OLD CHUMS

Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and tuck and madeMe stay with him whilse I was there; and longer 'at I stayedThe more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away,And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day.

You see I'd got the idy—and I guess most folks agrees—'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what they please;A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman and all,And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall!

Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke—he made his money square:We both was Forty-niners, and both bu'sted gittin' there;I weakened and onwindlassed, and he stuck and stayed and madeHis millions; don't know whatI'mworth untel my pension's paid.

But I was goin' to tell you—er a-ruther goin' to tryTo tell you how he's livin' now: gas burnin' mighty nighIn ever' room about the house; and ever' night, about,Some blame reception goin' on, and money goin' out.

They's people there from all the world—jes' ever' kind 'at lives,Injuns and all! and Senators, and Ripresentatives;And girls, you know, jes' dressed in gauze and roses, I declare,And even old men shamblin' round a-waltzin' with 'em there!

And bands a-tootin' circus-tunes, 'way in some other roomJes' chokin' full o' hothouse plants and pinies and perfume;And fountains, squirtin' stiddy all the time; and statutes, madeOut o' puore marble, 'peared-like, sneakin' round there in the shade.

And Fluke he coaxed and begged and pled with me to take a handAnd sashay in amongst 'em—crutch and all, you understand;But when I said how tired I was, and made fer open air,He follered, and tel five o'clock we set a-talkin' there.

To old one-legged chaps, like me

"My God!" says he—Fluke says to me, "I'm tireder'n you!Don't putt up yer tobacker tel you give a man a chew.Set back a leetle furder in the shadder—that'll do;I'm tireder'n you, old man; I'm tireder'n you.

"You see that-air old dome," says he, "humped up ag'inst the sky?It's grand, first time you see it; but it changes, by and by,And then it stays jes' thataway—jes' anchored high and dryBetwixt the sky up yender and the achin' of yer eye.

"Night's purty; not so purty, though, as what it ust to beWhen my first wife was livin'. You remember her?" says he.I nodded-like, and Fluke went on, "I wonder now ef sheKnows where I am—and what I am—and what I ust to be?

"That band in there!—I ust to think 'at music couldn't wearA feller out the way it does; but that ain't music there—That's jes' a'imitation, and like ever'thing, I swear,I hear, er see, er tetch, er taste, er tackle anywhere!

"It's all jes'artificial, this-'ere high-priced life of ours;The theory, it's sweet enough, tel it saps down and sours.They's nohomeleft, nertieso' home about it. By the powers,The whole thing's artificialer'n artificial flowers!

"And all I want, and could lay down and sob fer, is to knowThe homely things of homely life; fer instance, jes' to goAnd set down by the kitchen stove—Lord! that 'u'd rest me so,—Jes' set there, like I ust to do, and laugh and joke, you know.

"Jes' set there, like I ust to do," says Fluke, a-startin' in,'Peared-like, to say the whole thing over to hisse'f ag'in;Then stopped and turned, and kind o' coughed, and stoopedand fumbled ferSomepin' o' 'nuther in the grass—I guess his handkercher.

Well, sence I'm back from Washington, where I left Fluke a-stillA-leggin' fer me, heart and soul, on that-air pension bill,I've half-way struck the notion, when I think o' wealth and sich,They's nothin' much patheticker'n jes' a-bein' rich!

"It's all jes' artificial, this-'ere high-priced life of ours"

Old chums--headpiece

"If I die first," my old chum paused to say,"Mind! not a whimper of regret:—instead,Laugh and be glad, as I shall.—Being dead,I shall not lodge so very far awayBut that our mirth shall mingle.—So, the dayThe word comes, joy with me." "I'll try," I said,Though, even speaking, sighed and shook my headAnd turned, with misted eyes. His roundelayRang gaily on the stair; and then the doorOpened and—closed. . . . Yet something of the clear,Hale hope, and force of wholesome faith he hadAbided with me—strengthened more and more.—Then—then they brought his broken body here:And I laughed—whisperingly—and we were glad.

Scotty--headpiece

Scotty's dead—Of course he is!Jes' that same old luck of his!—Ever sence we went cahootsHe's be'n first, you bet yer boots!When our schoolin' first begun,Got two whippin's to my one:Stold and smoked the first cigar:Stood up first before the bar,Takin' whisky-straight—and meWastin' time on "blackberry"!

Beat me in the Army, too,And clean on the whole way through!In more scrapes around the camp,And more troubles, on the tramp:Fought and fell there by my sideWith more bullets in his hide,And more glory in the cause,—That's the kind o' manhewas!Luck liked Scotty more'n me.—Igot married: Scotty, heNever even wouldapplyFer the pension-money IHad to beg of "Uncle Sam"—That's the kind o' cussIam!—Scotty allus first and best—Me the last and ornriest!Yit fer all that's said and done—All the battles fought and won—We hain't prospered, him ner me—Both as pore as pore could be,—Though we've allus, up tel now,Stuck together anyhow—Scotty allus, as I've said,Luckiest—And now he'sdead!

The old man--headpiece

Lo! steadfast and serene,In patient pause betweenThe seen and the unseen,What gentle zephyrs fanYour silken silver hair,—And what diviner airBreathes round you like a prayer,Old Man?

Can you, in nearer viewOf Glory, pierce the blueOf happy Heaven through;And, listening mutely, canYour senses, dull to us,Hear Angel-voices thus,In chorus glorious—Old Man?

In your reposeful gazeThe dusk of Autumn daysIs blent with April haze,As when of old beganThe bursting of the budOf rosy babyhood—When all the world was good,Old Man.

And yet I find a slyLittle twinkle in your eye;And your whisperingly shyLittle laugh is simply anInternal shout of gleeThat betrays the fallacyYou'd perpetrate on me,Old Man.

So just put up the frownThat your brows are pulling down!Why, the fleetest boy in town,As he bared his feet and ran,Could read with half a glance—And of keen rebuke, perchance—Your secret countenance,Old Man.

Now, honestly, confess:Is an old man any lessThan the little child we blessAnd caress when we can?Isn't age but just a placeWhere you mask the childish faceTo preserve its inner grace,Old Man?

Hasn't age a truant day,Just as that you went astrayIn the wayward, restless way,When, brown with dust and tan,Your roguish face essayed,In solemn masquerade,To hide the smile it made,Old Man?

In your reposeful gaze

Now, fair, and square, and true,Don't your old soul tremble through,As in youth it used to doWhen it brimmed and overranWith the strange, enchanted sights,And the splendors and delightsOf the old "Arabian Nights,"Old Man?

When, haply, you have faredWhere glad Aladdin sharedHis lamp with you, and daredThe Afrite and his clan;And, with him, clambered throughThe trees where jewels grew—And filled your pockets, too,Old Man?

Or, with Sinbad, at sea—And in veracityWho has sinned as bad as he,Or would, or will, or can?—Have you listened to his lies,With open mouth and eyes,And learned his art likewise,Old Man?

And you need not denyThat your eyes were wet as dry,Reading novels on the sly!And review them, if you canAnd the same warm tears will fall—Only faster, that is all—Over Little Nell and Paul,Old Man!

Oh, you were a lucky lad—Just as good as you were bad!And the host of friends you had—Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan;And the old School-Teacher, too,Though he often censured you;And the girls in pink and blue,Old Man.

And—as often you have leant,In boyish sentiment,To kiss the letter sentBy Nelly, Belle, or Nan—Wherein the rose's hueWas red, the violet blue—And sugar sweet—and you,Old Man,—

So, to-day, as lives the bloom,And the sweetness, and perfumeOf the blossoms, I assume,On the same mysterious planThe Master's love assures,That the selfsame boy enduresIn that hale old heart of yours,Old Man.

The old man--tailpiece

His daily, nightly task is o'er—He leans above his desk no more.

His pencil and his pen say notOne further word of gracious thought.

All silent is hisvoice, yet clearFor all a grateful world to hear;

He poured abroad his human loveIn opulence unmeasured of—

While, in return, his meek demand,—The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand

In recognition of the trueWorld's duty that he lived to do.

So was he kin of yours and mine—So, even by the hallowed sign

Of silence which he listens to,He hears our tears as falls the dew.

The ancient printerman--headpiece

O Printerman of sallow face,And look of absent guile,Is it the 'copy' on your 'case'That causes you to smile?Or is it some old treasure scrapYou call from Memory's file?

"I fain would guess its mystery—For often I can traceA fellow dreamer's historyWhene'er it haunts the face;Your fancy's running riotIn a retrospective race!

"Ah, Printerman, you're strayingAfar from 'stick' and type—Your heart has 'gone a-maying,'And you taste old kisses, ripeAgain on lips that puckerAt your old asthmatic pipe!

"You are dreaming of old pleasuresThat have faded from your view;And the music-burdened measuresOf the laughs you listen toAre now but angel-echoes—O, have I spoken true?"

The ancient Printer hintedWith a motion full of graceTo where the words were printedOn a card above his "case,"—"'I am deaf and dumb!" I left himWith a smile upon his face.

O Printerman of sallow face

The old man and Jim--headpiece

Old man never had much to say—'Ceptin' to Jim,—And Jim was the wildest boy he had—And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!Never heerd him speak but onceEr twice in my life,—and first time wasWhen the army broke out, and Jim he went,The old man backin' him, fer three months;And all 'at I heerd the old man sayWas, jes' as we turned to start away,—"Well, good-by, Jim:Take keer o' yourse'f!"

'Peared-like, he was more satisfiedJes'lookin'at JimAnd likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?—'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!And over and over I mind the dayThe old man come and stood round in the wayWhile we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim—And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say,"Well, good-by, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"

Never was nothin' about thefarmDisting'ished Jim;Neighbors all ust to wonder whyThe old man 'peared wrapped up in him;But when Cap. Biggler he writ back'At Jim was the bravest boy we hadIn the whole dern rigiment, white er black,And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad—'At he had led, with a bullet cleanBored through his thigh, and carried the flagThrough the bloodiest battle you ever seen,—The old man wound up a letter to him'At Cap. read to us, 'at said: "Tell JimGood-by,And take keer of hisse'f."

"Well, good-by, Jim"

Jim come home jes' long enoughTo take the whim'At he'd like to go back in the calvery—And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.And the old man give him a colt he'd raised,And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,And laid around fer a week er so,Watchin' Jim on dress-parade—Tel finally he rid away,And last he heerd was the old man say,—"Well, good-by, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"

The old man and Jim--tailpiece

Tuk the papers, the old man did,A-watchin' fer Jim—Fully believin' he'd make his markSomeway—jes' wrapped up in him!—And many a time the word 'u'd come'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum—At Petersburg, fer instunce, whereJim rid right into their cannons there,And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,And socked it home to the boys in grayAs they scooted fer timber, and on and on—Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone,And the old man's words in his mind all day,—"Well, good-by, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"

The old man and Jim--tailpiece

Think of a private, now, perhaps,We'll say like Jim,'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps—And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!Think of him—with the war plum' through,And the glorious old Red-White-and-BlueA-laughin' the news down over Jim,And the old man, bendin' over him—The surgeon turnin' away with tears'At hadn't leaked fer years and years,As the hand of the dyin' boy clung toHis father's, the old voice in his ears,—"Well, good-by, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"

The old man and Jim--tailpiece

The old school-chum--headpiece

He puts the poem by, to sayHis eyes are not themselves to-day!

A sudden glamour o'er his sight—A something vague, indefinite—

An oft-recurring blur that blindsThe printed meaning of the lines,

And leaves the mind all dusk and dimIn swimming darkness—strange to him!

It is not childishness, I guess,—Yet something of the tenderness

That used to wet his lashes whenA boy seems troubling him again;—

The old emotion, sweet and wild,That drove him truant when a child,

That he might hide the tears that fellAbove the lesson—"Little Nell."

And so it is he puts asideThe poem he has vainly tried

To follow; and, as one who sighsIn failure, through a poor disguise

Of smiles, he dries his tears, to sayHis eyes are not themselves to-day.

The old school-chum--tailpiece

My jolly friend's secret--headpiece

Ah, friend of mine, how goes itSince you've taken you a mate?—Your smile, though, plainly shows itIs a very happy state!Dan Cupid's necromancy!You must sit you down and dine,And lubricate your fancyWith a glass or two of wine.

Ah, friend of mine, how goes it

And as you have "deserted,"As my other chums have done,While I laugh alone diverted,As you drop off one by one—-And I've remained unwedded,Till—you see—look here—that I'm,In a manner, "snatched bald-headed"By the sportive hand of Time!

I'm an "old 'un!" yes, but wrinklesAre not so plenty, quite,As to cover up the twinklesOf theboy—ain't I right?Yet there are ghosts of kissesUnder this mustache of mineMy mem'ry only missesWhen I drown 'em out with wine.

From acknowledgment so ample,You would hardly take me forWhat I am—a perfect sampleOf a "jolly bachelor";Not a bachelor has beingWhen he laughs at married lifeBut his heart and soul's agreeingThat he ought to have a wife!

Ah, ha! old chum, this claret,Like Fatima, holds the keyOf the old Blue-Beardish garretOf my hidden mystery!Did you say you'd like to listen?Ah, my boy! the "Sad No More!"And the tear-drops that will glisten—Turn the catch upon the door,

And sit you down beside meAnd put yourself at ease—I'll trouble you to slide meThat wine decanter, please;The path is kind o' mazyWhere my fancies have to go,And my heart gets sort o' lazyOn the journey—don't you know?

Let me see—when I was twenty—It's a lordly age, my boy,When a fellow's money's plenty,And the leisure to enjoy—

And a girl—with hair as goldenAs—that; and lips—well—quiteAs red asthisI'm holdin'Between you and the light?

And eyes and a complexion—Ah, heavens!—le'-me-see—Well,—just in this connection,—Did you lock that door for me?Did I start in recitationMy past life to recall?Well,that'san indicationI am purty tight—that's all!

My jolly friend's secret--tailpiece

In the heart of June, love,You and I together,On from dawn till noon, love,Laughing with the weather;Blending both our souls, love,In the selfsame tune,Drinking all life holds, love,In the heart of June.

In the heart of June, love,With its golden weather,Underneath the moon, love,You and I together.Ah! how sweet to seem, love,Drugged and half aswoonWith this luscious dream, love,In the heart of June.

The old band--headpiece

It's mighty good to git back to the old town, shore,Considerin' I've be'n away twenty year and more.Sence I moved then to Kansas, of course I see a change,A-comin' back, and notice things that's new to me and strange;Especially at evening when yer new band-fellers meet,In fancy uniforms and all, and play out on the street—. . . What's come of old Bill Lindsey and the Saxhorn fellers—say?I want to hear theoldband play.

What's come of Eastman, and Nat Snow? And where's War Barnett at?And Nate and Bony Meek; Bill Hart; Tom Richa'son and that-Air brother of him played the drum as twic't as big as Jim;And old Hi Kerns, the carpenter—say, what's become o' him?I make no doubt yernew bandnow's acompetenterband,And plays their music more by note than what they play by hand,And stylisher and grander tunes; but somehow—anyway,I want to hear theoldband play.

Sich tunes as "John Brown's Body" and "Sweet Alice," don't you know;And "The Camels is A-comin'," and "John Anderson, my Jo";And a dozent others of 'em—"Number Nine" and "Number 'Leven"Was favo-ritesthat fairly made a feller dream o' Heaven.And when the boys 'u'd saranade, I've laid so still in bedI've even heerd the locus'-blossoms droppin' on the shedWhen "Lilly Dale," er "Hazel Dell," had sobbed and died away—. . . I want to hear theoldband play.

I want to hear the old band play

Yernewband ma'by beats it, but theold band'swhat I said—It allus 'peared to kind o' chord with somepin' in my head;And, whilse I'm no musicianer, when my blame' eyes is jes'Nigh drownded out, and Mem'ry squares her jaws and sort o' saysShewon'tnerneverwill fergit, I want to jes' turn inAnd take and light right out o' here and git back West ag'inAndstaythere, when I git there, where I never haf to sayI want to hear theoldband play.

The old band--tailpiece

My friend--headpiece

"He is my friend," I said,—"Be patient!" OverheadThe skies were drear and dim;And lo! the thought of himSmiled on my heart—and thenThe sun shone out again!

"He is my friend!" The wordsBrought summer and the birds;And all my winter-timeThawed into running rhymeAnd rippled into song,Warm, tender, brave, and strong.

And so it sings to-day.—So may it sing alway!Though waving grasses growBetween, and lilies blowTheir trills of perfume clearAs laughter to the ear,Let each mute measure endWith "Still he is thy friend."

My friend--tailpiece

The traveling man--headpiece

Could I pour out the nectar the gods only can,I would fill up my glass to the brimAnd drink the success of the Traveling Man,And the house represented by him;And could I but tincture the glorious draughtWith his smiles, as I drank to him then,And the jokes he has told and the laughs he has laughed,I would fill up the goblet again—

And drink to the sweetheart who gave him good-byWith a tenderness thrilling him thisVery hour, as he thinks of the tear in her eyeThat salted the sweet of her kiss;To her truest of hearts and her fairest of handsI would drink, with all serious prayers,Since the heart she must trust is a Traveling Man's,And as warm as the ulster he wears.

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