"FLASH:" THE FIREMAN'S STORY.

Somehow, the fire I saw not long agoHas subsequently chased me, high and low;Runs back and forth betwixt my head and heart,And shows no disposition to depart.And so I've wandered 'round (too much, perhaps),And got acquainted with the fireman chaps,And planted good cigars where they would seemInclined to grow up helpful to my scheme.(I never smoke; but, travelling near and far,There's few things help one like a good cigar;When safe between a neighbor's teeth 'tis hung,It oils his ways and loosens up his tongue.I get more from cigars, before it's through,Than all the fellows that I give them to.Perhaps they should not smoke; but, if they will,My method helps their families foot the bill.)Not long ago a sturdy fireman lad,Who smoked up every last cigar I had,Unrolled the following story to my view,Which I believe (conditionally) true:

Somehow, the fire I saw not long agoHas subsequently chased me, high and low;Runs back and forth betwixt my head and heart,And shows no disposition to depart.

And so I've wandered 'round (too much, perhaps),And got acquainted with the fireman chaps,And planted good cigars where they would seemInclined to grow up helpful to my scheme.(I never smoke; but, travelling near and far,There's few things help one like a good cigar;When safe between a neighbor's teeth 'tis hung,It oils his ways and loosens up his tongue.I get more from cigars, before it's through,Than all the fellows that I give them to.Perhaps they should not smoke; but, if they will,My method helps their families foot the bill.)

Not long ago a sturdy fireman lad,Who smoked up every last cigar I had,Unrolled the following story to my view,Which I believe (conditionally) true:

"Flash" was a white-foot sorrel, an' run on Number Three:Not much stable manners—an average horse to see;Notional in his methods—strong in loves an' hates;Not very much respected, or popular 'mongst his mates;

Dull an' moody an' sleepy, an' "off" on quiet days;Full o' turbulent, sour looks, an' small, sarcastic ways;Scowled an' bit at his partner, an' banged the stable floor—With other means intended to designate life a bore.

"HE BEGGED THAT HORSE'S PARDON UPON HIS BENDED KNEES.""HE BEGGED THAT HORSE'S PARDON UPON HIS BENDED KNEES."

But when, be't day or night time, he heard the alarm-bell ring,He'd rush for his place in the harness with a regular tiger spring;An' watch, with nervous shivers, the clasp of buckle an' band,Until 'twas plainly evident he'd like to lend a hand.An' when the word was given, away he would rush an' tear,As if a thousand witches was rumplin' up his hair,An' craze the other horses with his magnetic charm,Till every hoof-beat sounded a regular fire-alarm!Never a horse a jockey would notice an' admireLike Flash in front of his engine a-runnin' to a fire;Never a horse so lazy, so dawdlin', an' so slack,As Flash upon his return trip, a-drawin' the engine back.Now, when the different horses gets tender-footed an' old,They're no use in our business; so Flash was finally soldTo quite a respectable milkman, who found it not so fineA-bossin' one o' God's creatures outside it's natural line.Seems as if I could see Flash a-mopin' along here now,Feelin' that he was simply assistant to a cow;But sometimes he'd imagine he heard the alarm-bell's din,An' jump an' rear for a season before they could hold him in;An' once, in spite o' his master, he strolled in 'mongst us chaps,To talk with the other horses, of former fires, perhaps;Whereat the milkman kicked him; whereat, us boys to please,He begged that horse's pardon upon his bended knees.But one day, for a big fire as we was makin' a dash,Both o' the horses we had on somewhat resemblin' Flash,Yellin' an' ringin' an' rushin', with excellent voice an' heart,We passed the poor old fellow, a-tuggin' away at his cart.If ever I see an old hoss grow upward into a new—If ever I see a milkman whose traps behind him flew,'Twas that old hoss, a-rearin' an' racin' down the track,An' that respectable milkman a-tryin' to hold him back.Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' "Number Three,"Gained the lead, an' kept it, an' steered his journey free;Dodgin' wagons an' horses, an' still on the keenest "silk,"An' furnishin' all that neighborhood with good, respectable milk.Crowd a-yellin' an' runnin', an' vainly hollerin' "Whoa!"Milkman bracin' an' sawin', with never a bit o' show;Firemen laughin' an' chucklin', an' shoutin' "Good! go in!"Hoss a-gettin' down to it, an' sweepin' along like sin.

An' when the word was given, away he would rush an' tear,As if a thousand witches was rumplin' up his hair,An' craze the other horses with his magnetic charm,Till every hoof-beat sounded a regular fire-alarm!

Never a horse a jockey would notice an' admireLike Flash in front of his engine a-runnin' to a fire;Never a horse so lazy, so dawdlin', an' so slack,As Flash upon his return trip, a-drawin' the engine back.

Now, when the different horses gets tender-footed an' old,They're no use in our business; so Flash was finally soldTo quite a respectable milkman, who found it not so fineA-bossin' one o' God's creatures outside it's natural line.

Seems as if I could see Flash a-mopin' along here now,Feelin' that he was simply assistant to a cow;But sometimes he'd imagine he heard the alarm-bell's din,An' jump an' rear for a season before they could hold him in;

An' once, in spite o' his master, he strolled in 'mongst us chaps,To talk with the other horses, of former fires, perhaps;Whereat the milkman kicked him; whereat, us boys to please,He begged that horse's pardon upon his bended knees.

But one day, for a big fire as we was makin' a dash,Both o' the horses we had on somewhat resemblin' Flash,Yellin' an' ringin' an' rushin', with excellent voice an' heart,We passed the poor old fellow, a-tuggin' away at his cart.

If ever I see an old hoss grow upward into a new—If ever I see a milkman whose traps behind him flew,'Twas that old hoss, a-rearin' an' racin' down the track,An' that respectable milkman a-tryin' to hold him back.

Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' "Number Three,"Gained the lead, an' kept it, an' steered his journey free;Dodgin' wagons an' horses, an' still on the keenest "silk,"An' furnishin' all that neighborhood with good, respectable milk.

Crowd a-yellin' an' runnin', an' vainly hollerin' "Whoa!"Milkman bracin' an' sawin', with never a bit o' show;Firemen laughin' an' chucklin', an' shoutin' "Good! go in!"Hoss a-gettin' down to it, an' sweepin' along like sin.

"AWAY HE RUSHED LIKE A CYCLONE FOR THE HEAD O' 'NUMBER THREE.'""AWAY HE RUSHED LIKE A CYCLONE FOR THE HEAD O' 'NUMBER THREE.'"

Finally came where the fire was—halted with a "thud;"Sent the respectable milkman heels over head in mud;Watched till he see the engines properly workin' there,After which he relinquished all interest in the affair.Moped an' wilted an' dawdled, "faded away" once more,Took up his old occupation—considerin' life a bore;Laid down in his harness, an'—sorry I am to say—The milkman he had drawn there took his dead body away.That's the whole o' my story: I've seen, more'n once or twice,That poor dead animals' actions is full o' human advice;An' if you ask what Flash taught, I'll simply answer, then,That poor old horse was a symbol of some intelligent men.

Moped an' wilted an' dawdled, "faded away" once more,Took up his old occupation—considerin' life a bore;Laid down in his harness, an'—sorry I am to say—The milkman he had drawn there took his dead body away.

That's the whole o' my story: I've seen, more'n once or twice,That poor dead animals' actions is full o' human advice;An' if you ask what Flash taught, I'll simply answer, then,That poor old horse was a symbol of some intelligent men.

Laid down in his harness

An' if, as some consider, there's animals in the sky,I think the poor old fellow is gettin' another try;But if he should sniff the big fire that plagues the abode o' sin,It'll take the strongest angel to hold the old fellow in.

March20, 18—.

Speaking of fires, my powers of language fail;They run them here upon so large a scale.My son, Charles Sumner (who is, by-the-way,In Europe—terms ten dollars by the day,Paid strictly in advance), can rhyme somewhat,And often seems to me to touch the spot,And light the truth up with a healthier glare,And make ittruthfullerfor his being there.(But in such furrows human nature runs,That old men aren't good critics for their sons.)He used to rush (as youngsters often will)To every fire we had at Tompkins Hill,And seemed to plan less how to put them outThan to get something new to write about.He struck a rhyme I think isn't over bad,About a "fire" our little village had(Or city; for that town took city airsBefore its village short-clothes reached repairs).I found a copy of it t'other dayWhere he had laid it carefully away,To keep me from not finding it (he meantTo get it back in the next check I sent).'Twill cost me several dollars yet, I fear;—I'll paste the fellow's nonsense right in here:

'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill:The very leaves of the trees lay still;The world was slumbering, ocean deep;And even the stars seemed half asleep,And winked and blinked at the roofs below,As yearning for morn, that they might go.The streets as stolid and still did lieAs they would have done if streets could die;The sidewalks stretched as quietly proneAs if a foot they had never known;And not a cottage within the town,But looked as if it would fain lie down.Away in the west a stacken-cloud,With white arms drooping and bare head bowed,Was leaning against—with drowsy eye—The dark blue velveting of the sky.And that was the plightThings were in that night,Before we were roused the foe to fight—The foe so greedy and grand and bright—That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

II.

The Deacon lay on his first wife's bed,His second wife's pillow beneath his head,His third wife's coverlet o'er him wide,His fourth wife slumbering by his side.The parson visioned his Sunday's text,And what he should hurl at Satan next;The doctor a drowsy half-vigil kept,Still studying, as he partly slept,How men might glutton, and tope, and flyIn the face of Death, and still not die;The lawyer dreamed that his clients meantTo club together, and then present,As proof that their faith had not grown dim,A small bright silver hatchet to him;The laborer such sound slumber knew,He hadn't a dream the whole night through;The ladies dreamed—but I can't say wellWhat 'tis they dream, for they never tell!In short, such a general drowsy timeHad ne'er been known in that sleepy clime,As on the nightOf clamor and fright,We were roused the treacherous foe to fight—The foe so greedy and grand and bright,And carrying such an appetite—That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

III.

When all at once the old court-house bell(Which had a voice like a maniac's yell)Cried out, as if in its dim old sightThe judgment-day had come in the night."Bang whang whang bang clang dang bang whang,"The poor old parcel of metal sang;Whereat, from mansion, cottage, and shed,Rose men and women as from the dead,In different stages of attire,And shouted, "The town is all afire!"(Which came as near to being trueAs some more leisurely stories do.)They saw on the Deacon's house a glare,And everybody hurried there;And such a lot of visitors heHad never before the luck to see.The Deacon received these guests of nightIn a costume very simple and white;And after a drowsy, scared "Ahem!"He asked them what he could do for them."Fire! fire!" they shouted; "your house's afire!"And then, with energy sudden and dire,They rushed through the mansion's solitudes,And helped the Deacon to move his goods.And that was the sightWe had that night,When roused by the people who saw the lightAtop of the cottage, cozy and white,Where lived old Deacon Tompkins.

HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE.HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE.

IV.

Ah me! the way that they rummaged round!Ah me! the startling things they found!No one with a fair idea of spaceWould ever have thought that in one placeWere half the things that, with a shout,These neighborly burglars hustled out.Came articles that the Deacon's wivesHad all been gathering half their lives;Came furniture such as one might seeDidn't grow in the trunk of every tree;A tall clock, centuries old, 'twas said,Leaped out of a window, heels o'er head;A veteran chair, in which, when new,George Washington sat for a minute or two;A bedstead strong, as if in its lapOld Time might take his terminal nap;Dishes, that in meals long agoneThe Deacon's fathers had eaten on;Clothes, made of every cut and hue,That couldn't remember when they were new;A mirror, scathless many a day('Twas promptly smashed in the regular way);Old shoes enough, if properly thrown,To bring good luck to all creatures known;And children thirteen, more or less,In varying plenitude of dress.And that was the sightWe had that night,When roused, the terrible foe to fight,Which blazed aloft to a moderate height,And turned the cheeks of the timid white,Including Deacon Tompkins.

Lo! where the engines, reeking hot,Dashed up to the interesting spot:Came Number Two, "The City's Hope,"Propelled by a line of men and rope;And after them, on a spiteful run,"The Ocean Billows," or Number One.And soon the two, induced to "play"By a hundred hands, were working away,Until, to the Deacon's flustered sight,As he danced about in his robe of white,It seemed as if, by the hand of Fate,House-cleaning day were some two years late,And with complete though late success,Had just arrived by the night express.The "Ocean Billows" were at high tide,And flung their spray upon every side;The "City's Hope" were in perfect trim,Preventing aught like an interim;And a "Hook-and-Ladder Company" came,With hooks and ropes and a long hard name,And with an iconoclastic frownWere about to pull the whole thing down,When some one raised the assuring shout,"It's only the chimney a-burnin' out!"Whereat, with a sense of injured trust,The crowd went home in complete disgust.Scarce one of those who, with joyous shout,Assisted the Deacon in moving out,Refrained from the homeward-flowing din,To help the Deacon at moving in.And that was the plightIn which, that night,They left the Deacon, clad in white,Who felt he was hardly treated right,And used some words, in the flickering light,Not orthodox in their purport quite—Poor, put-out Deacon Tompkins!

Let me a moment inditeScenes that I witnessed one night:

"You will tell me where is Conrad?" said an old man, bent and gray,While the flames were wildly dancing, and the walls were giving way."I haf heard some ones was buried—underneath the ruins fell;He was in de topmost story—ach, mein Gott! I luf him well!"I will tell you how you knew him: he had full and laughing eye,And his face was smooth and smiling—and he was too young to die."Hair he had like clouds at sunset when anodher day is done,And I luf him—how I luf him! and he is mein only son."Say, Policeman, tell me truly that this young man you did see,And I all the money gif you, such as I could bring with me."Tell me that he anxious acted—that he hunted far and long,Like as children would be calling for their fadher in a throng;"Or he wounded was, pray tell me—in the hospital to lie?—I will just now hasten to him, and I not will let him die!"Tell me—oh, you must not told me—dead you haf my Conrad see?Yet if so is I can stand that—I did long a soldier be."Only—Death, we do not fear him when we hear the bullets sing,But to haf my boy killed this way is a rather different thing."Only—that his poor old mudher, she waits home all full of fear,And I cannot there be going, till I take good news from here!"Young he was when we did bring him from the Rhine land o'er the sea;I did lif for her and Conrad—she did lif for him and me."Other ones we bring not with us: Gott he says, 'These more be mine;'And we left them all a-sleeping 'mong the vineyards of the Rhine."He haf not a cross word gif us—he haf luf us every day,And if he to-night comes home not, 'tis the first that he's away."Let me to that fire, Policeman! I care what for walls or brand?Maybe he in there be living—reaching for his fadher's hand!"Let me past, I say, Policeman! I haf work there to be done!Let go me or I will strike you!—is it that you haf no son?"

"You will tell me where is Conrad?" said an old man, bent and gray,While the flames were wildly dancing, and the walls were giving way.

"I haf heard some ones was buried—underneath the ruins fell;He was in de topmost story—ach, mein Gott! I luf him well!

"I will tell you how you knew him: he had full and laughing eye,And his face was smooth and smiling—and he was too young to die.

"Hair he had like clouds at sunset when anodher day is done,And I luf him—how I luf him! and he is mein only son.

"Say, Policeman, tell me truly that this young man you did see,And I all the money gif you, such as I could bring with me.

"Tell me that he anxious acted—that he hunted far and long,Like as children would be calling for their fadher in a throng;

"Or he wounded was, pray tell me—in the hospital to lie?—I will just now hasten to him, and I not will let him die!

"Tell me—oh, you must not told me—dead you haf my Conrad see?Yet if so is I can stand that—I did long a soldier be.

"Only—Death, we do not fear him when we hear the bullets sing,But to haf my boy killed this way is a rather different thing.

"Only—that his poor old mudher, she waits home all full of fear,And I cannot there be going, till I take good news from here!

"Young he was when we did bring him from the Rhine land o'er the sea;I did lif for her and Conrad—she did lif for him and me.

"Other ones we bring not with us: Gott he says, 'These more be mine;'And we left them all a-sleeping 'mong the vineyards of the Rhine.

"He haf not a cross word gif us—he haf luf us every day,And if he to-night comes home not, 'tis the first that he's away.

"Let me to that fire, Policeman! I care what for walls or brand?Maybe he in there be living—reaching for his fadher's hand!

"Let me past, I say, Policeman! I haf work there to be done!Let go me or I will strike you!—is it that you haf no son?"

Still the flames were like a furnace, and the walls were crashing loud,And the old man, held in safety, fainted 'mid the trembling crowd.And the mother watched and wondered, with her great eyes scarcely wet;But, half dazed amid her sorrow, waits for Conrad even yet.

Still the flames were like a furnace, and the walls were crashing loud,And the old man, held in safety, fainted 'mid the trembling crowd.

And the mother watched and wondered, with her great eyes scarcely wet;But, half dazed amid her sorrow, waits for Conrad even yet.

April25, 18—.

RAIN—rain—rain—for three good solid fluid weeks—Till the air swims, and all creation leaks!And street-cars furnish still less room to spare,And hackmen several times have earned their fare.The omnibuses lumber through the din,And carry clay outside as well as in;The elevated trains, with jerky care,Haul half-way comfort through the dripping air;The gutters gallop past the liquid scene,As brisk as meadow brooks, though not so clean;What trees the city keeps for comfort's sake,Are shedding tears as if their hearts would break;And water tries to get, by storming steady,That fourth of all the world it hasn't already.And men are not so sweet as men could wish,In air that wouldn't offend a moderate fish;Few places can be found, outside or in,Where this dark-featured weather has not been;For man has always striven, and in vain,To roof hisdispositionfrom the rain.I've strolled about, this morning, several miles,'Mongst men who get their living by their smiles;I've set my old umbrella up to dripIn places where I claimed relationship(Or, rather, where my heart did; and that's moreThan blood connection is, sixteen times o'er);I've journeyed up and down through half Broadway,And did not see a first-class smile to-day.And so, in spite of all that I can do,These gold-bowed spectacles are growing blue;And my old heart must bear along the roadA fanciful but rather heavy load;A painful pressure from a hand unseen:Most any one knows nearly what I mean.I think I'll powder up this dark-skinned day,By going, to-night, to hear the actors play!They'll make me laugh, and tone me up a bit,And get me out of this unnatural fit.

And men are not so sweet as men could wish,In air that wouldn't offend a moderate fish;Few places can be found, outside or in,Where this dark-featured weather has not been;For man has always striven, and in vain,To roof hisdispositionfrom the rain.I've strolled about, this morning, several miles,'Mongst men who get their living by their smiles;I've set my old umbrella up to dripIn places where I claimed relationship(Or, rather, where my heart did; and that's moreThan blood connection is, sixteen times o'er);I've journeyed up and down through half Broadway,And did not see a first-class smile to-day.

And so, in spite of all that I can do,These gold-bowed spectacles are growing blue;And my old heart must bear along the roadA fanciful but rather heavy load;A painful pressure from a hand unseen:Most any one knows nearly what I mean.

I think I'll powder up this dark-skinned day,By going, to-night, to hear the actors play!They'll make me laugh, and tone me up a bit,And get me out of this unnatural fit.

11 o'clock P.M.

Got back alive; and that's worth thinking on,From where there's been such lots of killing done;Mercy! it was a somewhat skittish sight—So many people butchered in one night!'Twas just a lot of people playing crime—A sort of murder-picnic all the time.We found the theatre with handbills spread,Near where the notice in the paper said(The weather had slacked up an hour or so,And Wife thought she would condescend to go),And after stumbling over several chaps,Who thought they'd met us somewhere else, perhaps,And cheerfully addressed us o'er and o'er,As if they'd known us several years or more,Persisting in affording us a chanceTo buy our tickets at a slight advance(The theatres employ these men, I've heard,To greet their patrons with a friendly word,And light their way in with kind word and smile,And make a dollar out of them meanwhile);We brushed past these remarkable "dead-beats,"Some tickets bought, and scrambled to our seats.After a piece of music by the band,The curtain rose before a castle grand,And soldiers talking, with a half-scared mien,About a spook that one of them had seen.When lo! this ghost appears, plump to their view,And will not talk, although they beg him to.(I whispered to my wife that I'd a freakThat a newspaper man could make him speak;But suddenly my comments had to cease,For Wife encouraged me to hold my peace.)When lo! this ghost, who, thus far, might have comeOut of a sky-asylum for the dumb,Speaks with a queer but rather human sound,When once his son, the Prince, gets on the ground;And taking him aside, ten feet almost,Tells the poor boy that he's his father's ghost,Whose own false brother softly to him crept,And poured him full of poison while he slept.Then the young man got mad, though to my mind'Twas lunacy of quite a knowing kind;And went to work with an apparent viewOf killing off 'most every one he knew.I haven't the time his actions all to state;I'll only say he managed it first-rate,And some way killed all relatives he saw,From uncle to prospective father-in-law;And when he got through, those he hadn't snuffed outWere hardly worth while bothering about.(I mustn't forget to say that this poor elfBecame, at last, a good square corpse himself.)I looked around, and, the whole building through,Women were shedding tears as if 'twas true;And Wife was 'most too much concerned to speak,And even my old eyes had sprung a leak.'Twas a moist time; and I remarked, "'Tis plainWe've come out of the rain into the rain."I got so full of funeral, sitting there,Then, when we once more sniffed the clean, live air,It seemed a piece of good-luck all around,To get away once more, alive and sound.That's what they call a "tragedy;" where DeathFlies 'round till he himself gets out of breath;And, with sword-slashes and cold poison filled,All who amount to anything, get killed.It's part of life; some time again I'll view it,But take a good square rest before I do it!

We found the theatre with handbills spread,Near where the notice in the paper said(The weather had slacked up an hour or so,And Wife thought she would condescend to go),And after stumbling over several chaps,Who thought they'd met us somewhere else, perhaps,And cheerfully addressed us o'er and o'er,As if they'd known us several years or more,Persisting in affording us a chanceTo buy our tickets at a slight advance(The theatres employ these men, I've heard,To greet their patrons with a friendly word,And light their way in with kind word and smile,And make a dollar out of them meanwhile);We brushed past these remarkable "dead-beats,"Some tickets bought, and scrambled to our seats.

After a piece of music by the band,The curtain rose before a castle grand,And soldiers talking, with a half-scared mien,About a spook that one of them had seen.When lo! this ghost appears, plump to their view,And will not talk, although they beg him to.(I whispered to my wife that I'd a freakThat a newspaper man could make him speak;But suddenly my comments had to cease,For Wife encouraged me to hold my peace.)

When lo! this ghost, who, thus far, might have comeOut of a sky-asylum for the dumb,Speaks with a queer but rather human sound,When once his son, the Prince, gets on the ground;And taking him aside, ten feet almost,Tells the poor boy that he's his father's ghost,Whose own false brother softly to him crept,And poured him full of poison while he slept.

Then the young man got mad, though to my mind'Twas lunacy of quite a knowing kind;And went to work with an apparent viewOf killing off 'most every one he knew.

I haven't the time his actions all to state;I'll only say he managed it first-rate,And some way killed all relatives he saw,From uncle to prospective father-in-law;And when he got through, those he hadn't snuffed outWere hardly worth while bothering about.(I mustn't forget to say that this poor elfBecame, at last, a good square corpse himself.)

I looked around, and, the whole building through,Women were shedding tears as if 'twas true;And Wife was 'most too much concerned to speak,And even my old eyes had sprung a leak.'Twas a moist time; and I remarked, "'Tis plainWe've come out of the rain into the rain."

I got so full of funeral, sitting there,Then, when we once more sniffed the clean, live air,It seemed a piece of good-luck all around,To get away once more, alive and sound.

That's what they call a "tragedy;" where DeathFlies 'round till he himself gets out of breath;And, with sword-slashes and cold poison filled,All who amount to anything, get killed.It's part of life; some time again I'll view it,But take a good square rest before I do it!

Here on this sea-beach I wander;Why of the storms am I fonderThan of the sunlight above them?And the clouds: why do I love them—Waves of the sky, onward sweeping,Or to the ocean-waves leaping?Why do I court this fierce day,Dashing my face full of spray?Why, when the waves strike the shoreWith their strong, leonine roar,Does my soul fiercely entreat them—Rush out with rapture to meet them?Why do I love to descryWar in the fields of the sky?Why does the chain-lightning's glare,Ploughing blue meadows of air,Look to my vision alwaySweet as a star in the day?You who in fair summer weatherSeek this sea-city together(Built for tumultuous rest,With the famed ocean chief guest),Not half the pleasure you've knownThat I, here wand'ring alone,On these wet sand-fields have found,Hearing the ocean's own sound,Viewing fierce waves from afarStrive with the winter in war.Storms that tumultuously rollFar through my innermost soul—Here you encounter, at last,Harmonies wondrous and vast!

You who in fair summer weatherSeek this sea-city together(Built for tumultuous rest,With the famed ocean chief guest),Not half the pleasure you've knownThat I, here wand'ring alone,On these wet sand-fields have found,Hearing the ocean's own sound,Viewing fierce waves from afarStrive with the winter in war.Storms that tumultuously rollFar through my innermost soul—Here you encounter, at last,Harmonies wondrous and vast!

What did I find on the shore?Must I rehearse it once more?

He lay on the beach, just out of the reachOf waves that had cast him by:With fingers grim they reached for himAs often as they came nigh.The shore-face brown had a surly frown,And glanced at the dancing sea,As if to say, "Take back the clayYou tossed this morning at me."Great fragments rude, by the shipwreck strewed,Had found by this wreck a place;He had grasped them tight, and hope-strewn frightSat still on the bloated face.Battered and bruised, forever abused,He lay by the heartless sea,As if Heaven's aid had never been madeFor a villain such as he.The fetter's mark lay heavy and darkAround the pulseless wrists;The hardened scar of many a warClung yet to the drooping fists.The soul's disgrace across that faceHad built an iron track;The half-healed gash of the jailman's lashHelped cover the brawny back.The blood that flowed in a crimson roadFrom a deep wound in his headHad felt fierce pangs from the poison-fangsOf those who his young life fed:Cursed from the very beginningWith deeds that others had done,"More sinned against than sinning"—And so is every one!He had never learned save what had turnedThe steps of his life amiss;He never knew a hand-grasp true,Or the thrill of a virtuous kiss.'Twas poured like a flood through his young blood,And poisoned every vein,That wrong is right, that law is spite,And theft but honest gain.The seeds were grown that had long been sownBy the heart of a murderous sire:Disease and shame, and blood aflameWith thirst for the founts of fire.Battered and bruised, forever abused,He lay by the moaning sea,As if Heaven's aid were even afraidOf a villain such as he.As he lay alone, like a sparrow prone,An angel wandered nigh:A look she cast over that dark past,And tears came to her eye.

He had never learned save what had turnedThe steps of his life amiss;He never knew a hand-grasp true,Or the thrill of a virtuous kiss.'Twas poured like a flood through his young blood,And poisoned every vein,That wrong is right, that law is spite,And theft but honest gain.The seeds were grown that had long been sownBy the heart of a murderous sire:Disease and shame, and blood aflameWith thirst for the founts of fire.Battered and bruised, forever abused,He lay by the moaning sea,As if Heaven's aid were even afraidOf a villain such as he.

As he lay alone, like a sparrow prone,An angel wandered nigh:A look she cast over that dark past,And tears came to her eye.

"BATTERED AND BRUISED, FOREVER ABUSED, HE LAY BY THE MOANING SEA.""BATTERED AND BRUISED, FOREVER ABUSED, HE LAY BY THE MOANING SEA."

"BATTERED AND BRUISED, FOREVER ABUSED, HE LAY BY THE MOANING SEA."

She bent by the dead, and tenderly said:"Poor child, you went astray;Your heart and mind were both born blind—No wonder they lost their way!Angels, I know, had fallen as lowWith such a dismal chance.Your heart was ironed, your soul environed,You were barred of all advance!Cursed from the very beginningWith deeds that others have done,'More sinned against than sinning'—And so is every one!"

May24, 18—.

The Lord gave Water quite a good-sized start—Three-fourths of this world's homestead for its part;But lawyers are not needed to convinceThat Water has been losing ever since.The reason is not hard to understand:For God's most knowing creatures live on land,And, naturally, every chance they get,Find some new means to keep them from the wet.The farms their dykes have from the ocean won;The ground men make to build their cities on;The bridge that from the river shelters me;The ships—great travelling bridges of the sea—All are an effort of ambitious manTo make this world as solid as he can.These thoughts, to-day, all through my mind would run,While looking at a bridge they've just got done,Which takes a man, dry shod, from shore to shore—A matter of a good long mile or more.I can't describe it; but I'll let the papers(Who tellsometruth, 'mid all their fancy capers)To my old scrap-book give of it a taste(What I can't do with ink I'll do with paste).

These thoughts, to-day, all through my mind would run,While looking at a bridge they've just got done,Which takes a man, dry shod, from shore to shore—A matter of a good long mile or more.I can't describe it; but I'll let the papers(Who tellsometruth, 'mid all their fancy capers)To my old scrap-book give of it a taste(What I can't do with ink I'll do with paste).

Let all of the bells ring clear,And all of the flags be seen;The King of the Western HemisphereHas married the Island Queen!For years he watched and waitedAlong the river side,And vowed that she was fatedTo be his own fair bride;Full many a night he wooed herUpon her lofty throne,And he hath long pursued her,To make the prize his own;Nor thankless his endeavor,Nor coy the royal maid,But, like true-love's course ever,The banns were long delayed!

And boys to men had grown,And men their graves had sought;The gulf was yet between them thrown,And the wooing came to nought.Though couriers oft were dashing'Twixt him and his adored,Still was the river flashingBetween them like a sword.In heart they well were mated;And patiently and longThey for each other waited—These lovers true and strong.

Let never a flag be hidden!Let never a bell be dumb!The guests have all been bidden—The wedding-day has come!For many a golden yearShall gleam this silvery tie:The wondering world will gather hereAnd gaze with gleaming eye.Philosophers will ponderHow, blessed by the hand of Heaven,The world has another wonderTo add to its famous seven;Philanthropists will lingerTo view the giant span,And point with grateful fingerWhere man has toiled for man;And all will bless the yearWhen, in the May-month green,The King of the Western HemisphereWas wed to the Island Queen!

Let never a flag be hidden!Let never a bell be dumb!The guests have all been bidden—The wedding-day has come!

For many a golden yearShall gleam this silvery tie:The wondering world will gather hereAnd gaze with gleaming eye.Philosophers will ponderHow, blessed by the hand of Heaven,The world has another wonderTo add to its famous seven;Philanthropists will lingerTo view the giant span,And point with grateful fingerWhere man has toiled for man;And all will bless the yearWhen, in the May-month green,The King of the Western HemisphereWas wed to the Island Queen!

[5] Written on the occasion of the opening of the New York and Brooklyn Bridge.

July2, 18—.

Wealth, wealth, wealth, wealth! with iron bars to defend it,And seventeen hundred thousand ways to spend it!How men will work, in home and foreign lands,To get a lot of money in their hands;How they will bar and bolt, by night and day,To keep some one from stealing it away;Then, when a fresh bait strikes their fancy's eye,How easy 'tis to make them let it fly!Lock up your cash in places howe'er strong,You lose it when the right thief comes along.There are some families that I could name,Who, spring and fall and winter, toil the sameAs boys with sleds for half an hour will climb,To ride back in about five minutes' time.These fam'lies pinched and starved nine months will be,To make a first-class show the other three;And some whose fortunes sprung up like a flame,Can puff it out even quicker than it came.These thoughts grew like June corn the other day,As I through Coney Island picked my way,And found there, pert and prosperous as could be,A land-and-water city by the sea;And people holding, in free easy style,A Fourth-of-July picnic all the while.Thousands were eating there amid the din,As though they'd hardly time to do it in;Thousands were loitering in the breezy air,As if they had a year or two to spare;And every trap that ever caught a dime,Was ready set and baited all the time!The ocean, to my unaccustomed view,Seemed having quite a lively picnic too;The waves came slamming at us with a roar,And chased each other pell-mell to the shore.And in these waves, and adding to the noise,A lot of men and women, girls and boys,Dressed in a style that made my good wife frown,Like big-sized corks went bobbing up and down.Some glided out and in, like jumping-jacks,Some rode the waves—a-lying on their backs;And some—as decent folks as one could see—Made capers that were very queer to see.I noticed Miss Doozéll, much versed in books,And quite particular about her looks,And dignified as any one I know,Roll over maybe thirteen times or so;While Jeremiah Jipson, LL.D.,Who seldom makes a move above the knee,And who, all former signs would seem to say,Never indulges in unseemly play—When an irreverent wave he chanced to meet,Stood on his head, and raised aloft his feet.The Ocean has no awe for any one,And always seems to get more'n half the fun.But how the pretty children carry sail!Each with his tiny shovel and his pail,Each working his own little piece of land,And making small plantations in the sand!These little incidents show on their faceThat farming's natural to the human race!When God's poor pretty ones, 'mid summer's blaze,Have lived 'mongst brick and mortar all their days,Trying their best to blossom and not spoil,Like house-plants kidnapped from their native soil,It must be heaven to sit here in the sand,And take old Mother Earth right by the hand!To lie here, by no brick blocks overlooked,And take a breath of air that hasn't been cooked!God bless you, children! May't a long time be,Before the sand shall cover you and me!Yes, every trap that ever caught a dimeIs ready set and baited, all the time!Here nigh the shore a strange machine I found,To see how hard, with beetles, men could pound;And several fellows tried it, o'er and o'er,Who never handled labor so before,And would have shown capacity to shirk,If they had known how much it looked like work.Here round and round I saw a big wheel go,Like an old-fashioned horse-power—larger, though,And worked by steam; and on the sweeps one findsBig wooden animals of different kinds:Elephants, horses, birds of various hues,Lions and leopards, roosters, kangaroos—All staring with great, stupid, wondering eyes,And all about the very self-same size!And on these beasts, sixteen times round or more,Rode children of from fifty down to four,While some big-sized hand-organ filled the airWith crack-voiced music, plenty and to spare.Here a big premium cow—quite dead, alas!Gave milkman's milk-and-water by the glass;Here were some great "museums," which consistedOf wondrous things that never have existed;There omnibuses hover on your track,Ready to draw you somewhere else—and back;Here "marine railroads," as you onward plod,Will take you riding at five cents a rod;This "elevator" lifts you pretty high,And shows you men must look small from the sky;Yon gambling den will send you from its door,Poorer and not much wiser than before;That fellow there will, in an ocean view,Your picture take, and swear that it is you.Yes, every trap that ever caught a dime,Is ready set and baited, all the time!And sometimes everything seems blurred, indeed,With man's surprising wickedness and greed,Till you most feel there's nothing genuine there,Excepting ocean waves and open air!But still they can't put all God's plans to deathTo let the people have an honest breath;And so, while thinking it all up, to-day,I finally felt called upon to say,Thank the good Lord, from whom all blessings fall,For making Coney Island, after all!My cousin, Abdiel Stebbins, large and slow,Arrived at Ocean Grove some days ago;He stopped off in this city on the way,And stayed here with us two weeks and one day(For we keep up our airy home in townWhether the mercury goes up or down—Not liking to exchange it very wellFor a small sweat-box in a large hotel).He promised that the first hour he could spareHe'd write us how he liked it over there;The letter, like himself, is rather queer;Perhaps I'd better paste it right in here:

These thoughts grew like June corn the other day,As I through Coney Island picked my way,And found there, pert and prosperous as could be,A land-and-water city by the sea;And people holding, in free easy style,A Fourth-of-July picnic all the while.Thousands were eating there amid the din,As though they'd hardly time to do it in;Thousands were loitering in the breezy air,As if they had a year or two to spare;And every trap that ever caught a dime,Was ready set and baited all the time!

The ocean, to my unaccustomed view,Seemed having quite a lively picnic too;The waves came slamming at us with a roar,And chased each other pell-mell to the shore.And in these waves, and adding to the noise,A lot of men and women, girls and boys,Dressed in a style that made my good wife frown,Like big-sized corks went bobbing up and down.Some glided out and in, like jumping-jacks,Some rode the waves—a-lying on their backs;And some—as decent folks as one could see—Made capers that were very queer to see.I noticed Miss Doozéll, much versed in books,And quite particular about her looks,And dignified as any one I know,Roll over maybe thirteen times or so;While Jeremiah Jipson, LL.D.,Who seldom makes a move above the knee,And who, all former signs would seem to say,Never indulges in unseemly play—When an irreverent wave he chanced to meet,Stood on his head, and raised aloft his feet.The Ocean has no awe for any one,And always seems to get more'n half the fun.

But how the pretty children carry sail!Each with his tiny shovel and his pail,Each working his own little piece of land,And making small plantations in the sand!These little incidents show on their faceThat farming's natural to the human race!

When God's poor pretty ones, 'mid summer's blaze,Have lived 'mongst brick and mortar all their days,Trying their best to blossom and not spoil,Like house-plants kidnapped from their native soil,It must be heaven to sit here in the sand,And take old Mother Earth right by the hand!To lie here, by no brick blocks overlooked,And take a breath of air that hasn't been cooked!God bless you, children! May't a long time be,Before the sand shall cover you and me!

Yes, every trap that ever caught a dimeIs ready set and baited, all the time!Here nigh the shore a strange machine I found,To see how hard, with beetles, men could pound;And several fellows tried it, o'er and o'er,Who never handled labor so before,And would have shown capacity to shirk,If they had known how much it looked like work.Here round and round I saw a big wheel go,Like an old-fashioned horse-power—larger, though,And worked by steam; and on the sweeps one findsBig wooden animals of different kinds:Elephants, horses, birds of various hues,Lions and leopards, roosters, kangaroos—All staring with great, stupid, wondering eyes,And all about the very self-same size!And on these beasts, sixteen times round or more,Rode children of from fifty down to four,While some big-sized hand-organ filled the airWith crack-voiced music, plenty and to spare.Here a big premium cow—quite dead, alas!Gave milkman's milk-and-water by the glass;Here were some great "museums," which consistedOf wondrous things that never have existed;There omnibuses hover on your track,Ready to draw you somewhere else—and back;Here "marine railroads," as you onward plod,Will take you riding at five cents a rod;This "elevator" lifts you pretty high,And shows you men must look small from the sky;Yon gambling den will send you from its door,Poorer and not much wiser than before;That fellow there will, in an ocean view,Your picture take, and swear that it is you.Yes, every trap that ever caught a dime,Is ready set and baited, all the time!

And sometimes everything seems blurred, indeed,With man's surprising wickedness and greed,Till you most feel there's nothing genuine there,Excepting ocean waves and open air!

But still they can't put all God's plans to deathTo let the people have an honest breath;And so, while thinking it all up, to-day,I finally felt called upon to say,Thank the good Lord, from whom all blessings fall,For making Coney Island, after all!

My cousin, Abdiel Stebbins, large and slow,Arrived at Ocean Grove some days ago;He stopped off in this city on the way,And stayed here with us two weeks and one day(For we keep up our airy home in townWhether the mercury goes up or down—Not liking to exchange it very wellFor a small sweat-box in a large hotel).He promised that the first hour he could spareHe'd write us how he liked it over there;The letter, like himself, is rather queer;Perhaps I'd better paste it right in here:

Ocean Grove,June30, 18—.

Dear Cousin John:

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