TELKA.

EVERY evening, after tea,Teeny-Weeny comes to me,And, astride my willing knee,Plies his lash and rides away;Though that palfrey, all too spare,Finds his burden hard to bear,Teeny-Weeny doesn't care,—He commands, and I obey!First it's trot; and gallop then,—Now it's back to trot again;Teeny-Weeny likes it whenHe is riding fierce and fast!Then his dark eyes brighter growAnd his cheeks are all aglow,—"More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!"Till the horse breaks down at last!Oh, the strange and lovely sightsTeeny-Weeny sees of nights,As he makes those famous flightsOn that wondrous horse of his!Oftentimes, before he knows,Wearylike his eyelids close,And, still smiling, off he goesWhere the land of By-low is.There he sees the folk of fayHard at ring-a-rosie play,And he hears those fairies say,"Come, let's chase him to and fro!"But, with a defiant shout,Teeny puts that host to rout,—Of this tale I make no doubt,—Every night he tells it so!So I feel a tender prideIn my boy who dares to ride(That fierce horse of his astride)Off into those misty lands;And as on my breast he lies,Dreaming in that wondrous wise,I caress his folded eyes,—Pat his little dimpled hands.On a time he went away,Just a little while to stay,And I'm not ashamed to sayI was very lonely then;Life without him was so sad,You can fancy I was gladAnd made merry when I hadTeeny-Weeny back again!So of evenings, after tea,When he toddles up to meAnd goes tugging at my knee,You should hear his palfrey neigh!You should see him prance and shy,When, with an exulting cry,Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high,Plies his lash and rides away!

THROUGH those golden summer daysOur twin flocks were wont to grazeOn the hillside, which the sunRested lovingly upon,—Telka's flock and mine; and weSung our songs in rapturous glee,Idling in the pleasant shadeWhich the solemn Yew-tree made,While the Brook anear us played,And a white Rose, ghost-like, grewIn the shadow of the Yew.Telka loved me passing well;How I loved her none can tell!How I love her none may know,—Oh that man love woman so!When she was not at my side,Loud my heart in anguish cried,And my lips, till she replied.Yet they think to silence me,—As if love could silenced be!Fool were I, and fools were they!Still I wend my lonely way,"Telka," evermore I cry;Answer me the woods and sky,And the weary years go by.Telka, she was passing fair;And the glory of her hairWas such glory as the sunWith his blessing casts uponYonder lonely mountain height,Lifting up to bid good-nightTo her sovereign in the west,Sinking wearily to rest,Drowsing in that golden seaWhere the realms of Dreamland be.So our love to fulness grew,Whilst beneath the solemn YewGhost-like paled the Rose of white,As it were some fancied sightBlanched it with a dread affright.Telka, she was passing fair;And our peace was perfect thereTill, enchanted by her smile,Lurked the South Wind there awhile,Underneath that hillside treeWhere with singing idled we,And I heard the South Wind sayFlattering words to her that dayOf a city far away.But the Yew-tree crouched as thoughIt were like to whisper NoTo the words the South Wind saidAs he smoothed my Telka's head.And the Brook, all pleading, criedTo the dear one at my side:"Linger always where I am;Stray not thence, O cosset lamb!Wander not where shadows deepOn the treacherous quicksands sleep,And the haunted waters leap;Be thou ware the waves that flowToward the prison pool below,Where, beguiled from yonder sky,Captive moonbeams shivering lie,And at dawn of morrow die."So the Brook to Telka cried,But my Telka naught replied;And, as in a strange affright,Paled the Rose a ghostlier white.When anon the North Wind came,—Rudely blustering Telka's name,And he kissed the leaves that grewRound about the trembling Yew,—Kissed and romped till, blushing red,All one day in terror fled,And the white Rose hung her head;Coming to our trysting spot,Long I called; she answered not."Telka!" pleadingly I criedUp and down the mountain-sideWhere we twain were wont to bide.There were those who thought that ICould be silenced with a lie,And they told me Telka's nameShould be spoken now with shame:"She is lost to us and thee,"—That is what they said to me."Is my Telka lost?" quoth I."On this hilltop shall I cry,So that she may hear and thenFind her way to me again.The South Wind spoke a lie that day;All deceived, she lost her wayYonder where the shadows sleep'Mongst the haunted waves that leapOver treacherous quicksands deep,And where captive moonbeams lieDoomed at morrow's dawn to dieShe is lost, and that is all;I will search for her, and call."Summer comes and winter goes,Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose;All the others are anear,—Only Telka is not here!Gone the peace and love I knewSometime 'neath the hillside Yew;And the Rose, that mocks me so,I had crushed it long agoBut that Telka loved it then,And shall soothe its terror whenShe comes back to me again.Call I, seek I everywhereFor my Telka, passing fair.It is, oh, so many a yearI have called! She does not hear,Yet nor feared nor worn am I;For I know that if I cryShe shall sometime hear my call.She is lost, and that is all,—She is lost in some far spot;I have searched, and found it not.Could she hear me calling, thenWould she come to me again;For she loved me passing well,—How I love her none can tell!That is why these years I've cried"Telka!" on this mountain-side."Telka!" still I, pleading, cry;Answer me the woods and sky,And the lonely years go by.On an evening dark and chillCame a shadow up the hill,—Came a spectre, grim and whiteAs a ghost that walks the night,Grim and bowed, and with the cryOf a wretch about to die,—Came and fell and cried to me:"It is Telka come!" said she.So she fell and so she criedOn that lonely mountain-sideWhere was Telka wont to bide."Who hath bribed those lips to lie?Telka's face was fair," quoth I;"Thine is furrowed with despair.There is winter in thy hair;But upon her beauteous headWas there summer glory shed,—Such a glory as the sun,When his daily course is run,Smiles upon this mountain heightAs he kisses it good-night.There was music in her tone,Misery in thy voice alone.They have bid thee lie to me.Let me pass! Thou art not she!Let my sorrow sacred beUnderneath this trysting tree!"So in wrath I went my way,And they came another day,—Came another day, and said:"Hush thy cry, for she is dead,Yonder on the mountain-sideShe is buried where she died,Where you twain were wont to bide,Where she came and fell and criedPardon that thy wrath denied;And above her bosom growsAs in mockery the Rose:It was white; but now 'tis red,And in shame it bows its headOver sinful Telka dead."So they thought to silence me,—As if love could silenced be!Fool were I, and fools were they!Scornfully I went my way,And upon the mountain-side"Telka!" evermore I cried."Telka!" evermore I cry;Answer me the woods and sky:So the lonely years go by.She is lost, and that is all;Sometime she shall hear my call,Hear my pleading call, and thenFind her way to me again.

FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know,And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow.I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fateHas doomed me to an exile far from that noble State;And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree,Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near,While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.My pedigree is noble: they used my grandsire's skinTo piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within,—Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compareWith the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear.Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County ColeAll up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole.We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings,As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things.And when the darkness fell around, a mocking-bird was nigh,Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby;And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all nightThat nary 'coon could wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight.We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians knowThat ary 'coon can best a dog, if the coon gets half a show;But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n,And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n.Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days;I cannot get acclimated, or used to German ways.The victuals that they give me here may all be very fineFor vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine.The 'coon that's been accustomed to stanch democratic cheerWill not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms,But sendmeback from whence I came, and let me grub for worms!They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons,And wonder what I am,—alas, there are no German 'coons!For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree,The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, and free.And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot,ForIhave tasted liberty, these otherstheyhave not;So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feelsThan the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels.Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill,To Jasper Burke and Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel;My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest,Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest.Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at allTo Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall;And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering hereBy cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.

IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes,My mulberry one, my golden son,The rose shall sing thee lullabies,My pretty cosset lambkin!And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree,With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,—A silver boat in a golden sea,—My velvet love, my nestling dove,My own pomegranate-blossom!The stork shall guard thee passing wellAll night, my sweet, my dimple-feet,And bring thee myrrh and asphodel,My gentle rain-of-springtime;And for thy slumber-play shall twineThe diamond stars with an emerald vine,To trail in the waves of ruby wine,My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume,My cooing little turtle!And when the morn wakes up to seeMy apple-bright, my soul's delight,The partridge shall come calling thee,My jar of milk-and-honey!Yes, thou shalt know what mystery liesIn the amethyst deep of the curtained skies,If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes,You wakeful one, you naughty son,You chirping little sparrow!

AS beats the sun from mountain crest,With "Pretty, pretty,"Cometh the partridge from her nest.The flowers threw kisses sweet to her(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);Yet hasteneth she to mine and me,—Ah, pretty, pretty!Ah, dear little partridge!And when I hear the partridge crySo pretty, pretty,Upon the house-top breakfast I.She comes a-chirping far and wide,And swinging from the mountain-sideI see and hear the dainty dear,—Ah, pretty, pretty!Ah, dear little partridge!Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare,And pretty, pretty;Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;The place is full of balmy dew(The tears of flowers in love with you!);And one and all, impassioned, call,"O pretty, pretty!O dear little partridge!"Thy feathers they are soft and sleek,—So pretty, pretty!Long is thy neck, and small thy beak,The color of thy plumage farMore bright than rainbow colors are.Sweeter than dove is she I love,—My pretty, pretty!My dear little partridge!When comes the partridge from the tree,So pretty, pretty,And sings her little hymn to me,Why, all the world is cheered thereby,The heart leaps up into the eye,And Echo then gives back againOur "Pretty, pretty!"Our "Dear little partridge!"Admitting thee most blest of all,And pretty, pretty,The birds come with thee at thy call;In flocks they come, and round thee play,And this is what they seem to say,—They say and sing, each feathered thing,"Ah, pretty, pretty!Ah, dear little partridge!"

CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place,Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace;But once was a time when Corinthian HallExcited the rapture and plaudits of all,With its carpeted stairs,And its new yellow chairs,And its stunningensembleof citified airs.Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the bestOf Thespian temples extant in the West.It was new, and was ours,—that was ages ago,Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,—It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeersOur rivals had launched at our city for years.Corinthian Hall!Why, it discounted allOther halls in the Valley, and well I recallThe night of the opening; from near and afarCame the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar.Oh, those days they were palmy, and never againShall earth see such genius as gladdened us then;For actors were actors, and each one knew howTo whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow.He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair;And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare.Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,—in fact, never couldWhen liquor was handy and walking was good.And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recallThe shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall!Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime;And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime;And I'm ready to swear there is none could compareWith Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair;While in passionate rôles it was patent to usThat the great John A. Stevens wasne ultra plus.And was there demand for the tribute of tears,We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years,And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allowThat the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now.What artist to-day have we equal to Rae,Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say!And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette"Opined that the sun of our drama had set.Corinthian Hall was devoted to songWhen the Barnabee concert troupe happened along,Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown,Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town;But the one special cardThat hit us all hardWas Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard;And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears;And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years!The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days,And our critics accorded them columns of praise;They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings,And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things;They gave a parade, and sweet music they madeEvery evening in front of the house where they played.'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agogFor Primrose and West in their great statue clog.Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintainThat I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne;Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truthThat Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth:While in rôles that were thrillin', involving much killin',Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain;Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,—they allEarned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall.But Time, as begrudging the glory that fellOn the spot I revere and remember so well,Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint,And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint;So the trappings of gold and the gear manifoldGot gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould,And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall,Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall.When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night,And the music goes floating on billows of light,Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man,And I pine to be back where my mission began,And I'm fain to recallReminiscences allThat come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,—To hear and to see what delighted me then,And to revel in raptures of boyhood again.Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place,Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace,There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they,Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day,Would surrender what goldHe's amassed to beholdA tithe of the wonderful doings of old,A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrallOurcrême de la crêmein Corinthian Hall.

I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art,Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so smart;And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations showThat somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go.I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve,And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve;I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green,And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen.The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal Dutch,The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised overmuch,The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,—All,ad infin., have I taken in a hundred thousand times.Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naughtCompared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is fraught;For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker grows,And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes.Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so,And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know;It answers every purpose that this is manifest:The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West.Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies,No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies;But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill,Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still!

FROM out Cologne there came three kingsTo worship Jesus Christ, their King.To Him they sought fine herbs they brought,And many a beauteous golden thing;They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town,And in that manger set them down.Then spake the first king, and he said:"O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!I bring this crown to Bethlehem townFor Thee, and only Thee, to wear;So give a heavenly crown to meWhen I shall come at last to Thee!"The second, then. "I bring Thee hereThis royal robe, O Child!" he cried;"Of silk 'tis spun, and such an oneThere is not in the world beside;So in the day of doom requiteMe with a heavenly robe of white!"The third king gave his gift, and quoth:"Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,And with these twain would I most fainAnoint the body of my King;So may their incense sometime riseTo plead for me in yonder skies!"Thus spake the three kings of Cologne,That gave their gifts, and went their way;And now kneel I in prayer hard byThe cradle of the Child to-day;Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bringAs offering unto Christ, my King.Yet have I brought a gift the ChildMay not despise, however small;For here I lay my heart to-day,And it is full of love to all.Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,My only tribute, Christ, my King!

IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair,And the voice that comes from the yonder seaSings to the quaint old mansions thereOf "the time, the time that used to be;"And the quaint old mansions rock and groan,And they seem to say in an undertone,With half a sigh and with half a moan:"It was, but it never again will be."In Ipswich witches weave at nightTheir magic, spells with impish glee;They shriek and laugh in their demon flightFrom the old Main House to the frightened sea.And ghosts of eld come out to weepOver the town that is fast asleep;And they sob and they wail, as on they creep:"It was, but it never again will be."In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break HillOver against the calling sea;And through the nights so deep and chillWatcheth a maiden constantly,—Watcheth alone, nor seems to hearOver the roar of the waves anearThe pitiful cry of a far-off year:"It was, but it never again will be."In Ipswich once a witch I knew,—An artless Saxon witch was she;By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue,Sweet was the spell she cast on me.Alas! but the years have wrought me ill,And the heart that is old and battered and chillSeeketh again on Heart-Break HillWhat was, but never again can be.Dear Anna, I would not conjure downThe ghost that cometh to solace me;I love to think of old Ipswich town,Where somewhat better than friends were we;For with every thought of the dear old placeCometh again the tender graceOf a Saxon witch's pretty face,As it was, and is, and ever shall be.

BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall;I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all;Clothes would never seem to set so nice onmeashim,—Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,—But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall;And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the placeWhen Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir,—Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire!She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard,—Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird;Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er,A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place,When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat,—Shesung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat;Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew,One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"!But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that;On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful faceWhen Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass.Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then,Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together whenWe lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days,And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise.Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again!For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar graceWhen you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass.The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be,Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me.Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year,Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peerWhen Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D!The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass.Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54,And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more;Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell,And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befellThat she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store;And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apaceSince Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea,I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me;And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day,I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away.Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be;"Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face,"When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass."

THREE comrades on the German Rhine,Defying care and weather,Together quaffed the mellow wine,And sung their songs together.What recked they of the griefs of life,With wine and song to cheer them?Though elsewhere trouble might be rife,It would not come anear them.Anon one comrade passed away,And presently another,And yet unto the tryst each dayRepaired the lonely brother;And still, as gayly as of old,That third one, hero-hearted,Filled to the brim each cup of gold,And called to the departed,—"O comrades mine! I see ye not,Nor hear your kindly greeting,Yet in this old, familiar spotBe still our loving meeting!Here have I filled each bouting-cupWith juices red and cheery;I pray ye drink the portion up,And as of old make merry!"And once before his tear-dimmed eyes,All in the haunted gloaming,He saw two ghostly figures rise,And quaff the beakers foaming;He heard two spirit voices call,"Fiducit, jovial brother!"And so forever from that hallWent they with one another.

WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette,"I was upon familiar terms with every one I met;For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time,Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme,—Before I found in versesThose soothing, gracious mercies,Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is.A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat,And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."The labors of the day began at half-past eighta.m.,For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them;And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquireBy those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire,With my daily commentaryOn affairs of farm and dairy,The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary,—Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I getWhen I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due,Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous;Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case,And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd space;Of fevers, fractures, humors,Contusions, fits, and tumors,Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors;From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get,—When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place,—Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race;And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink,And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink.Those drinks at the Pacific,When days were sudorific,Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;"And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd getWhen I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow,To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go.The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enoughFor local application in lieu of better stuff;And when the ducks were flying,Or the fishing well worth trying—Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at lying!And I—I printed all their yarns, though not without regret,When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young,Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;"Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd callOn Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all.Lon Tullar used to ponyUp descriptions that were tonyOf toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione;For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett"When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue;And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,—The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read,And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed.Oh, but it takes agility,Combined with versatility,To run a country daily with appropriate ability!There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet,Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette."Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontentRebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwentIf so, I don't remember; this only do I know,—My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo.The years that speed so fleetlyHave blotted out completelyAll else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly;The friendships of that time,—ah, me! they are as precious yetAs when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has gotA majazin in Kalverstraat,Where one may buy for sordid goldWares quaint and curious, new and old.Here are antiquities galore,—The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore,Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks,Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks,And all those joys I might rehearseThat please the eye, but wreck the purse.I most admired an ancient bed,With ornate carvings at its head,—A massive frame of dingy oak,Whose curious size and mould bespokeProdigious age. "How much?" I cried."Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied;And then the honest Dutchman saidA king once owned that glorious bed,—King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame,Had owned and slept within the same!Then long I stood and mutely gazed,By reminiscent splendors dazed,And I had bought it right away,Had I the wherewithal to pay.But, lacking of the needed pelf,I thus discoursed within myself:"O happy Holland! where's the blissThat can approximate to thisPossession of the rare antiqueWhich maniacs hanker for and seek?Mynative land is full of stuffThat's good, but is not old enough.Alas! it has no oaken bedsWherein have slumbered royal heads,No relic on whose face we seeThe proof of grand antiquity."Thus reasoned I a goodly spellUntil, perchance, my vision fellUpon a trademark at the headOf Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed,—A rampant wolverine, and roundThis strange device these words I found:"Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay,Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A."At present I'm not saying muchAbout the simple, guileless Dutch;And as it were a loathsome spotI keep away from Kalverstraat,Determined when I want a bedIn which hath slept a royal headI'll patronize no middleman,But deal direct with Michigan.

AS to-night you came your way,Bearing earthward heavenly joy,Tell me, O dear saint, I pray,Did you see my little boy?By some fairer voice beguiled,Once he wandered from my sight;He is such a little child,He should have my love this night.It has been so many a year,—Oh, so many a year since then!Yet he was so very dear,Surely he will come again.If upon your way you seeOne whose beauty is divine,Will you send him back to me?He is lost, and he is mine.Tell him that his little chairNestles where the sunbeams meet,That the shoes he used to wearYearn to kiss his dimpled feet.Tell him of each pretty toyThat was wont to share his glee;Maybe that will bring my boyBack to them and back to me.O dear saint, as on you goThrough the glad and sparkling frost,Bid those bells ring high and lowFor a little child that's lost!O dear saint, that blessest menWith the grace of Christmas joy,Soothe this heart with love again,—Give me back my little boy!

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