,—but a person gangling, long, and slim;Yclad he was in guise that ill-beseemed those knyghtly days,And there ben nony etiquette in his uplandish ways;His raiment was of dusty gray, and perched above his lugsThere ben the very latest style of blacke and shiny pluggs;His nose ben like a vulture beake, his blie ben swart of hue,And curly ben ye whiskers through ye which ye zephyrs blewe;Of all ye een that ben yseene in countries far or nigh,None nonywhere colde hold compare unto that straunger's eye;It was an eye of soche a kind as never ben on sleepe,Nor did it gleam with kindly beame, nor did not use to weepe;But soche an eye ye widdow hath,—an hongrey eye and wan,That spyeth for an oder chaunce whereby she may catch on;An eye that winketh of itself, and sayeth by that winkeYe which a maiden sholde not knowe nor never even thinke;Which winke ben more exceeding swift nor human thought ben thunk,And leaveth doubting if so be that winke ben really wunke;And soch an eye ye catte-fysshe hath when that he ben on deadAnd boyled a goodly time and served with capers on his head;A rayless eye, a bead-like eye, whose famisht aspect showsIt hungereth for ye verdant banks whereon ye wild time grows;An eye that hawketh up and down for evereche kind of game,And, when he doth espy ye which, he tumbleth to ye same.
Now when he kenned Sir Launcelot in armor clad, he quod,"Another put-a-nickel-in-and-see-me-work, be god!"But when that he was ware a man ben standing in that suit,Ye straunger threw up both his hands, and asked him not to shoote.
Then spake Kyng Arthure: "If soe be you mind to do no ill,Come, enter into Camelot, and eat and drink your fill;But say me first what you are hight, and what mought be your quest."Ye straunger quod, "I'm five feet ten, and fare me from ye West!""Sir Fivefeetten," Kyng Arthure said, "I bid you welcome here;So make you merrie as you list with plaisaunt wine and cheere;This very night shall be a feast soche like ben never seene,And you shall be ye honored guest of Arthure and his queene.Now take him, good sir Maligraunce, and entertain him wellUntil soche time as he becomes our guest, as I you tell."
That night Kyng Arthure's table round with mighty care ben spread,Ye oder knyghts sate all about, and Arthure at ye heade:Oh, 't was a goodly spectacle to ken that noblesse liegeDispensing hospitality from his commanding siege!Ye pheasant and ye meate of boare, ye haunch of velvet doe,Ye canvass hamme he them did serve, and many good things moe.Until at last Kyng Arthure cried: "Let bring my wassail cup,And let ye sound of joy go round,—I'm going to set 'em up!I've pipes of Malmsey, May-wine, sack, metheglon, mead, and sherry,Canary, Malvoisie, and Port, swete Muscadelle and perry;Rochelle, Osey, and Romenay, Tyre, Rhenish, posset too,With kags and pails of foaming ales of brown October brew.To wine and beer and other cheere I pray you now despatch ye,And for ensample, wit ye well, sweet sirs, I'm looking at ye!"
Unto which toast of their liege lord ye oders in ye partyDid lout them low in humble wise and bid ye same drink hearty.So then ben merrisome discourse and passing plaisaunt cheere,And Arthure's tales of hippogriffs ben mervaillous to heare;But stranger far than any tale told of those knyghts of oldBen those facetious narratives ye Western straunger told.He told them of a country many leagues beyond ye seaWhere evereche forraine nuisance but ye Chinese man ben free,And whiles he span his monstrous yarns, ye ladies of ye courtDid deem ye listening thereunto to be right plaisaunt sport;And whiles they listened, often he did squeeze a lily hande,Ye which proceeding ne'er before ben done in Arthure's lande;And often wank a sidelong wink with either roving eye,Whereat ye ladies laughen so that they had like to die.But of ye damosels that sat around Kyng Arthure's tableHe liked not her that sometime ben ron over by ye cable,Ye which full evil hap had harmed and marked her person soThat in a passing wittie jest he dubbeth her ye crow.
But all ye oders of ye girls did please him passing wellAnd they did own him for to be a proper seeming swell;And in especial Guinevere esteemed him wondrous faire,Which had made Arthure and his friend, Sir Launcelot, to swareBut that they both ben so far gone with posset, wine, and beer,They colde not see ye carrying-on, nor neither colde not heare;For of eche liquor Arthure quafft, and so did all ye rest,Save only and excepting that smooth straunger from the West.When as these oders drank a toast, he let them have their funWith divers godless mixings, buthestock to willow run,Ye which (and all that reade these words sholde profit by ye warning)Doth never make ye head to feel like it ben swelled next morning.Now, wit ye well, it so befell that when the night grew dim,Ye Kyng was carried from ye hall with a howling jag on him,Whiles Launcelot and all ye rest that to his highness toadiedWithdrew them from ye banquet-hall and sought their couches loaded.
Now, lithe and listen, lordings all, whiles I do call it shameThat, making cheer with wine and beer, men do abuse ye same;Though eche be well enow alone, ye mixing of ye twoBen soche a piece of foolishness as only ejiots do.Ye wine is plaisaunt bibbing whenas ye gentles dine,And beer will do if one hath not ye wherewithal for wine,But in ye drinking of ye same ye wise are never flooredBy taking what ye tipplers call too big a jag on board.Right hejeous is it for to see soche dronkonness of wineWhereby some men are used to make themselves to be like swine;And sorely it repenteth them, for when they wake next dayYe fearful paynes they suffer ben soche as none mought say,And soche ye brenning in ye throat and brasting of ye headAnd soche ye taste within ye mouth like one had been on dead,—Sochebe ye foul conditions that these unhappy menSware they will never drink no drop of nony drinke again.Yet all so frail and vain a thing and weak withal is manThat he goeth on an oder tear whenever that he can.And like ye evil quatern or ye hills that skirt ye skies,Ye jag is reproductive and jags on jags arise.
Whenas Aurora from ye east in dewy splendor hiedKing Arthure dreemed he saw a snaix and ben on fire inside,And waking from this hejeous dreeme he sate him up in bed,—"What, ho! an absynthe cocktail, knave! and make it strong!" he said;Then, looking down beside him, lo! his lady was not there—He called, he searched, but, Goddis wounds! he found her nonywhere;And whiles he searched, Sir Maligraunce rashed in, wood wroth, and cried,"Methinketh that ye straunger knyght hath snuck away my bride!"And whileshespake a motley score of other knyghts brast inAnd filled ye royall chamber with a mickle fearfull din,For evereche one had lost his wiffe nor colde not spye ye same,Nor colde not spye ye straunger knyght, Sir Fivefeetten of name.
Oh, then and there was grevious lamentation all arounde,For nony dame nor damosel in Camelot ben found,—Gone, like ye forest leaves that speed afore ye autumn wind.Of all ye ladies of that court not one ben left behindSave only that same damosel ye straunger called ye crow,And she allowed with moche regret she ben too lame to go;And when that she had wept full sore, to Arthure she confess'dThat Guinevere had left this word for Arthure and ye rest:"Tell them," she quod, "we shall return to them whenas we've madeThis little deal we have with ye Chicago Bourde of Trade."
Misery is my lot,Poverty and pain;Ill was I begot,Ill must I remain;Yet the wretched daysOne sweet comfort bring,When God whispering says,"Sing, O singer, sing!"
Chariots rumble by,Splashing me with mud;Insolence see IFawn to royal blood;Solace have I thenFrom each galling stingIn that voice again,—"Sing, O singer, sing!"
Cowardly at heart,I am forced to playA degraded partFor its paltry pay;Freedom is a prizeFor no starving thing;Yet that small voice cries,"Sing, O singer, sing!"
Iwasyoung, but now,When I'm old and gray,Love—I know not howOr why—hath sped away;Still, in winter daysAs in hours of spring,Stilla whisper says,"Sing, O singer, sing!"
Ah, too well I knowSong's my only friend!Patiently I'll goSinging to the end;Comrades, to your wine!Let your glasses ring!Lo, that voice divineWhispers, "Sing, oh, sing!"
O mother-my-love, if you'll give me your hand,And go where I ask you to wander,I will lead you away to a beautiful land,—The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.We'll walk in a sweet posie-garden out there,Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,And the flowers and the birds are filling the airWith the fragrance and music of dreaming.
There'll be no little tired-out boy to undress,No questions or cares to perplex you,There'll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,Nor patching of stockings to vex you;For I'll rock you away on a silver-dew streamAnd sing you asleep when you're weary,And no one shall know of our beautiful dreamBut you and your own little dearie.
And when I am tired I'll nestle my headIn the bosom that's soothed me so often,And the wide-awake stars shall sing, in my stead,A song which our dreaming shall soften.So, Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand,And away through the starlight we'll wander,—Away through the mist to the beautiful land,—The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.
What conversazzhyonies wuz I really did not know,For that, you must remember, wuz a powerful spell ago;The camp wuz new 'nd noisy, 'nd only modrit sized,So fashionable sossiety wuz hardly crystallized.There hadn't been no grand events to interest the men,But a lynchin', or a inquest, or a jackpot now an' then.The wimmin-folks wuz mighty scarce, for wimmin, ez a rool,Don't go to Colorado much, excep' for teachin' school,An' bein' scarce an' chipper and pretty (like as not),The bachelors perpose, 'nd air accepted on the spot.
Now Sorry Tom wuz owner uv the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine,The wich allowed his better haff to dress all-fired fine;For Sorry Tom wuz mighty proud uv her, an' she uv him,Thoughshewuz short an' tacky, an'hewuz tall an' slim,An'shewuz edjicated, an' Sorry Tom wuznot,Yet, forhersake, he'd whack up every cussid cent he'd got!Waal, jest by way uv celebratin' matrimonial joys,She thought she'd give a conversazzhyony to the boys,—A peert an' likely lady, 'nd ez full uv 'cute idees'Nd uv etiquettish notions ez a fyste is full uv fleas.
Three-fingered Hoover kind uv kicked, an' said they might be durnedSo far ez any conversazzhyony was concerned;He'dcome to Red Hoss Mountain to tunnel for the ore,An'notto go to parties,—quite another kind uv bore!But, bein' he wuz candidate for marshal uv the camp,I rayther had the upper holts in arguin' with the scamp;Sez I, "Three-fingered Hoover, can't ye see it is yer gameTo go for all the votes ye kin an' collar uv the same?"The wich perceivin', Hoover sez, "Waal, ef Imust, Imust;So I'll frequent that conversazzhyony, ef I bust!"
Three-fingered Hoover wuz a trump! Ez fine a man wuz heEz ever caused an inquest or blossomed on a tree!—A big, broad man, whose face bespoke a honest heart within,—With a bunch uv yaller whiskers appertainin' to his chin,'Nd a fierce mustache turnt up so fur that both his ears wuz hid,Like the picture that you always see in the "Life uv Cap'n Kidd."His hair wuz long an' wavy an' fine as Southdown fleece,—Oh, it shone an' smelt like Eden when he slicked it down with grease!I'll bet there wuzn't anywhere a man, all round, ez fineEz wuz Three-fingered Hoover in the spring uv '69!
The conversazzhyony wuz a notable affair,The bong tong deckolett 'nd en regaly bein' there;The ranch where Sorry Tom hung out wuz fitted up immense,—The Denver papers called it a "palashal residence."There wuz mountain pines an' fern an' flowers a-hangin' on the walls,An' cheers an' hoss-hair sofies wuz a-settin' in the halls;An' there wuz heaps uv pictures uv folks that lived down East,Sech ez poets an' perfessers, an' last, but not the least,Wuz a chromo uv old Fremont,—we liked that best, you bet,For there's lots uv us old miners that is votin' for him yet!
When Sorry Tom received the gang perlitely at the door,He said that keerds would be allowed upon the second floor;And then he asked us would we like a drop uv ody vee.Connivin' at his meanin', we responded promptly, "Wee."A conversazzhyony is a thing where people speakThe langwidge in the which they air partickulerly weak:"I see," sez Sorry Tom, "you grasp what that 'ere lingo means.""You bet yer boots," sez Hoover; "I've lived at Noo Orleens,An', though I ain't no Frenchie, nor kin unto the same,I kin parly voo, an' git there, too, like Eli, toot lee mame!"
As speakin' French wuz not my forte,—not even oovry poo,—I stuck to keerds ez played by them ez did not parly voo,An' bein' how that poker wuz my most perficient game,I poneyed up for 20 blues an' set into the same.Three-fingered Hoover stayed behind an' parly-vood so wellThat all the kramy delly krame allowed he wuzthebelle.The other candidate for marshal didn't have a show;For, while Three-fingered Hoover parlyed, ez they said, tray bow,Bill Goslin didn't know enough uv French to git along,'Nd I reckon that he had what folks might call a movy tong.
From Denver they had freighted up a real pianny-fortUv the warty-leg and pearl-around-the-keys-an'-kivver sort,An', later in the evenin', Perfesser Vere de BlawPerformed on that pianny, with considerble eclaw,Sech high-toned opry airs ez one is apt to hear, you know,When he rounds up down to Denver at a Emmy Abbitt show;An' Barber Jim (a talented but ornery galoot)Discoursed a obligatter, conny mory, on the floot,'Till we, ez sot up-stairs indulgin' in a quiet game,Conveyed to Barber Jim our wish to compromise the same.
The maynoo that wuz spread that night wuz mighty hard to beat,—Though somewhat awkward to pernounce, it was not so to eat:There wuz puddin's, pies, an' sandwidges, an' forty kinds uv sass,An' floatin' Irelands, custards, tarts, an' patty dee foy grass;An' millions uv cove oysters wuz a-settin' round in pans,'Nd other native fruits an' things that grow out West in cans.But I wuz all kufflummuxed when Hoover said he'd choose"Oon peety morso, see voo play, de la cette Charlotte Rooze;"I'd knowed Three-fingered Hoover for fifteen years or more,'Nd I'd never heern him speak so light uv wimmin folks before!
Bill Goslin heern him say it, 'nd uv coursehespread the newsUv how Three-fingered Hoover had insulted Charlotte RoozeAt the conversazzhyony down at Sorry Tom's that night,An' when they asked me, I allowed that Bill for once wuz right;Although it broke my heart to see my friend go up the fluke,We all opined his treatment uv the girl deserved rebuke.It warn't no use for Sorry Tom to nail it for a lie,—When it come to sassin' wimmin, there wuz blood in every eye;The boom for Charlotte Rooze swep' on an' took the polls by storm,An' so Three-fingered Hoover fell a martyr to reform!
Three-fingered Hoover said it was a terrible mistake,An' when the votes wuz in, he cried ez if his heart would break.We never knew who Charlotte wuz, but Goslin's brother DickAllowed she wuz the teacher from the camp on Roarin' Crick,That had come to pass some foreign tongue with them uv our aliteEz wuz at the high-toned party down at Sorry Tom's that night.We let it drop—this matter uv the lady—there an' then,An' we never heerd, nor wanted to, of Charlotte Rooze again,An' the Colorado wimmin-folks, ez like ez not, don't knowHow we vindicated all their sex a twenty year ago.
For in these wondrous twenty years has come a mighty change,An' most of them old pioneers have gone acrosst the range,Way out into the silver land beyond the peaks uv snow,—The land uv rest an' sunshine, where all good miners go.I reckon that they love to look, from out the silver haze,Upon that God's own country where they spent sech happy days;Upon the noble cities that have risen since they went;Upon the camps an' ranches that are prosperous and content;An' best uv all, upon those hills that reach into the air,Ez if to clasp the loved ones that are waitin' over there.
Achievin' sech distinction with his moddel tabble doteEz to make his Red Hoss Mountain restauraw a place uv note,Our old friend Casey innovated somewhat round the place,In hopes he would ameliorate the sufferin's uv the race;'Nd uv the many features Casey managed to importThe most important wuz a Steenway gran' pianny-fort,An' bein' there wuz nobody could play upon the same,He telegraffed to Denver, 'nd a real perfesser came,—The last an' crownin' glory uv the Casey restaurawWuz that tenderfoot musicianer, Perfesser Vere de Blaw!
His hair wuz long an' dishybill, an' he had a yaller skin,An' the absence uv a collar made his neck look powerful thin:A sorry man he wuz to see, az mebby you'd surmise,But the fire uv inspiration wuz a-blazin' in his eyes!His name wuz Blanc, wich same is Blaw (for that's what Casey said,An' Casey passed the French ez well ez any Frenchie bred);But no one ever reckoned that it really wuz his name,An' no one ever asked him how or why or whence he came,—Your ancient history is a thing the Coloradan hates,An' no one asks another what his name wuz in the States!
At evenin', when the work wuz done, an' the miners rounded upAt Casey's, to indulge in keerds or linger with the cup,Or dally with the tabble dote in all its native glory,Perfessor Vere de Blaw discoursed his music repertoryUpon the Steenway gran' piannyfort, the wich wuz sotIn the hallway near the kitchen (a warm but quiet spot),An' when De Blaw's environments induced the proper pride,—Wich gen'rally wuz whiskey straight, with seltzer on the side,—He throwed his soulful bein' into opry airs 'nd thingsWich bounded to the ceilin' like he'd mesmerized the strings.
Oh, you that live in cities where the gran' piannies grow,An' primy donnies round up, it's little that you knowUv the hungerin' an' the yearnin' wich us miners an' the restFeel for the songs we used to hear before we moved out West.Yes, memory is a pleasant thing, but it weakens mighty quick;It kind uv dries an' withers, like the windin' mountain crick,That, beautiful, an' singin' songs, goes dancin' to the plains,So long ez it is fed by snows an' watered by the rains;But, uv that grace uv lovin' rains 'nd mountain snows bereft,Its bleachin' rocks, like dummy ghosts, is all its memory left.
The toons wich the perfesser would perform with sech eclawWould melt the toughest mountain gentleman I ever saw,—Sech touchin' opry music ez the Trovytory sort,The sollum "Mizer Reery," an' the thrillin' "Keely Mort;"Or, sometimes, from "Lee Grond Dooshess" a trifle he would play,Or morsoze from a' opry boof, to drive dull care away;Or, feelin' kind uv serious, he'd discourse somewhat in C,—The wich he called a' opus (whatever that may be);But the toons that fetched the likker from the critics in the crowdWuznotthe high-toned ones, Perfesser Vere de Blaw allowed.
'T wuz "Dearest May," an' "Bonnie Doon," an' the ballard uv "Ben Bolt,"Ez wuz regarded by all odds ez Vere de Blaw's best holt;Then there wuz "Darlin' Nellie Gray," an' "Settin' on the Stile,"An' "Seein' Nellie Home," an' "Nancy Lee," 'nd "Annie Lisle,"An' "Silver Threads among the Gold," an' "The Gal that Winked at Me,"An' "Gentle Annie," "Nancy Till," an' "The Cot beside the Sea."Your opry airs is good enough for them ez likes to payTheir money for the truck ez can't be got no other way;But opry to a miner is a thin an' holler thing,—Themusic that he pines for is the songs he used to sing.
One evenin' down at Casey's De Blaw wuz at his best,With four-fingers uv old Wilier-run concealed beneath his vest;The boys wuz settin' all around, discussin' folks an' things,'Nd I had drawed the necessary keerds to fill on kings;Three-fingered Hoover kind uv leaned acrosst the bar to sayIf Casey'd liquidate right off,he'dliquidate next day;A sperrit uv contentment wuz a-broodin' all around(Onlike the other sperrits wich in restauraws abound),When, suddenly, we heerd from yonder kitchen-entry riseA toon each ornery galoot appeared to recognize.
Perfesser Vere de Blaw for once eschewed his opry ways,An' the remnants uv his mind went back to earlier, happier days,An' grappled like an' wrassled with a' old familiar airThe wich we all uv us had heern, ez you have, everywhere!Stock still we stopped,—some in their talk uv politics an' things,I in my unobtrusive attempt to fill on kings,'Nd Hoover leanin' on the bar, an' Casey at the till,—We all stopped short an' held our breaths (ez a feller sometimes will),An' sot there more like bumps on logs than healthy, husky men,Ez the memories uv that old, old toon come sneakin' back again.
You've guessed it? No, you hav n't; for it wuzn't that there songUv the home we'd been away from an' had hankered for so long,—No, sir; it wuzn't "Home, Sweet Home," though it's always heard aroundSech neighborhoods in wich the home thatis"sweet home" is found.And, ez for me, I seemed to see the past come back again,And hear the deep-drawed sigh my sister Lucy uttered whenHer mother asked her if she 'd practised her two hours that day,Wich, if she hadn't, she must go an' do it right away!The homestead in the States 'nd all its memories seemed to comeA-floatin' round about me with that magic lumty-tum.
And then uprose a stranger wich had struck the camp that night;His eyes wuz sot an' fireless, 'nd his face wuz spookish white,'Nd he sez: "Oh, how I suffer there is nobody kin say,Onless, like me, he's wrenched himself from home an' friends awayTo seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, seclooded spot,Only to find—alars, too late!—the wich surcease is not!Only to find that there air things that, somehow, seem to liveFor nothin' in the world but jest the misery they give!I've travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that toon has got here first;I'm done,—I'm blowed,—I welcome death, an' bid it do its worst!"
Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on yieldin' to his fate,He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded whiskey straight,Wich havin' got outside uv,—both the likker and the door,—We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv health no more!But some months later, what the birds had left uv him wuz foundAssociated with a tree, some distance from the ground;And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon him, saidThat two things wuz apparent, namely: first, deceast wuz dead;And, second, previously had got involved beyond all hopeIn a knotty complication with a yard or two uv rope!
Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white,And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may,And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.
To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth downA lyttel childe that ben a lyttel lambkyn of his owne;And if so bee they love that childe, He willeth it to staye,But elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.
And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe,And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben beguiled;They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play,And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.
I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me;If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde bee!For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in his eare,What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?
Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white,And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may,And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.
The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its wayEz if it waited for a child to jine it in its play;The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their heads to hearThe music uv the little feet that had somehow grown so dear;The magpies, like winged shadders, wuz a-flutterin' to an' froAmong the rocks an' holler stumps in the ragged gulch below;The pines an' hemlocks tosst their boughs (like they wuz arms) and madeSoft, sollum music on the slope where he had often played;But for these lonesome, sollum voices on the mountain-side,There wuz no sound the summer day that Marthy's younkit died.
We called him Marthy's younkit, for Marthy wuz the nameUv her ez wuz his mar, the wife uv Sorry Tom,—the sameEz taught the school-house on the hill, way back in '69,When she marr'd Sorry Tom, wich owned the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine!And Marthy's younkit wuz their first, wich, bein' how it meantThe first on Red Hoss Mountain, wuz truly a' event!The miners sawed off short on work ez soon ez they got wordThat Dock Devine allowed to Casey what had just occurred;We loaded up an' whooped around until we all wuz hoarseSalutin' the arrival, wich weighed ten pounds, uv course!
Three years, and sech a pretty child!—his mother's counterpart!Three years, an' sech a holt ez he had got on every heart!A peert an' likely little tyke with hair ez red ez gold,A-laughin', toddlin' everywhere,—'nd only three years old!Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, an' sometimes down the hillHe kited (boys is boys, you know,—you couldn't keep him still!)An' there he'd play beside the brook where purpul wild-flowers grew,An' the mountain pines an' hemlocks a kindly shadder threw,An' sung soft, sollum toons to him, while in the gulch belowThe magpies, like strange sperrits, went flutterin' to an' fro.
Three years, an' then the fever come,—it wuzn't right, you know,With all us old ones in the camp, for that little child to go;It's right the old should die, but that a harmless little childShould miss the joy uv life an' love,—that can't be reconciled!That's what we thought that summer day, an' that is what we saidEz we looked upon the piteous face uv Marthy's younkit dead.But for his mother's sobbin', the house wuz very still,An' Sorry Tom wuz lookin', through the winder, down the hill,To the patch beneath the hemlocks where his darlin' used to play,An' the mountain brook sung lonesomelike an' loitered on its way.
A preacher come from Roarin' Crick to comfort 'em an' pray,'Nd all the camp wuz present at the obsequies next day;A female teacher staged it twenty miles to sing a hymn,An' we jined her in the chorus,—big, husky men an' grimSung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," an' then the preacher prayed,An' preacht a sermon on the death uv that fair blossom laidAmong them other flowers he loved,—wich sermon set sech weightOn sinners bein' always heeled against the future state,That, though it had been fashionable to swear a perfec' streak,There warn't no swearin' in the camp for pretty nigh a week!
Last thing uv all, four strappin' men took up the little loadAn' bore it tenderly along the windin', rocky road,To where the coroner had dug a grave beside the brook,In sight uv Marthy's winder, where the same could set an' lookAn' wonder if his cradle in that green patch, long an' wide,Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that wuz empty at her side;An' wonder if the mournful songs the pines wuz singin' thenWuz ez tender ez the lullabies she'd never sing again,'Nd if the bosom of the earth in wich he lay at restWuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm ez wuz his mother's breast.
The camp is gone; but Red Hoss Mountain rears its kindly head,An' looks down, sort uv tenderly, upon its cherished dead;'Nd I reckon that, through all the years, that little boy wich diedSleeps sweetly an' contentedly upon the mountain-side;That the wild-flowers uv the summer-time bend down their heads to hearThe footfall uv a little friend they know not slumbers near;That the magpies on the sollum rocks strange flutterin' shadders make,An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper doesn't wake;That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike an' loiters on its wayEz if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.
Through sleet and fogs to the saline bogsWhere the herring fish meanders,An army sped, and then, 't is said,Swore terribly in Flanders:"————!""————!"A hideous store of oaths they swore,Did the army over in Flanders!
At this distant day we're unable to sayWhat so aroused their danders;But it's doubtless the case, to their lasting disgrace,That the army swore in Flanders:"————!""————!"And many more such oaths they swore,Did that impious horde in Flanders!
Some folks contend that these oaths without endBegan among the commanders,That, taking this cue, the subordinates, too,Swore terribly in Flanders:Twas "——————!""————"
Why, the air was blue with the hullaballooOf those wicked men in Flanders!
But some suppose that the trouble aroseWith a certain Corporal Sanders,Who sought to abuse the wooden shoesThat the natives wore in Flanders.Saying: "————!""————"
What marvel then, that the other menFelt encouraged to swear in Flanders!At any rate, as I grieve to state,Since these soldiers vented their dandersConjectures obtain that for language profaneThere is no such place as Flanders."————""————"
This is the kind of talk you'll findIf ever you go to Flanders.How wretched is he, wherever he be,That unto this habit panders!And how glad am I that my interests lieIn Chicago, and not in Flanders!"————————!""————————!"
Would never go down in this circumspect townHowever it might in Flanders.
When in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke,I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like;And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraughtWhen I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I'd caught!And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd displayWhen I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away!
Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines,And many times the treacherous reeds would foil my just designs;But whether hooks or lines or reeds were actually to blame,I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same—I never lost alittlefish—yes, I am free to sayIt always was thebiggestfish I caught that got away.
And so it was, when later on, I felt ambition passFrom callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass;I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't biteAnd I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night,To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gayHow the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away.
And really, fish look bigger than they are before they are before they'recaught—When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut,When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throatAnd he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat!Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I sayThat it alwaysisthe biggest fish you catch that gets away!
'T 'is even so in other things—yes, in our greedy eyesThe biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize;We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life—Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife;
And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray,We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that got away.
I would not have it otherwise; 't is better there should beMuch bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea;For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game—May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same;Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to sayThat the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away.
O hapless day! O wretched day!I hoped you'd pass me by—Alas, the years have sneaked awayAnd all is changed but I!Had I the power, I would remandYou to a gloom condign,But here you've crept upon me andI—I am thirty-nine!
Now, were I thirty-five, I couldAssume a flippant guise;Or, were I forty years, I shouldUndoubtedly look wise;For forty years are said to bringSedateness superfine;But thirty-nine don't mean a thing—À baswith thirty-nine!
You healthy, hulking girls and boys,—What makes you grow so fast?Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise—I'm tough and bound to last!No, no—I'm old and withered too—I feel my powers decline(Yet none believes this can be trueOf one at thirty-nine).
And you, dear girl with velvet eyes,I wonder what you meanThrough all our keen anxietiesBy keeping sweet sixteen.With your dear love to warm my heart,Wretch were I to repine;I was but jesting at the start—I'm glad I'm thirty-nine!
So, little children, roar and raceAs blithely as you can,And, sweetheart, let your tender graceExalt the Day and Man;For then these factors (I'll engage)All subtly shall combineTo make both juvenile and sageThe one who's thirty-nine!
Yes, after all, I'm free to sayI would much rather beStanding as I do stand to-day,'Twixt devil and deep sea;For though my face be dark with careOr with a grimace shine,Each haply falls unto my share,For I am thirty-nine!
'Tis passing meet to make good cheerAnd lord it like a king,Since only once we catch the yearThat doesn't mean a thing.O happy day! O gracious day!I pledge thee in this wine—Come, let us journey on our wayA year, good Thirty-Nine!
Sept. 2, 1889.
Where wail the waters in their flawA spectre wanders to and fro,And evermore that ghostly shoreBemoans the heir of Yvytot.
Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall,The mists upon the waters fall,Across the main float shadows twainThat do not heed the spectre's call.
The king his son of YvytotStood once and saw the waters goBoiling around with hissing soundThe sullen phantom rocks below.
And suddenly he saw a faceLift from that black and seething place—Lift up and gaze in mute amazeAnd tenderly a little space,
A mighty cry of love made he—No answering word to him gave she,But looked, and then sunk back againInto the dark and depthless sea.
And ever afterward that face,That he beheld such little space,Like wraith would rise within his eyesAnd in his heart find biding place.
So oft from castle hall he creptWhere mid the rocks grim shadows slept,And where the mist reached down and kissedThe waters as they wailed and wept.
The king it was of YvytotThat vaunted, many years ago,There was no coast his valiant hostHad not subdued with spear and bow.
For once to him the sea-king cried:"In safety all thy ships shall rideAn thou but swear thy princely heirShall take my daughter to his bride.
"And lo, these winds that rove the seaUnto our pact shall witness be,And of the oath which binds us bothShall be the judge 'twixt me and thee!"
Then swore the king of YvytotUnto the sea-king years ago,And with great cheer for many a yearHis ships went harrying to and fro.
Unto this mighty king his throneWas born a prince, and one alone—Fairer than he in form and bleeAnd knightly grace was never known.
But once he saw a maiden faceLift from a haunted ocean place—Lift up and gaze in mute amazeAnd tenderly a little space.
Wroth was the king of Yvytot,For that his son would never goSailing the sea, but liefer beWhere wailed the waters in their flow,
Where winds in clamorous anger swept,Where to and fro grim shadows crept,And where the mist reached down and kissedThe waters as they wailed and wept.
So sped the years, till came a dayThe haughty king was old and gray,And in his hold were spoils untoldThat he had wrenched from Norroway.
Then once again the sea-king cried:"Thy ships have harried far and wide;My part is done—now let thy sonRequire my daughter to his bride!"
Loud laughed the king of Yvytot,And by his soul he bade him no—"I heed no more what oath I swore,For I was mad to bargain so!"
Then spake the sea-king in his wrath:"Thy ships lie broken in my path!Go now and wring thy hands, false king!Nor ship nor heir thy kingdom hath!
"And thou shalt wander evermoreAll up and down this ghostly shore,And call in vain upon the twainThat keep what oath a dastard swore!"
The king his son of YvytotStood even then where to and froThe breakers swelled—and there beheldA maiden face lift from below.
"Be thou or truth or dream," he cried,"Or spirit of the restless tide,It booteth not to me, God wot!But I would have thee to my bride."
Then spake the maiden: "Come with meUnto a palace in the sea,For there my sire in kingly ireRequires thy king his oath of thee!"
Gayly he fared him down the sandsAnd took the maiden's outstretched hands;And so went they upon their wayTo do the sea-king his commands.
The winds went riding to and froAnd scourged the waves that crouched below,And bade them sing to a childless kingThe bridal song of Yvytot.
So fell the curse upon that shore,And hopeless wailing evermoreWas the righteous dole of the craven soulThat heeded not what oath he swore.
An hundred ships went down that dayAll off the coast of Norroway,And the ruthless sea made mighty gleeOver the spoil that drifting lay.
The winds went calling far and wideTo the dead that tossed in the mocking tide:"Come forth, ye slaves! from your fleeting gravesAnd drink a health to your prince his bride!"
Where wail the waters in their flowA spectre wanders to and fro,But nevermore that ghostly shoreShall claim the heir of Yvytot.
Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall,The mists upon the waters fall,Across the main flit shadows twainThat do not heed the spectre's call.
I once knew all the birds that cameAnd nested in our orchard trees;For every flower I had a name—My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;I knew where thrived in yonder glenWhat plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe—Oh, I was very learned then;But that was very long ago!
I knew the spot upon the hillWhere checkerberries could be found,I knew the rushes near the millWhere pickerel lay that weighed a pound!I knew the wood,—the very treeWhere lived the poaching, saucy crow,And all the woods and crows knew me—But that was very long ago.
And pining for the joys of youth,I tread the old familiar spotOnly to learn this solemn truth:I have forgotten, am forgot.Yet here's this youngster at my kneeKnows all the things I used to know;To think I once was wise as he—But that was very long ago.
I know it's folly to complainOf whatsoe'er the Fates decree;Yet were not wishes all in vain,I tell you what my wish should be:I'd wish to be a boy again,Back with the friends I used to know;For I was, oh! so happy then—But that was very long ago!