Here lies a young manWho in childhood beganTo swear, and to smoke, and to drink,—In his twentieth yearHe quit swearing and beer,And yet is still smoking, I think."
And the rest of his instructions are delivered in lower tones, that the boy may not hear; and then, all matters seemingly arranged, he turns to the boy with—"And now, Billy, no lookin' over shoulders, you know, or swinging on my chair-back while I'm at work. When the pictures are all finished, then you can take a squint at 'em, and not before. Is that all hunky, now?"
"Oh! who's a-goin' to look over your shoulder—onlyDoc." And as the radiant Doc hastily quits that very post, and dives for the offending brother, he scrambles under the piano and laughs derisively.
And then a silence falls upon the group—a gracious quiet, only intruded upon by the very juicy and exuberant munching of an apple from a remote fastness of the room, and the occasional thumping of a bare heel against the floor.
At last I close my note-book with a half slam.
"That means," says Bob, laying down his pencil, and addressing the girls,—"That means he's concluded his poem, and that he's not pleased with it in any manner, and that he intends declining to read it, for that self-acknowledged reason, and that he expects us to believe every affected word of his entire speech—"
"Oh, don't!" I exclaim.
"Then give us the wretched production, in all its hideous deformity!"
And the girls all laugh so sympathetically, and Bob joins them so gently, and yet with a tone, I know, that can be changed so quickly to my further discomfiture, that I arise at once and read, without apology or excuse, this primitive and very callow poem recovered here to-day from the gilded roll:
As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,And lazily leaning back in my chair,Enjoying myself in a general way—Allowing my thoughts a holidayFrom weariness, toil and care,—My fancies—doubtless, for ventilation—Left ajar the gates of my mind,—And Memory, seeing the situation,Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne."Wandering ever with tireless feetThrough scenes of silence, and jubileeOf long-hushed voices; and faces sweetWere thronging the shadowy side of the streetAs far as the eye could see;Dreaming again, in anticipation,The same old dreams of our boyhood's daysThat never come true, from the vague sensationOf walking asleep in the world's strange ways.Away to the house where I was born!And there was the selfsame clock that tickedFrom the close of dusk to the burst of morn,When life-warm hands plucked the golden cornAnd helped when the apples were picked.And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf,With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,Looked just as at first, when I hugged myselfSound asleep with the dear surprise.And down to the swing in the locust tree,Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground,And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and threeOr four such other boys used to beDoin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round:"And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest,And again "had shows" in the buggy-shedOf Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed,The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!And again I gazed from the old school-roomWith a wistful look of a long June day,When on my cheek was the hectic bloomCaught of Mischief, as I presume—He had such a "partial" way,It seemed, toward me.—And again I thoughtOf a probable likelihood to beKept in after school—for a girl was caughtCatching a note from me.And down through the woods to the swimming-hole—Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,—And we never cared when the water was cold,And always "ducked" the boy that toldOn the fellow that tied the clothes.—When life went so like a dreamy rhyme,That it seems to me now that thenThe world was having a jollier timeThan it ever will have again.
The crude production is received, I am glad to note, with some expressions of favor from the company, though Bob, of course, must heartlessly dissipate my weak delight by saying, "Well, it's certainly bad enough; though," he goes on with an air of deepest critical sagacity and fairness, "considered, as it should be, justly, as the production of a jour-poet, why, it might be worse—that is, a little worse."
"Probably," I remember saying,—"Probably I might redeem myself by reading you this little amateurish bit of verse, enclosed to me in a letter by mistake, not very long ago." I here fish an envelope from my pocket the address of which all recognize as in Bob's almost printed writing. He smiles vacantly at it—then vividly colors.
"What date?" he stoically asks.
"The date," I suggestively answer, "of your last letter to our dear Doc, at Boarding-School, two days exactly in advance of her coming home—this veritable visit now."
Both Bob and Doc rush at me—but too late. The letter and contents have wholly vanished. The youngest Miss Mills quiets us—urgently distracting us, in fact, by calling our attention to the immediate completion of our joint production; "For now," she says, "with our new reinforcement, we can, with becoming diligence, soon have it ready for both printer and engraver, and then we'll wake up the boy (who has been fortunately slumbering for the last quarter of an hour), and present to him, as designed and intended, this matchless creation of our united intellects." At the conclusion of this speech we all go good-humoredly to work, and at the close of half an hour the tedious, but most ridiculous, task is announced completed.
As I arrange and place in proper form here on the table the separate cards—twenty-seven in number—I sigh to think that I am unable to transcribe for you the best part of the nonsensical work—the illustrations. All I can give is the written copy of—
A was an elegant ApeWho tied up his ears with red tape,And wore a long veilHalf revealing his tailWhich was trimmed with jet bugles and crape.B was a boastful old BearWho used to say,—"Hoomh! I declareI can eat—if you'll get meThe children, and let me—Ten babies, teeth, toenails and hair!"C was a Codfish who sighedWhen snatched from the home of his pride,But could he, embrined,Guess this fragrance behind,How glad he would be that he died!D was a dandified DogWho said,—"Though it's raining like fogI wear no umbrellah,Me boy, for a fellahMight just as well travel incog!"E was an elderly EelWho would say,—"Well, I really feel—As my grandchildren wriggleAnd shout 'I should giggle'—A trifle run down at the heel!"F was a Fowl who concededSomehens might hatch more eggs thanshedid,—But she'd children as plentyAs eighteen or twenty,And that was quite all that she needed.G was a gluttonous GoatWho, dining one day,table-d'hote,Ordered soup-bone,au fait,And fish,papier-mache,And afiletof Spring overcoat.H was a high-cultured HoundWho could clear forty feet at a bound,And a coon once averredThat his howl could be heardFor five miles and three-quarters around.I was an Ibex ambitiousTo dive over chasms auspicious;He would leap down a peakAnd not light for a week,And swear that the jump was delicious.J was a Jackass who saidHe had such a bad cold in his head,If it wasn't for leavingThe rest of us grieving,He'd really rather be dead.K was a profligate KiteWho would haunt the saloons every night;And often he ustTo reel back to his roostToo full to set up on it right.L was a wary old LynxWho would say,—"Do you know wot I thinks?—I thinks ef you happenTo ketch me a-nappin'I'm ready to set up the drinks!"M was a merry old Mole,Who would snooze all the day in his hole,Then—all night, a-rootin'Around and galootin'—He'd sing "Johnny, Fill up the Bowl!"N was a caustical NautilusWho sneered, "I suppose, when they'vecaughtall us,Like oysters they'll serve us,And can us, preserve us,And barrel, and pickle, and bottle us!"O was an autocrat Owl—Such a wise—such a wonderful fowl!Why, for all the night throughHe would hoot and hoo-hoo,And hoot and hoo-hooter and howl!P was a Pelican pet,Who gobbled up all he could get;He could eat on untilHe was full to the bill,And there he had lodgings to let!Q was a querulous Quail,Who said: "It will little availThe efforts of thoseOf my foes who proposeTo attempt to put salt on my tail!"R was a ring-tailed Raccoon,With eyes of the tinge of the moon,And his nose a blue-black,And the fur on his backA sad sort of sallow maroon.S is a Sculpin—you'll wishVery much to have one on your dish,Since all his bones growOn the outside, and soHe's a very desirable fish.T was a Turtle, of wealth,Who went round with particular stealth,—"Why," said he, "I'm afraidOf being waylaidWhen I even walk out for my health!"U was a Unicorn curious,With one horn, of a growth soluxurious,He could level and stab it—If you didn't grab it—Clean through you, he was so blamed furious!V was a vagabond VultureWho said: "I don't want to insult yer,But when you intrudeWhere in lone solitudeI'm a-preyin', you're no man o' culture!"W was a wildWoodchuck,And you can just bet that hecould"chuck"He'd eat raw potatoes,Green corn, and tomatoes,And tree roots, and call it all "goodchuck!"X was a kind of X-cuseOf a some-sort-o'-thing that got looseBefore we could name it,And cage it, and tame it,And bring it in general use.Y is the Yellowbird,—brightAs a petrified lump of star-light,Or a handful of lightning-Bugs, squeezed in the tight'ningPink fist of a boy, at night.Z is the Zebra, of course!—A kind of a clown-of-a-horse,—Each other despising,Yet neither devisingA way to obtain a divorce!& here is the famous—what-is-it?Walk up, Master Billy, and quiz it:You've seen therestof 'em—Ain't this thebestof 'em,Right at the end of your visit?
At last Billy is sent off to bed. It is the prudent mandate of the old folks: But so lothfully the poor child goes, Bob's heart goes, too.—Yes, Bob himself, to keep the little fellow company awhile, and, up there under the old rafters, in the pleasant gloom, lull him to famous dreams with fairy tales. And it is during this brief absence that the youngest Mills girl gives us a surprise. She will read a poem, she says, written by a very dear friend of hers who, fortunately for us, is not present to prevent her. We guard door and window as she reads. Doc says she will not listen; but she does listen, and cries, too—out of pure vexation, she asserts. The rest of us, however, cry just because of the apparent honesty of the poem of—
O your hands—they are strangely fair!Fair—for the jewels that sparkle there,—Fair—for the witchery of the spellThat ivory keys alone can tell;But when their delicate touches restHere in my own do I love them best,As I clasp with eager acquisitive spansMy glorious treasure of beautiful hands!Marvelous—wonderful—beautiful hands!They can coax roses to bloom in the strandsOf your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine,Under mysterious touches of thine,Into such knots as entangle the soul,And fetter the heart under such a controlAs only the strength of my love understands—My passionate love for your beautiful hands.As I remember the first fair touchOf those beautiful hands that I love so much,I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,Kissing the glove that I found unfilled—When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow,As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!"And dazed and alone in a dream I standKissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.When first I loved, in the long ago,And held your hand as I told you so—Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,And said "I could die fora hand like this!"Little I dreamed love's fulness yetHad to ripen when eyes were wet,And prayers were vain in their wild demandsFor one warm touch of your beautiful hands.Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands!Could you reach out of the alien landsWhere you are lingering, and give me, to-night,Only a touch—were it ever so light—My heart were soothed, and my weary brainWould lull itself into rest again;For there is no solace the world commandsLike the caress of your beautiful hands.
Violently winking at the mist that blurs my sight, I regretfully awaken to the here and now. And is it possible, I sorrowfully muse, that all this glory can have fled away?—that more than twenty long, long years are spread between me and that happy night? And is it possible that all the dear old faces—O, quit it! quit it! Gather the old scraps up and wad 'em back into oblivion, where they belong!
Yes, but be calm—be calm! Think of cheerful things. You are not all alone.Billy's living yet.
I know—and six feet high—and sag-shouldered—and owns a tin and stove-store, and can't hear thunder!Billy!
And the youngest Mills girl—she's alive, too.
S'pose I don't know that? I married her!
And Doc.—
Bobmarried her. Been in California for more than fifteen years—on some blasted cattle-ranch, or something,—and he's worth a half a million! And am I less prosperous with this gilded roll?