II

Who have met him with smiles and with cheer

I would drink to the wife, with the babe on her knee,Who awaits his returning in vain—Who breaks his brave letters so tremulouslyAnd reads them again and again!And I'd drink to the feeble old mother who sitsAt the warm fireside of her sonAnd murmurs and weeps o'er the stocking she knits,As she thinks of the wandering one.

I would drink a long life and a health to the friendsWho have met him with smiles and with cheer—To the generous hand that the landlord extendsTo the wayfarer journeying here:And I pledge, when he turns from this earthly abodeAnd pays the last fare that he can,Mine Host of the Inn at the End of the RoadWill welcome the Traveling Man!

Dan O'Sullivan--headpiece

Dan O'Sullivan: It's yourLips have kissed "The Blarney," sure!—To be trillin' praise av me,Dhrippin' swhate wid poethry!—Not that I'd not have ye sing—Don't lave off for anything—Jusht be aisy whilst the fitAv me head shwells up to it!

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man,Whilst yer singin', loike ye can,To cry shtop because ye've bleshtMy songs more than all the resht:—I'll not be the b'y to axAny shtar to wane or wax,Or ax any clock that's woun'To run up inshtid av down!

Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!—Him that made the IrishmanMixt the birds in wid the dough,And the dew and mistletoeWid the whusky in the quareMuggs av us—and here we air,Three parts right, and three parts wrong,Shpiked with beauty, wit and song!

Dan O'Sullivan--tailpiece

My old friend--headpiece

You've a manner all so mellow,My old friend,That it cheers and warms a fellow,My old friend,Just to meet and greet you, andFeel the pressure of a handThat one may understand,My old friend.

Though dimmed in youthful splendor,My old friend,Your smiles are still as tender,My old friend,And your eyes as true a blueAs your childhood ever knew,And your laugh as merry, too,My old friend.

For though your hair is faded,My old friend,And your step a trifle jaded,My old friend,Old Time, with all his luresIn the trophies he secures,Leaves young that heart of yours,My old friend.

And so it is you cheer me,My old friend,For to know you still are near me,My old friend,Makes my hopes of clearer light,And my faith of surer sight,And my soul a purer white,My old friend.

Old John Henry--headpiece

Old John's jes' made o' the commonest stuff—Old John Henry—He's tough, I reckon,—but none too tough—Too tough though's better than not enough!Says old John Henry.He does his best, and when his best's bad,He don't fret none, ner he don't git sad—He simply 'lows it's the best he had:Old John Henry!

A smilin' face and hearty hand

His doctern's jes' o' the plainest brand—Old John Henry—A smilin' face and a hearty hand'S religen 'at all folks understand,Says old John Henry.He's stove up some with the rhumatiz,And they hain't no shine on them shoes o' his,And his hair hain't cut—but his eye-teeth is:Old John Henry!

He feeds hisse'f when the stock's all fed—Old John Henry—And sleeps like a babe when he goes to bed—And dreams o' Heaven and home-made bread,Says old John Henry.He hain't refined as he'd ort to beTo fit the statutes o' poetry,Ner his clothes don't fit him—buthefitsme:Old John Henry!

Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me.It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree,And hovering above them—just as cute as he can be—Is a fairy Cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his glee,With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringlyAt a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and seeThat one is meant for "One Who Loves," and one is meant for me.

But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as A-B-C!—For the roses they areblushing, and the vase standsawkwardly,And the little god above it—though as cute as he can be—Can not breathe the lightest whisper of his burning love for me.

Christmas greeting--headpiece

A word of Godspeed and good cheerTo all on earth, or far or near,Or friend or foe, or thine or mine—In echo of the voice divine,Heard when the star bloomed forth and litThe world's face, with God's smile on it.

Abe Martin--headpiece

Abe Martin!—dad-burn his old picture!P'tends he's a Brown County fixture—A kind of a comical mixtureOf hoss-sense and no sense at all!His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin',And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin',And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'—From Genesis clean to baseball!

His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin'

The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerlessHe draws Abe 'most eyeless and earless,But he's never yet pictured him cheerlessEr with fun 'at he tries to conceal,—Whuther on to the fence er clean overA-rootin' up ragweed er clover,Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"Er newfangled automobeel!

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in;And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns inThe old man hisse'f wades his rounds inAs ca'm and serene, mighty nighAs the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottledMilch cow, er the old rooster wattledLike the mumps had him 'most so well throttledThat it was a pleasure to die.

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'atAbe don't see at all, and yit makes 'atBoth me and you lays back and shakes atHis comic, miraculous cracksWhich makes him—clean back of the powerOf genius itse'f in its flower—This Notable Man of the Hour,Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.

The little old poem that nobody reads--headpiece

The little old poem that nobody readsBlooms in a crowded space,Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weedsThat nobody sees its face—Unless, perchance, the reader's eyeStares through a yawn, and hurries by,For no one wants, or loves, or heeds,The little old poem that nobody reads.

The little old poem that nobody readsWas written—where?—and when?Maybe a hand of goodly deedsThrilled as it held the pen:Maybe the fountain whence it cameWas a heart brimmed o'er with tears of shame,And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds—The little old poem that nobody reads.

But, little old poem that nobody reads,Holding you here aboveThe wound of a heart that warmly bleedsFor all that knows not love,I well believe if the old World knewAs dear a friend as I find in you,That friend would tell it that all it needsIs the little old poem that nobody reads.

The little old poem that nobody reads--tailpiece

In the afternoon--headpiece

You in the hammock; and I, near by,Was trying to read, and to swing you, too;And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye,And the shade of the maples so cool and blue,That often I looked from the book to youTo say as much, with a sigh.

You in the hammock. The book we'd broughtFrom the parlor—to read in the open air,—Something of love and of LauncelotAnd Guinevere, I believe, was there—But the afternoon, it was far more fairThan the poem was, I thought.

You in the hammock; and I, near by

You in the hammock; and on and on.I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff—But, with always a half of my vision goneOver the top of the page—enoughTo caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluffOf your hair and your odorous "lawn."

You in the hammock—and that was a year—Fully a year ago, I guess—And what do we care for their GuinevereAnd her Launcelot and their lordliness!—You in the hammock still, and—Yes—Kiss me again, my dear!

In the afternoon--tailpiece

Why did we meet long years of yore?And why did we strike hands and say"We will be friends and nothing more";Why are we musing thus to-day?Because because was just because,And no one knew just why it was.

Why did I say good-by to you?Why did I sail across the main?Why did I love not heaven's own blueUntil I touched these shores again?Because because was just because,And you nor I knew why it was.

Why are my arms about you now,And happy tears upon your cheek?And why my kisses on your brow?Look up in thankfulness and speak!Because because was just because,And only God knew why it was.

Herr Weiser--headpiece

Herr Weiser!—Threescore years and ten,—A hale white rose of his countrymen,Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam,And blossomy as his German home—As blossomy and as pure and sweetAs the cool green glen of his calm retreat,Far withdrawn from the noisy townWhere trade goes clamoring up and down,Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife,May not trouble his tranquil life!

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust!—Quit of the city's heat and dust,Jostling down by the winding roadThrough the orchard ways of his quaint abode.—Tether the horse, as we onward fareUnder the pear trees trailing there,And thumping the wooden bridge at nightWith lumps of ripeness and lush delight,Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn,Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon.

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face,And the gentle blue of his eyes, and graceOf unassuming honesty,Be there to welcome you and me!And what though the toil of the farm be stoppedAnd the tireless plans of the place be dropped,While the prayerful master's knees are setIn beds of pansy and mignonetteAnd lily and aster and columbine,Offered in love, as yours and mine?—

And lily and aster and columbine

What, but a blessing of kindly thought,Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not!—What, but a spirit of lustrous loveWhite as the aster he bends above!—What, but an odorous memoryOf the dear old man, made known to meIn days demanding a help like his,—As sweet as the life of the lily is—As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wiseBorn of a lily in Paradise.

Herr Weiser--tailpiece

A mother-song--headpiece

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you,Sing the old song I may never forget;Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you.—Mother, O mother,Sing low, "Little brother,Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely,Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret!Can't you come back to me—for to-night only,Mother, my mother,And sing, "Little brother,Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! of old I had neverOne wish denied me, nor trouble to fret;Now—must I cry out all vainly forever,—Mother, sweet mother,O sing, "Little brother,Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrowLeave me in darkness, with eyes ever wet,And never the hope of a meeting to-morrow?Answer me, mother,And sing, "Little brother,Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

What "Old Santa" overheard--headpiece

'Tis said old Santa Claus one timeTold this joke on himself in rhyme:One Christmas, in the early dinThat ever leads the morning in,I heard the happy children shoutIn rapture at the toys turned outOf bulging little socks and shoes—A joy at which I could but chooseTo listen enviously, becauseI'm always just "Old Santa Claus,"—But ere my rising sigh had gotTo its first quaver at the thought,It broke in laughter, as I heardA little voice chirp like a bird,—

"Old Santa's mighty good, I know.And awful rich—and he can goDown ever' chimbly anywhereIn all the world!—But I don't care,Iwouldn't trade withhim, and beOld Santa Clause, and him be me,Fer all his toys and things!—andIKnow why, and bet youheknows why!—Theywuzno Santa Clause whenheWuz ist a little boy like me!"

What "Old Santa" overheard--tailpiece

First she come to our house,Tommy run and hid;And Emily and Bob and meWe cried jus' like we didWhen Mother died,—and we all said'At we all wisht 'at we was dead!

And Nurse she couldn't stop us;And Pa he tried and tried,—We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look,But only cried and cried;And nen some one—we couldn't jus'Tell who—was cryin' same as us!

Our Stepmother! Yes, it was her,Her arms around us all—'Cause Tom slid down the banisterAnd peeked in from the hall.—And we all love her, too, becauseShe's purt' nigh good as Mother was!

When old Jack died--headpiece

When Old Jack died, we stayed from school (they said,At home, we needn't go that day), and noneOf us ate any breakfast—only one,And that was Papa—and his eyes were redWhen he came round where we were, by the shedWhere Jack was lying, half-way in the sunAnd half-way in the shade. When we begunTo cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his headAnd went away; and Mamma, she went backInto the kitchen. Then, for a long while,All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried.We thought so many good things of Old Jack,And funny things—although we didn't smile—We couldn't only cry when Old Jack died.

When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friendHad suddenly gone from us; that some faceThat we had loved to fondle and embraceFrom babyhood, no more would condescendTo smile on us forever. We might bendWith tearful eyes above him, interlaceOur chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race,Plead with him, call and coax—aye, we might sendThe old halloo up for him, whistle, hist,(If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain,Snapped thumbs, called "Speak," and he had not replied;We might have gone down on our knees and kissedThe tousled ears, and yet they must remainDeaf, motionless, we knew—when Old Jack died.

We couldn't only cry when old Jack died

When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way,That all the other dogs in town were painedWith our bereavement, and some that were chained,Even, unslipped their collars on that dayTo visit Jack in state, as though to payA last, sad tribute there, while neighbors cranedTheir heads above the high board fence, and deignedTo sigh "Poor Dog!" remembering how theyHad cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because,For love of them he leaped to lick their hands—Now, that he could not, were they satisfied?We children thought that, as we crossed his paws,And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands,Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack died.

When old Jack died--tailpiece

That night--headpiece

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory!—The scent of the locusts—the light of the moon;And the violin weaving the waltzers a story,Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune,Till their shadows uncertainReeled round on the curtain,While under the trellis we drank in the June.

Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleeping,Their shadowy tresses outlined in the brightCrystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, leapingForever, forever burst, full with delight;And its lisp on my spiritFell faint as that near itWhose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.

O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses!The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses!—And the music!—in fancy I hear it to-day,As I sit here, confessingOur secret, and blessingMy rival who found us, and waltzed you away.

That night--tailpiece

To Almon Keefer--headpiece

This first book that I ever knewWas read aloud to me by you—Friend of my boyhood, therefore takeIt back from me, for old times' sake—The selfsame "Tales" first read to me,Under "the old sweet apple tree,"Ere I myself could read such greatBig words,—but listening all elate,At your interpreting, untilBrain, heart and soul were all athrillWith wonder, awe, and sheer excessOf wildest childish happiness.

Under "the old sweet apple tree"

So take the book again—forgetAll else,—long years, lost hopes, regret;Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain,Prayers we have lifted all in vain;Tears for the faces seen no more,Once as the roses at the door!Take the enchanted book—And lo,On grassy swards of long ago,Sprawl out again, beneath the shadeThe breezy old-home orchard made,The veriest barefoot boy indeed—And I will listen as you read.

To Almon Keefer--tailpiece

To the quiet observer--headpiece

Dear old friend of us all in needWho know the worth of a friend indeed,How rejoiced are we all to learnOf your glad return.

We who have missed your voice so long—Even as March might miss the songOf the sugar-bird in the maples whenThey're tapped again.

Even as the memory of theseBlendedsweets,—the sap of the treesAnd the song of the birds, and the old camp too,We think of you.

Hail to you, then, with welcomes deepAs grateful hearts may laugh or weep!—You give us not only the bird that sings,But all good things.

To the quiet observer--tailpiece

Reach your hand to me--headpiece

Reach your hand to me, my friend,With its heartiest caress—Sometime there will come an endTo its present faithfulness—Sometime I may ask in vainFor the touch of it again,When between us land or seaHolds it ever back from me.

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