Grim is the face that looks into the nightOver the stretch of sands;A sullen rock in a sea of white—A ghostly shadow in ghostly light,Peering and moaning it stands."Oh, is it the king that rides this way—Oh, is it the king that rides so free?I have looked for the king this many a day,But the years that mock me will not sayWhy tarrieth he!"
'T is not your king that shall ride to-night,But a child that is fast asleep;And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-horse white—Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly lightWhere the ghostly shadows creep!"My eyes are dull and my face is sere,Yet unto the word he gave I cling,For he was a Pharaoh that set me here—And, lo! I have waited this many a yearFor him—my king!"
Oh, past thy face my darling shall rideSwift as the burning winds that bearThe sand clouds over the desert wide—Swift to the verdure and palms besideThe wells off there!"And is it the mighty king I shall seeCome riding into the night?Oh, is it the king come back to me—Proudly and fiercely rideth he,With centuries dight!"
I know no king but my dark-eyed dearThat shall ride the Dream-Horse white;But see! he wakes at my bosom here,While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers nearTo speed with my babe to-night!And out of the desert darkness peersA ghostly, ghastly, shadowy thingLike a spirit come out of the mouldering years,And ever that waiting spectre hearsThe coming king!
One asketh:"Tell me, Myrson, tell me true:What's the season pleaseth you?Is it summer suits you best,When from harvest toil we rest?Is it autumn with its gloryOf all surfeited desires?Is it winter, when with storyAnd with song we hug our fires?Or is spring most fair to you—Come, good Myrson, tell me true!"
Another answereth:"What the gods in wisdom sendWe should question not, my friend;Yet, since you entreat of me,I will answer reverently:Me the summertime displeases,For its sun is scorching hot;Autumn brings such dire diseasesThat perforce I like it not;As for biting winter, oh!How I hate its ice and snow!
"But, thrice welcome, kindly spring,With the myriad gifts you bring!Not too hot nor yet too cold,Graciously your charms unfold—Oh, your days are like the dreamingOf those nights which love beseems,And your nights have all the seemingOf those days of golden dreams!Heaven smiles down on earth, and thenEarth smiles up to heaven again!"
Still serve me in my age, I pray,As in my youth, O faithful one;For years I've brushed thee every day—Could Socrates have better done?What though the fates would wreak on theeThe fulness of their evil art?Use thou philosophy, like me—And we, old friend, shall never part!
I think—Ioftenthink of it—The day we twain first faced the crowd;My roistering friends impeached your fit,But you and I were very proud!Those jovial friends no more make freeWith us (no longer new and smart),But rather welcome you and meAs loving friends that should not part.
The patch? Oh, yes—one happy night—"Lisette," says I, "it's time to go"—She clutched this sleeve to stay my flight,Shrieking: "What! leave so early? No!"To mend the ghastly rent she'd made,Three days she toiled, dear patient heart!And I—right willingly I staid—Lisette decreed we should not part!
No incense ever yet profanedThis honest, shiny warp of thine,Nor hath a courtier's eye disdainedThy faded hue and quaint design;Let servile flattery be the priceOf ribbons in the royal mart—A roadside posie shall sufficeFor us two friends that must not part!
Fear not the recklessness of yoreShall re-occur to vex thee now;Alas, I am a youth no more—I'm old and sere, and so art thou!So bide with me unto the lastAnd with thy warmth caress this heartThat pleads, by memories of the Past,That two such friends should never part!
There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called,Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago,And he was very fortunate in being very baldAnd so was very happy he was so.He warbled all the daySuch songs as only theyWho are very, very circumspect and very happy may;The people wondered why,As the years went gliding by,They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh!
The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben,Till (may be you can fancy it) the dickens was to payAmong the callow students and the sober-minded men—With the women-folk a-cuttin' up that way!Why, they gave him turbans redTo adorn his hairless head,And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed!In vain the rest demurred—Not a single chiding wordThose ladies deigned to tolerate—remonstrance was absurd!
Things finally got into such a very dreadful wayThat the others (oh, how artful) formed the politic designTo send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November day,They elected him a member from the Rhine!Then the other members said:"Gott im Himmel! what a head!"But they marvelled when his speeches they listened to or read;And presently they cried:"There must be heaps insideOf the smooth and shiny cranium his constituents deride!"
Well, when at last he up 'nd died—long past his ninetieth year—The strangest and the most lugubrious funeral he had,For women came in multitudes to weep upon his bier—The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone mad!And this wonderment increasedTill the sympathetic priestInquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?"Whereupon were they appalled,For, as one, those women squalled:"We doted on deceased for being bald—bald—bald!"
He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair awayWhich, elsewise, clogs one's keenness and activity of mind;And (barring present company, of course) I'm free to sayThat, after all, it's intellect that captures womankind.At any rate, since then(With a precedent in Ben),The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men!
The image of the moon at nightAll trembling in the ocean lies,But she, with calm and steadfast light,Moves proudly through the radiant skies,
How like the tranquil moon thou art—Thou fairest flower of womankind!And, look, within my fluttering heartThy image trembling is enshrined!
Yonder stands the hillside chapelMid the evergreens and rocks,All day long it hears the songOf the shepherd to his flocks.
Then the chapel bell goes tolling—Knelling for a soul that's sped;Silent and sad the shepherd ladHears the requiem for the dead.
Shepherd, singers of the valley,Voiceless now, speed on before;Soon shall knell that chapel bellFor the songs you'll sing no more.
Two dreams came down to earth one nightFrom the realm of mist and dew;One was a dream of the old, old days,And one was a dream of the new.
One was a dream of a shady laneThat led to the pickerel pondWhere the willows and rushes bowed themselvesTo the brown old hills beyond.
And the people that peopled the old-time dreamWere pleasant and fair to see,And the dreamer he walked with them againAs often of old walked he.
Oh, cool was the wind in the shady laneThat tangled his curly hair!Oh, sweet was the music the robins madeTo the springtime everywhere!
Was it the dew the dream had broughtFrom yonder midnight skies,Or was it tears from the dear, dead yearsThat lay in the dreamer's eyes?
Theotherdream ran fast and free,As the moon benignly shedHer golden grace on the smiling faceIn the little trundle-bed.
For 't was a dream of times to come—Of the glorious noon of day—Of the summer that follows the careless springWhen the child is done with play.
And 't was a dream of the busy worldWhere valorous deeds are done;Of battles fought in the cause of right,And of victories nobly won.
It breathed no breath of the dear old homeAnd the quiet joys of youth;It gave no glimpse of the good old friendsOr the old-time faith and truth.
But 't was a dream of youthful hopes,And fast and free it ran,And it told to a little sleeping childOf a boy become a man!
These were the dreams that came one nightTo earth from yonder sky;These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed—My little boy and I.
And in our hearts my boy and IWere glad that it was so;Heloved to dream of days to come,AndIof long ago.
So from our dreams my boy and IUnwillingly awoke,But neither of his precious dreamUnto the other spoke.
Yet of the love we bore those dreamsGave each his tender sign;For there was triumph inhiseyes—And there were tears inmine!
'Twas in the Crescent City not long ago befellThe tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell;So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I singUnto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing—No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiemOf blowing twenty dollars in by nine o'clock a.m.
Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid,But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade;And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself,Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf,The curio collector is so blindly lost in sinThat he doesn't spend his money—he simply blows it in!
In Royal street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop,And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop;To stop was hesitation—in a moment I was lost—Thatkind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost!I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem—And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of eight a.m.!
Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green,Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen;A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose,With its curious depression into which the gravy flows;Two dainty silver salts—oh, there was no resistingthem—And I'd blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a.m.
With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed,Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need;Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps,A gown—thegown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps!These and ten thousand other spectres harrow and condemnThe man who's blown in twenty by nine o'clock a.m.
Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) In asking one this question: "Whatdidyou buy it for?" Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed tradebeforethe act,Beforeone's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact—Beforeone's fallen victim to the Tempter's stratagem And blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a.m.?
Ah me! now that the deed is done, how penitent I am!Iwasa roaring lion—behold a bleating lamb!I've packed and shipped those precious things to that more precious wifeWho shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life,While he who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealthIs far away, and means to keep his distance—for his health!
The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool—Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool;It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill,And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill;So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to knowWhere the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow.
What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker's hill?And what's become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill?And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell,And of Roxie Root, who 'tended school in Boston for a spell?They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play—They do not answer to my call! My playmates—where are they?
What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe,Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago?I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown,And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school down!And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow, and allWho I am sure would answer could they only hear my call!
I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys againAnd talk about the times we used to wish that we were men!And one—I shall not name her—could I see her gentle faceAnd hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place!The flowers and hopes of springtime—they perished long ago,And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.
O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boysThat but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise?O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you knowWhere I shall find my little friends of forty years ago?You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far;I am looking for my playmates—I wonder where they are!
Prate, ye who will, of so-called charms you find across the sea—The land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me!I've done the grand for fourteen months in every foreign clime,And I've learned a heap of learning, but I've shivered all the time;And the biggest bit of wisdom I've acquired—as I can see—Is that which teaches that this land's the land of lands for me.
Now, I am of opinion that a person should get someWarmth in this present life of ours, not all in that to come;So when Boreas blows his blast, through country and through town,Or when upon the muddy streets the stifling fog rolls down,Go, guzzle in a pub, or plod some bleak malarious grove,But let me toast my shrunken shanks beside some Yankee stove.
The British people say they "don't believe in stoves, y' know;"Perchance because we warmed 'em so completely years ago!They talk of "drahfts" and "stuffiness" and "ill effects of heat,"As they chatter in their barny rooms or shiver 'round the street;With sunshine such a rarity, and stoves esteemed a sin,What wonder they are wedded to their fads—catarrh and gin?
In Germany are stoves galore, and yet you seldom findA fire within the stoves, for German stoves are not that kind;The Germans say that fires make dirt, and dirt's an odious thing,But the truth is that the pfennig is the average Teuton's king,And since the fire costs pfennigs, why, the thrifty soul deniesHimself all heat except what comes with beer and exercise.
The Frenchman builds a fire of cones, the Irishman of peat;The frugal Dutchman buys a fire when he has need of heat—That is to say, he pays so much each day to one who bringsThe necessary living coals to warm his soup and things;In Italy and Spain they have no need to heat the house—'Neath balmy skies the native picks the mandolin and louse.
Now, we've no mouldy catacombs, no feudal castles grim,No ruined monasteries, no abbeys ghostly dim;Our ancient history is new, our future's all ahead,And we've got a tariff bill that's made all Europe sick abed—But what is best, though short on tombs and academic groves,We double discount Christendom on sunshine and on stoves.
Dear land of mine! I come to you from months of chill and storm,Blessing the honest people whose hearts and hearths are warm;A fairer, sweeter song than this I mean to weave to youWhen I've reached my lakeside 'dobe and once get heated through;But, even then, the burthen of that fairer song shall beThat the land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me.
Come, brothers, share the fellowshipWe celebrate to-night;There's grace of song on every lipAnd every heart is light!But first, before our mentor chimesThe hour of jubilee,Let's drink a health to good old times,And good times yet to be!Clink, clink, clink!Merrily let us drink!There's store of wealthAnd more of healthIn every glass, we think.Clink, clink, clink!To fellowship we drink!And from the bowlNo genial soulIn such an hour can shrink.
And you, oh, friends from west and eastAnd other foreign parts,Come share the rapture of our feast,The love of loyal hearts;And in the wassail that suspendsAll matters burthensome,We'll drink a health to good old friendsAnd good friends yet to come.Clink, clink, clink!To fellowship we drink!And from the bowlNo genial soulIn such an hour will shrink.Clink, clink, clink!Merrily let us drink!There's fellowshipIn every sipOf friendship's brew, we think.
I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hossWay out into the big an' boundless west;I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across,An' I'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest!With my pistols at my side,I would roam the prarers wide,An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride—If I darst; but I darsen't!
I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there,An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw!I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair,An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw!I'd chase the pizen snakesAn' the 'pottimus that makesHis nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes—If I darst; but I darsen't!
I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue,With a big black flag aflyin' overhead;I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crewAn' dye the sea a gouty, gory red!With my cutlass in my handOn the quarterdeck I'd standAnd to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band—If I darst; but I darsen't!
And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me!I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too!I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea,An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through!You bet! I'd run awayFrom my lessons to my play,An' I'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all day—If I darst; but I darsen't!
Who should come up the road one dayBut the doctor-man in his two-wheel shay!And he whoaed his horse and he cried "Ahoy!I have brought you folks a bow-leg boy!Such a cute little boy!Such a funny little boy!Such a dear little bow-leg boy!"
He took out his box and he opened it wide,And there was the bow-leg boy inside!And when they saw that cunning little mite,They cried in a chorus expressive of delight:"What a cute little boy!What a funny little boy!What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
Observing a strict geometrical law,They cut out his panties with a circular saw;Which gave such a stress to his oval strideThat the people he met invariably cried:"What a cute little boy!What a funny little boy!What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
They gave him a wheel and away he wentSpeeding along to his heart's content;And he sits so straight and he pedals so strongThat the folks all say as he bowls along:"What a cute little boy!What a funny little boy!What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
With his eyes aflame and his cheeks aglow,He laughs "aha" and he laughs "oho";And the world is filled and thrilled with the joyOf that jolly little human, the bow-leg boy—The cute little boy!The funny little boy!The dear little bow-leg boy!
If ever the doctor-man comesmywayWith his wonderful box in his two-wheel shay,I'll ask for the treasure I'd fain possess—Now, honest Injun! can't you guess?Why, a cute little boy—A funny little boy—A dear little bow-leg boy!
Way up at the top of a big stack of strawWas the cunningest parlor that ever you saw!And there could you lie when aweary of playAnd gossip or laze in the coziest way;No matter how careworn or sorry one's moodNo worldly distraction presumed to intrude.As a refuge from onerous mundane adoI think I approve of straw parlors, don't you?
A swallow with jewels aflame on her breastOn that straw parlor's ceiling had builded her nest;And she flew in and out all the happy day long,And twittered the soothingest lullaby song.Now some might suppose that that beautiful birdPerformed for her babies the music they heard;Ireckon she twittered her répertoire throughFor the folk in the little straw parlor, don't you?
And down from a rafter a spider had hungSome swings upon which he incessantly swung.He cut up such didoes—such antics he playedWay up in the air, and was never afraid!He never made use of his horrid old sting,But was just upon earth for the fun of the thing!I deeply regret to observe that so fewOf these good-natured insects are met with, don't you?
And, down in the strawstack, a wee little miteOf a cricket went chirping by day and by night;And further down, still, a cunning blue mouseIn a snug little nook of that strawstack kept house!When the cricket went "chirp," Miss Mousie would squeak"Come in," and a blush would enkindle her cheek!She thought—silly girl! 't was a beau come to woo,But I guess it was only the cricket, don't you?
So the cricket, the mouse, and the motherly birdMade as soothingsome music as ever you heardAnd, meanwhile, that spider by means of his swingsAchieved most astounding gyrations and things!No wonder the little folk liked what they sawAnd loved what they heard in that parlor of straw!With the mercury up to 102In the shade, I opine they just sizzled, don't you?
But once there invaded that Eden of strawThe evilest Feline that ever you saw!She pounced on that cricket with rare promptitudeAnd she tucked him away where he'd do the most good;And then, reaching down to the nethermost house,She deftly expiscated little Miss Mouse!And, as for the Swallow, she shrieked and withdrew—I rather admire her discretion, don't you?
Now listen: That evening a cyclone obtained,And the mortgage was all on that farm that remained!Barn, strawstack and spider—they all blew away,And nobody knows where they're at to this day!And, as for the little straw parlor, I fearIt was wafted clean off this sublunary sphere!I really incline to a hearty "boo-hoo"When I think of this tragical ending, don't you?
I cannot eat my porridge,I weary of my play;No longer can I sleep at night,No longer romp by day!Though forty pounds was once my weight,I'm shy of thirty now;I pine, I wither and I fadeThrough love of Martha Clow.
As she rolled by this morningI heard the nurse girl say:"She weighs just twenty-seven poundsAnd she's one year old to-day."I threw a kiss that nestledIn the curls upon her brow,But she never turned to thank me—That bouncing Martha Clow!
She ought to know I love her,For I've told her that I do;And I've brought her nuts and apples,And sometimes candy, too!I'd drag her in my little cartIf her mother would allowThat delicate attentionTo her daughter, Martha Clow.
O Martha! pretty Martha!Will you always be so cold?Will you always be as cruelAs you are at one-year-old?Must your two-year-old admirerPine as hopelessly as nowFor a fond reciprocationOf his love for Martha Clow?
You smile on Bernard RogersAnd on little Harry Knott;You play with them at peek-a-booAll in the Waller Lot!Wildly I gnash my new-cut teethAnd beat my throbbing brow,When I behold the coquetryOf heartless Martha Clow!
I cannot eat my porridge,Nor for my play care I;Upon the floor and porch and lawnMy toys neglected lie;But on the air of Halsted streetI breathe this solemn vow:"Thoughshebefalse,Iwill be trueTo pretty Martha Clow!"
Down south there is a curio-shopUnknown to many men;Thereat do I intend to stopWhen I am south again;The narrow street through which to go—Aha! I know it well!And may be you would like to know—But no—I will not tell!
'T is there to find the loveliest plates(The bluest of the blue!)At such surprisingly low ratesYou'd not believe it true!And there is one Napoleon vaseOf dainty Sèvres to sell—I'm sure you'd like to know that place—But no—I will not tell!
Then, too, I know another shopHas old, old beds for sale,With lovely testers up on topCarved in ornate detail;And there are sideboards rich and rare,With fronts that proudly swell—Oh, there are bargains waiting there,But where I will not tell!
And hark! I know a bottle-manSmiling and debonair,And he has promised me I canChoose of his precious ware!In age and shape and color, too,His dainty goods excel—Aha, my friends, if you but knew—But no! I will not tell!
A thousand other shops I knowWhere bargains can be got—Where other folk would like to goWho have what I have not.I let them hunt; I hold my mouth—Yes, though I know full wellWhere lie the treasures of the south,I'm not a going to tell!
Your gran'ma, in her youth, was quiteAs blithe a little maid as you.And, though her hair is snowy white,Her eyes still have their maiden blue,And on her cheeks, as fair as thine,Methinks a girlish blush would glowIf she recalled the valentineShe got, ah! many years ago.
A valorous youth loved gran'ma then,And wooed her in that auld lang syne;And first he told his secret whenHe sent the maid that valentine.No perfumed page nor sheet of goldWas that first hint of love he sent,But with the secret gran'pa told—"I love you"—gran'ma was content.
Go, ask your gran'ma, if you will,If—though her head be bowed and gray—If—though her feeble pulse be chill—True love abideth not for aye;By that quaint portrait on the wall,That smiles upon her from above,Methinks your gran'ma can recallThe sweet divinity of love.
Dear Elsie, here's no page of gold—No sheet embossed with cunning art—But here's a solemn pledge of old:"I love you, love, with all my heart."And if in what I send you hereYou read not all of love expressed,Go—go to gran'ma, Elsie dear,And she will tell you all the rest!
Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing—Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession.
"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses—Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing;Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes—She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!"
"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!"
"Straight from my wooing I come—my lips are bedewed with her kisses—My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!"
The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose,And he wooeth his love to wed:Sweet is his songThe Summer longAs he kisseth her lips so red;And he recketh naught of the ruin wroughtWhen the Summer of love is sped!
Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter.
"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamentations?"
Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate gardenCome I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!"
"Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and loving, It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing displeasure."
The Wind maketh ever more moan and ever it giveth this answer:"My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of theSummer—I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow of Winter;I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her lovelinessliethAnd the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that foreveroutcrieth!"
The Wind he waileth the red, red RoseWhen the Summer of love is sped—He waileth aboveHis lifeless loveWith her shroud of snow o'erspread—Crieth such things as a true heart bringsTo the grave of its precious dead.
Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name;Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, in Heaven the same;Give us this day our daily bread, and may our debts to heaven—As we our earthly debts forgive—by Thee be all forgiven;When tempted or by evil vexed, restore Thou us again,And Thine be the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever;amen.
Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the WestThe one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best;Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone,So he hired an "acting manager," a gruff old man named Krone—A stern, commanding man with piercing eyes and flowing beard,And his voice assumed a thunderous tone when Jack and I appeared;He said that Julius Caesar had been billed a week or so,And would have to have some armies by the time he reached St. Jo!
O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight,When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night!O happy days, when sounded in the public's rapturous earsThe creak of pasteboard armor and the clash of wooden spears!O happy times for Jack and me and that one other supeThat then and there did constitute the noblest Roman's troop!With togas, battle axes, shields, we made a dazzling show,When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
We wheeled and filed and double-quicked wherever Brutus led,The folks applauding what we did as much as what he said;'T was work, indeed; yet Jack and I were willing to allow'T was easier following Brutus than following father's plough;And at each burst of cheering, our valor would increase—We tramped a thousand miles that night, at fifty cents apiece!For love of Art—not lust for gold—consumed us years ago,When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
To-day, while walking in the Square, Jack Langrish says to me:"My friend, the drama nowadays ain't what it used to be!These farces and these comedies—how feebly they compareWith that mantle of the tragic art which Forrest used to wear!My soul is warped with bitterness to think that you and I—Co-heirs to immortality in seasons long gone by—Now draw a paltry stipend from a Boston comic show,We, who were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!"
And so we talked and so we mused upon the whims of FateThat had degraded Tragedy from its old, supreme estate;And duly, at the Morton bar, we stigmatized the ageAs sinfully subversive of the interests of the Stage!For Jack and I were actors in the halcyon, palmy daysLong, long before the Hoyt school of farce became the craze;Yet, as I now recall it, it was twenty years agoThat we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
We were by birth descended from a race of farmer kingsWho had done eternal battle with grasshoppers and things;But the Kansas farms grew tedious—we pined for that delightWe read of in theClipperin the barber's shop by night!We would be actors—Jack and I—and so we stole awayFrom our native spot, Wathena, one dull September day,And started for Missouri—ah, little did we knowWe were going to train as soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
Our army numbered three in all—Marc Antony's was four;Our army hankered after fame, but Marc's was after gore!And when we reached Philippi, at the outset we were metWith an inartistic gusto I can never quite forget.For Antony's overwhelming force of thumpers seemed to beResolved to do "them Kansas jays"—and that meant Jack and me!My lips were sealed but that it seems quite proper you should knowThat Rome was nowhere in it at Philippi in St. Jo!
I've known the slow-consuming grief and ostentatious painAccruing from McKean Buchanan's melancholy Dane;Away out West I've witnessed Bandmann's peerless hardihood,With Arthur Cambridge have I wrought where walking was not good;In every phase of horror have I bravely borne my part,And even on my uppers have I proudly stood for Art!And, after all my suffering, it were not hard to showThat I got my allopathic dose with Brutus at St. Jo!
That army fell upon me in a most bewildering rageAnd scattered me and mine upon that histrionic stage;My toga rent, my helmet gone and smashed to smithereens,They picked me up and hove me through whole centuries of scenes!I sailed through Christian eras and mediæval gloomAnd fell from Arden forest into Juliet's painted tomb!Oh, yes, I travelled far and fast that night, and I can showThe scars of honest wounds I got with Brutus in St. Jo!
Ah me, old Davenport is gone, of fickle fame forgot,And Barrett sleeps forever in a much neglected spot;Fred Warde, the papers tell me, in far woolly western landsStill flaunts the banner of high Tragic Art at one-night stands;And Jack and I, in Charley Hoyt's Bostonian dramas wreakOur vengeance on creation at some eensty dolls per week.By which you see that public taste has fallen mighty lowSince we fought as Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
There were two little skeezucks who lived in the isleOf Boo in a southern sea;They clambered and rollicked in heathenish styleIn the boughs of their cocoanut tree.They didn't fret much about clothing and suchAnd they recked not a whit of the illsThat sometimes accrueFrom having to doWith tailor and laundry bills.
The two little skeezucks once heard of a FairFar off from their native isle,And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't go thereTo take in the sights for awhile.Now old King FanWas a good-natured man(As good-natured monarchs go),And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a bore,He hadn't the heart to say "No."
So the two little skeezucks sailed off to the FairIn a great big gum canoe,And I fancy they had a good time there,For they tarried a year or two.And old King Fan at last beganTo reckon they'd come to grief,When glory! one dayThey sailed into the bayTo the tune of "Hail to the Chief!"
The two little skeezucks fell down on the sand,Embracing his majesty's toes,Till his majesty graciously bade them standAnd salute him nose to nose.And then quoth he:"Divulge unto meWhat happenings have hapt to you;And how did they dare to indulge in a FairSo far from the island of Boo?"
The two little skeezucks assured their kingThat what he surmised was true;That the Fair would have been a different thingHad it only been held in Boo!"The folk over there in no wise compareWith the folk of the southern seas;Why, they comb out their headsAnd they sleep in bedsInstead of in caverns and trees!"
The two little skeezucks went on to sayThat children (so far as they knew)Had a much harder time in that land far awayThan here in the island of Boo!They have to wear clo'esWhich (as every one knows)Are irksome to primitive laddies,While, with forks and with spoons, they're denied the sweet boonsThat accrue from free use of one's paddies!
"And now that you're speaking of things to eat,"Interrupted the monarch of Boo,"We beg to inquire if you happened to meetWith a nice missionary or two?""No, that we did not; in that curious spotWhere were gathered the fruits of the earth,Of that special kindWhich Your Nibs has in mindThere appeared a deplorable dearth!"
Then loud laughed that monarch in heathenish mirthAnd loud laughed his courtiers, too,And they cried: "There is elsewhere no land upon earthSo good as our island of Boo!"And the skeezucks, tho' gladOf the journey they'd had,Climbed up in their cocoanut trees,Where they still may be seen with no shirts to keep cleanOr trousers that bag at the knees.
They told me once that Pan was dead,And so, in sooth, I thought him;For vainly where the streamlets ledThrough flowery meads I sought him—Nor in his dewy pasture bedNor in the grove I caught him."Tell me," 'twas so my clamor ran—"Tell me, oh, where is Pan?"
But, once, as on my pipe I playedA requiem sad and tender,Lo, thither came a shepherd-maid—Full comely she and slender!I were indeed a churlish bladeWith wailings to offend 'er—For, surely, wooing's sweeter thanA mourning over Pan!
So, presently, whiles I did scanThat shepherd-maiden pretty,And heard her accents, I beganTo pipe a cheerful ditty;And so, betimes, forgot old PanWhose death had waked my pity;So—so did Love undo the manWho sought and pined for Pan!
He wasnotdead! I found him there—The Pan that I was after!Caught in that maiden's tangling hair,Drunk with her song and laughter!I doubt if there be otherwhereA merrier god or dafter—Nay, nor a mortal kindlier thanIs this same dear old Pan!
Beside me, as my pipe I play,My shepherdess is lying,While here and there her lambkins strayAs sunny hours go flying;They look like me—those lambs—they say,And that I'm not denying!And for that sturdy, romping clan,All glory be to Pan!
Pan is not dead, O sweetheart mine!It is to hear his voicesIn every note and every lineWherein the heart rejoices!He liveth in that sacred shrineThat Love's first, holiest choice is!So pipe, my pipe, while still you can,Sweet songs in praise of Pan!
Down in the old French quarter,Just out of Rampart street,I wend my wayAt close of dayUnto the quaint retreatWhere lives the Voodoo DoctorBy some esteemed a sham,Yet I'll declare there's none elsewhereSo skilled as Doctor SamWith the claws of a deviled crawfish,The juice of the prickly prune,And the quivering dewFrom a yarb that grewIn the light of a midnight moon!
I never should have known himBut for the colored folkThat here obtainAnd ne'er in vainThat wizard's art invoke;For when the Eye that's EvilWould him and his'n damn,The negro's grief gets quick reliefOf Hoodoo-Doctor Sam.With the caul of an alligator,The plume of an unborn loon,And the poison wrungFrom a serpent's tongueBy the light of a midnight moon!
In all neurotic ailmentsI hear that he excels,And he insuresImmediate curesOf weird, uncanny spells;The most unruly patientGets docile as a lambAnd is freed from ill by the potent skillOf Hoodoo-Doctor Sam;Feathers of strangled chickens,Moss from the dank lagoon,And plasters wetWith spider sweatIn the light of a midnight moon!
They say when nights are grewsomeAnd hours are, oh! so late,Old Sam steals outAnd hunts aboutFor charms that hoodoos hate!That from the moaning riverAnd from the haunted glenHe silently brings what eerie thingsGive peace to hoodooed men:—The tongue of a piebald 'possum,The tooth of a senile 'coon,The buzzard's breath that smells of death,And the film that liesOn a lizard's eyesIn the light of a midnight moon!
When to the dreary greenwood gloamWinfreda's husband strode that day,The fair Winfreda bode at homeTo toil the weary time away;"While thou art gone to hunt," said she,"I'll brew a goodly sop for thee."
Lo, from a further, gloomy wood,A hungry wolf all bristling hiedAnd on the cottage threshold stoodAnd saw the dame at work inside;And, as he saw the pleasing sight,He licked his fangs so sharp and white.
Now when Winfreda saw the beast,Straight at the grinning wolf she ran,And, not affrighted in the least,She hit him with her cooking pan,And as she thwacked him on the head—"Scat! scat!" the fair Winfreda said.
The hills gave answer to their din—The brook in fear beheld the sight.And all that bloody field withinWore token of Winfreda's might.The wolf was very loath to stay—But, oh! he could not get away.
Winfreda swept him o'er the woldAnd choked him till his gums were blue,And till, beneath her iron hold,His tongue hung out a yard or two,And with his hair the riven groundWas strewn for many leagues around.
They fought a weary time that day,And seas of purple blood were shed,Till by Winfreda's cunning layThat awful wolf all limp and dead;Winfreda saw him reel and drop—Then back she went to brewing sop.
So when the husband came at nightFrom bootless chase, cold, gaunt, and grim,Great was that Saxon lord's delightTo find the sop dished up for him;And as he ate, Winfreda toldHow she had laid the wolf out cold.
The good Winfreda of those daysIs only "pretty Birdie" now—Sickly her soul and weak her ways—And she, to whom we Saxons bow,Leaps on a bench and screams with frightIf but a mouse creeps into sight.
Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day,Set out in a great big ship—Steamed to the ocean adown the bayOut of a New York slip."Where are you going and what is your game?"The people asked those three."Darned if we know; but all the sameHappy as larks are we;And happier still we're going to be!"Said LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim.
The people laughed "Aha, oho!Oho, aha!" laughed they;And while those three went sailing soSome pirates steered that way.The pirates they were laughing, too—The prospect made them glad;But by the time the job was throughEach of them pirates, bold and bad,Had been done out of all he hadBy LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim.
Days and weeks and months they sped,Painting that foreign climeA beautiful, bright vermilion red—And having a —— of a time!'T was all so gaudy a lark, it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought it a dream they dreamedOf sailing that foreign sea,But I'll identify you these three—LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim.
Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sichAnd Jim is an editor kind;The first two named are awfully richAnd Jim ain't far behind!So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks,Or you are like to beIn quite as much of a Tartar fixAs the pirates that sailed the seaAnd monkeyed with the pardners three,LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim!
Sweetheart, be my sweetheartWhen birds are on the wing,When bee and bud and babbling floodBespeak the birth of spring,Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheartAnd wear this posy-ring!
Sweetheart, be my sweetheartIn the mellow golden glowOf earth aflush with the gracious blushWhich the ripening fields foreshow;Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart,As into the noon we go!
Sweetheart, be my sweetheartWhen falls the bounteous year,When fruit and wine of tree and vineGive us their harvest cheer;Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart,For winter it draweth near.
Sweetheart, be my sweetheartWhen the year is white and old,When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth,And the hand of age is cold;Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheartTill the year of our love be told!
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.
Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of KentuckyOne that was reckoned a witch—full of strange spells and devices;Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic—Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains!Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders—These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morningAmbled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valleySweltered in swathes as of mist—"Look!" they would whisper in terror—"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.
One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that PeterLed a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble."Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!""Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"So it was "Peter!" all day—calling, reminding, and chiding—Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!
Peter got hold of some books—how, I'm unable to tell you;Some have suspected the witch—this is no place for suspicions!It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;What thing soever it was—done with a pen and a pencil,Wrought with a brain, not a hoe—surely 't was hostile to farming!
"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that'swhat's the ruin ofPeter!"
So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms,Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating,Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming."Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!""Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!""Peter!" and "Peter!" all day—calling, reminding, and chiding—Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him—Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!
Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreamingWrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter;For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys—"See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions!See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on woodland and meadow!Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron!She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices,Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish magical nostrums;Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires, and spiders,Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salamanders and toadstools;Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight,Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!"
Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer,Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos—Thinking and reading of books must have unsettled his reason!"There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy!I will go out in the wet—you all can't hender me, nuther!"
Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning,Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow,Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley.Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor;Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened,Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had done gone and done it!Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason—Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis,And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition.
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for PeterAnd from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter,Up from the spring house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper,Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.Such were the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for PeterDecades and decades ago down in the State of Kentucky—Sucharethe voices that cry now from the woodland and meadow,"Peter—O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding—Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it!These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouseWhen, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless,Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather,Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil,Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge!
Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened,Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother."Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"—Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden,Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smoke-house proceeded;Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping,Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor—Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow,Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter.Joining the search came the rest, brothers and sisters and cousins,Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter!And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women,Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter.
Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers,Colonels and jedges galore from cornfields and mint-beds and thickets,All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining,Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter.The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, theLogans,The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the Morgans;The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays, andHardins,
The Beynroths, the Sherleys, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys, andSlaughters—All, famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming,Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in that hunt for thetruant,To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.
Still on those prosperous farms where heirs and assigns of the peopleSpecified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate—Stillon those farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikesadjacent)That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing,That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter.Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people;That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter,She out of her cave in a thrice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit(Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a chicken),She changed all those folk into birds and shrieked with demoniac venom:"Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever,Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos,Crooning of Peter, the fool who scouted at stories of witches,Crying of Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"
This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend;As I have told it to you, so tell the folk and the legend.That it is true I believe, for on the breezes this morningCome the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter;Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers,Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places—Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming,Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis,Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden,Always neglecting his chores—given to books and to reading,Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief,Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.
This is the legend of yore told in the state of KentuckyWhen in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples,Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon;When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows,When from the spring house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard,When from the redbud and gum and from the redolent lilac,When from the dirt roads and pikes cometh that calling for Peter;Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iterationOf "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever!This is the legend of old, told in the tum-titty meterWhich the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming(My first attempt at the same, mylastattempt, too, I reckon!);Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended.
I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind,Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind;Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares,She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs,And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should takeHerself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake.
At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say:"Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!"Poor mother'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not—For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot—But neithershenorhepresumed to signify dissent,Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went!
No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand,The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand;The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew,With every damper set just so to heat the oven through;The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to makeThat ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake.
And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro;The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow—And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight—And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite!But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confoundAs she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound.
Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl!Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl;Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so,And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough!It looked so sweet and yellow—sure, to taste it were no sin—But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in!
The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through,That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do!So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night,Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might;These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to takeOr shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake!
And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane—For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain.I never had a sister—may be that is why todayI'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay;A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirth,ButI(because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth!
Had I a little sister—oh, how happy I should be!I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me;I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse—I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse;And—yes, what's more and vastly more—I tell you what I'd do:I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too!
I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see—Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me!I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks,When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks;But I draw the line at one thing—yes, I don my hat and takeA three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake!