Mygudewife—she that is tae be—O she sall seeme sang-sweete tae meAs her ain croon tuned wi' the chiel'sOr spinnin'-wheel's.An' faire she'll be, an' saft, an' light,An' muslin-brightAs her spick apron, jimpy lacedThe-round her waiste.—Yet aye as rosy sall she bloomeIntil the roome(The where alike baith bake an' dine)As a full-fineRipe rose, lang rinset wi' the raine,Sun-kist againe,—Sall seate me at her table-spread,White as her bread.—Where I, sae kissen her forgrace,Sall see her faceSmudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bitO' floure on it,Whiles, witless, she sall sip wi' meLuve's tapmaist-bubblin' ecstasy.
Mygudewife—she that is tae be—O she sall seeme sang-sweete tae meAs her ain croon tuned wi' the chiel'sOr spinnin'-wheel's.An' faire she'll be, an' saft, an' light,An' muslin-brightAs her spick apron, jimpy lacedThe-round her waiste.—Yet aye as rosy sall she bloomeIntil the roome(The where alike baith bake an' dine)As a full-fineRipe rose, lang rinset wi' the raine,Sun-kist againe,—Sall seate me at her table-spread,White as her bread.—Where I, sae kissen her forgrace,Sall see her faceSmudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bitO' floure on it,Whiles, witless, she sall sip wi' meLuve's tapmaist-bubblin' ecstasy.
Mygudewife—she that is tae be—O she sall seeme sang-sweete tae meAs her ain croon tuned wi' the chiel'sOr spinnin'-wheel's.An' faire she'll be, an' saft, an' light,An' muslin-brightAs her spick apron, jimpy lacedThe-round her waiste.—Yet aye as rosy sall she bloomeIntil the roome(The where alike baith bake an' dine)As a full-fineRipe rose, lang rinset wi' the raine,Sun-kist againe,—Sall seate me at her table-spread,White as her bread.—Where I, sae kissen her forgrace,Sall see her faceSmudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bitO' floure on it,Whiles, witless, she sall sip wi' meLuve's tapmaist-bubblin' ecstasy.
Weof the New World clasp hands with the OldIn newer fervor and with firmer holdAnd nobler fellowship,—O Master Singer, with the finger-tipOf Death laid thus on thy melodious lip!All ages thou has honored with thine art,And ages yet unborn thou wilt be partOf all songs pure and true!Thine now the universal homage dueFrom Old and New World—ay, and still The New!
Weof the New World clasp hands with the OldIn newer fervor and with firmer holdAnd nobler fellowship,—O Master Singer, with the finger-tipOf Death laid thus on thy melodious lip!All ages thou has honored with thine art,And ages yet unborn thou wilt be partOf all songs pure and true!Thine now the universal homage dueFrom Old and New World—ay, and still The New!
Weof the New World clasp hands with the OldIn newer fervor and with firmer holdAnd nobler fellowship,—O Master Singer, with the finger-tipOf Death laid thus on thy melodious lip!
All ages thou has honored with thine art,And ages yet unborn thou wilt be partOf all songs pure and true!Thine now the universal homage dueFrom Old and New World—ay, and still The New!
Thoubrave, good woman! Loved of every one;Not only that in singing thou didst fillOur thirsty hearts with sweetness, trill on trill,Even as a wild bird singing in the sun—Not only that in all thy carols noneBut held some tincturing of tears to thrillOur gentler natures, and to quicken stillOur human sympathies; but thou hast wonOur equal love and reverence becauseThat thou wast ever mindful of the poor,And thou wast ever faithful to thy friends.So, loving, serving all, thy best applauseThy requiem—the vast throng at the doorOf the old church, with mute prayers and amens.
Thoubrave, good woman! Loved of every one;Not only that in singing thou didst fillOur thirsty hearts with sweetness, trill on trill,Even as a wild bird singing in the sun—Not only that in all thy carols noneBut held some tincturing of tears to thrillOur gentler natures, and to quicken stillOur human sympathies; but thou hast wonOur equal love and reverence becauseThat thou wast ever mindful of the poor,And thou wast ever faithful to thy friends.So, loving, serving all, thy best applauseThy requiem—the vast throng at the doorOf the old church, with mute prayers and amens.
Thoubrave, good woman! Loved of every one;Not only that in singing thou didst fillOur thirsty hearts with sweetness, trill on trill,Even as a wild bird singing in the sun—Not only that in all thy carols noneBut held some tincturing of tears to thrillOur gentler natures, and to quicken stillOur human sympathies; but thou hast wonOur equal love and reverence becauseThat thou wast ever mindful of the poor,And thou wast ever faithful to thy friends.So, loving, serving all, thy best applauseThy requiem—the vast throng at the doorOf the old church, with mute prayers and amens.
Nowutter calm and rest;Hands folded o'er the breastIn peace the placidest,All trials past;All fever soothed—all painAnnulled in heart and brain,Never to vex again—She sleeps at last.She sleeps; but O most dearAnd best beloved of herYe sleep not—nay, nor stir,Save but to bowThe closer each to each,With sobs and broken speech,That all in vain beseechHer answer now.And lo! we weep with you,One grief the wide world through:Yet with the faith she knewWe see her still,Even as here she stood—All that was pure and goodAnd sweet in womanhood—God's will her will.
Nowutter calm and rest;Hands folded o'er the breastIn peace the placidest,All trials past;All fever soothed—all painAnnulled in heart and brain,Never to vex again—She sleeps at last.She sleeps; but O most dearAnd best beloved of herYe sleep not—nay, nor stir,Save but to bowThe closer each to each,With sobs and broken speech,That all in vain beseechHer answer now.And lo! we weep with you,One grief the wide world through:Yet with the faith she knewWe see her still,Even as here she stood—All that was pure and goodAnd sweet in womanhood—God's will her will.
Nowutter calm and rest;Hands folded o'er the breastIn peace the placidest,All trials past;All fever soothed—all painAnnulled in heart and brain,Never to vex again—She sleeps at last.
She sleeps; but O most dearAnd best beloved of herYe sleep not—nay, nor stir,Save but to bowThe closer each to each,With sobs and broken speech,That all in vain beseechHer answer now.
And lo! we weep with you,One grief the wide world through:Yet with the faith she knewWe see her still,Even as here she stood—All that was pure and goodAnd sweet in womanhood—God's will her will.
O playmateof the far-awayAnd dear delights of Boyhood's day,And friend and comrade true and triedThrough length of years of life beside,I bid you thus a fond farewellToo deep for words or tears to tell.But though I lose you, nevermoreTo greet you at the open door,To grasp your hand or see your smile,I shall be thankful all the whileBecause your love and loyaltyHave made a happier world for me.So rest you, Playmate, in that landStill hidden from us by His hand,Where you may know again in truthAll of the glad days of your youth—As when in days of endless easeWe played beneath the apple trees.
O playmateof the far-awayAnd dear delights of Boyhood's day,And friend and comrade true and triedThrough length of years of life beside,I bid you thus a fond farewellToo deep for words or tears to tell.But though I lose you, nevermoreTo greet you at the open door,To grasp your hand or see your smile,I shall be thankful all the whileBecause your love and loyaltyHave made a happier world for me.So rest you, Playmate, in that landStill hidden from us by His hand,Where you may know again in truthAll of the glad days of your youth—As when in days of endless easeWe played beneath the apple trees.
O playmateof the far-awayAnd dear delights of Boyhood's day,And friend and comrade true and triedThrough length of years of life beside,I bid you thus a fond farewellToo deep for words or tears to tell.
But though I lose you, nevermoreTo greet you at the open door,To grasp your hand or see your smile,I shall be thankful all the whileBecause your love and loyaltyHave made a happier world for me.
So rest you, Playmate, in that landStill hidden from us by His hand,Where you may know again in truthAll of the glad days of your youth—As when in days of endless easeWe played beneath the apple trees.
O noble, true and pure and lovableAs thine own blessed name,Elizabeth!—Ay, even as its cadence lingerethUpon the lips that speak it, so the spellOf thy sweet memory shall ever dwellAs music in our hearts. Smiling at DeathAs on some later guest that tarrieth,Too gratefully o'erjoyed to say farewell,Thou hast turned from us but a little space—We miss thy presence but a little while,Thy voice of sympathy, thy word of cheer,The radiant glory of thine eyes and face,The glad midsummer morning of thy smile,—For still we feel and know that thou art here.
O noble, true and pure and lovableAs thine own blessed name,Elizabeth!—Ay, even as its cadence lingerethUpon the lips that speak it, so the spellOf thy sweet memory shall ever dwellAs music in our hearts. Smiling at DeathAs on some later guest that tarrieth,Too gratefully o'erjoyed to say farewell,Thou hast turned from us but a little space—We miss thy presence but a little while,Thy voice of sympathy, thy word of cheer,The radiant glory of thine eyes and face,The glad midsummer morning of thy smile,—For still we feel and know that thou art here.
O noble, true and pure and lovableAs thine own blessed name,Elizabeth!—Ay, even as its cadence lingerethUpon the lips that speak it, so the spellOf thy sweet memory shall ever dwellAs music in our hearts. Smiling at DeathAs on some later guest that tarrieth,Too gratefully o'erjoyed to say farewell,Thou hast turned from us but a little space—We miss thy presence but a little while,Thy voice of sympathy, thy word of cheer,The radiant glory of thine eyes and face,The glad midsummer morning of thy smile,—For still we feel and know that thou art here.
Thisfirst book that I ever knewWas read aloud to me by you!Friend of my boyhood, therefore takeIt back from me, for old times' sake—The selfsame "Tales" first read to me,Under "the old sweet apple tree,"Ere I myself could read such greatBig words,—but listening all elate,At your interpreting, untilBrain, heart, and soul were all athrillWith wonder, awe, and sheer excessOf wildest childish happiness.So take the book again—forgetAll else,—long years, lost hopes, regret;Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain,Prayers we have lifted all in vain;Tears for the faces seen no more,Once as the roses at the door!Take the enchanted book—And lo,On grassy swards of long ago,Sprawl out again, beneath the shadeThe breezy old-home orchard made,The veriest barefoot boy indeed—And I will listen as you read.
Thisfirst book that I ever knewWas read aloud to me by you!Friend of my boyhood, therefore takeIt back from me, for old times' sake—The selfsame "Tales" first read to me,Under "the old sweet apple tree,"Ere I myself could read such greatBig words,—but listening all elate,At your interpreting, untilBrain, heart, and soul were all athrillWith wonder, awe, and sheer excessOf wildest childish happiness.So take the book again—forgetAll else,—long years, lost hopes, regret;Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain,Prayers we have lifted all in vain;Tears for the faces seen no more,Once as the roses at the door!Take the enchanted book—And lo,On grassy swards of long ago,Sprawl out again, beneath the shadeThe breezy old-home orchard made,The veriest barefoot boy indeed—And I will listen as you read.
Thisfirst book that I ever knewWas read aloud to me by you!Friend of my boyhood, therefore takeIt back from me, for old times' sake—The selfsame "Tales" first read to me,Under "the old sweet apple tree,"Ere I myself could read such greatBig words,—but listening all elate,At your interpreting, untilBrain, heart, and soul were all athrillWith wonder, awe, and sheer excessOf wildest childish happiness.
So take the book again—forgetAll else,—long years, lost hopes, regret;Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain,Prayers we have lifted all in vain;Tears for the faces seen no more,Once as the roses at the door!Take the enchanted book—And lo,On grassy swards of long ago,Sprawl out again, beneath the shadeThe breezy old-home orchard made,The veriest barefoot boy indeed—And I will listen as you read.
Well, it's enough to turn his head to have a feller's nameSwiped with aLiteraryClub!—Butyou'rethe ones to blame!—I call the World to witness that I neveraggedye to itBy ever writin'Classic-like—because I couldn'tdo it:I never run to "Hellicon," ner writ about "Per-nassus,"Ner ever tried to rack or ride around on old "P-gassus"!When "Tuneful Nines" has cross'd my lines, the ink 'ud blot and blur it,And pen 'ud jest putt back fer home, and take the short way fer it!And so, as I'm a-sayin',—when you name your LiteraryIn honor o' this name o' mine, it's railly nessessary—Whilse I'ma-thankin'you and all—towarnyou, ef you do it,I'll haf to jine the thing myse'f 'fore I can live up to it!
Well, it's enough to turn his head to have a feller's nameSwiped with aLiteraryClub!—Butyou'rethe ones to blame!—I call the World to witness that I neveraggedye to itBy ever writin'Classic-like—because I couldn'tdo it:I never run to "Hellicon," ner writ about "Per-nassus,"Ner ever tried to rack or ride around on old "P-gassus"!When "Tuneful Nines" has cross'd my lines, the ink 'ud blot and blur it,And pen 'ud jest putt back fer home, and take the short way fer it!And so, as I'm a-sayin',—when you name your LiteraryIn honor o' this name o' mine, it's railly nessessary—Whilse I'ma-thankin'you and all—towarnyou, ef you do it,I'll haf to jine the thing myse'f 'fore I can live up to it!
Well, it's enough to turn his head to have a feller's nameSwiped with aLiteraryClub!—Butyou'rethe ones to blame!—I call the World to witness that I neveraggedye to itBy ever writin'Classic-like—because I couldn'tdo it:I never run to "Hellicon," ner writ about "Per-nassus,"Ner ever tried to rack or ride around on old "P-gassus"!When "Tuneful Nines" has cross'd my lines, the ink 'ud blot and blur it,And pen 'ud jest putt back fer home, and take the short way fer it!And so, as I'm a-sayin',—when you name your LiteraryIn honor o' this name o' mine, it's railly nessessary—Whilse I'ma-thankin'you and all—towarnyou, ef you do it,I'll haf to jine the thing myse'f 'fore I can live up to it!
LittleMaid-o'-Dreams, with yourEery eyes so clear and pureGazing, where we fain would seeInto far futurity,—Tell us what you there behold,In your visions manifold!What is on beyond our sight,Biding till the morrow's light,Fairer than we see to-day,As our dull eyes only may?Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with faceLike as in some woodland placeLifts a lily, chaste and white,From the shadow to the light;—Tell us, by your subtler glance,What strange sorcery enchantsYou as now,—here, yet afarAs the realms of moon and star?—Have you magic lamp and ring,And genii for vassaling?Little Maid-o'-Dreams, confessYou're divine and nothing less,—For with mortal palms, we fear,Yet must pet you, dreaming here—Yearning, too, to lift the tipsOf your fingers to our lips;Fearful still you may rebel,High and heav'nly oracle!Thus, though all unmeet our kiss,Pardon this!—and this!—and this!Little Maid-o'-Dreams, we callTruce and favor, knowing all!—All your magic is, in truth,Pure foresight and faith of youth—You're a child, yet even so,You're a sage, in embryo—Prescient poet—artist—greatAs your dreams anticipate.—Trusting God and Man, you doJust as Heaven inspires you to.
LittleMaid-o'-Dreams, with yourEery eyes so clear and pureGazing, where we fain would seeInto far futurity,—Tell us what you there behold,In your visions manifold!What is on beyond our sight,Biding till the morrow's light,Fairer than we see to-day,As our dull eyes only may?Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with faceLike as in some woodland placeLifts a lily, chaste and white,From the shadow to the light;—Tell us, by your subtler glance,What strange sorcery enchantsYou as now,—here, yet afarAs the realms of moon and star?—Have you magic lamp and ring,And genii for vassaling?Little Maid-o'-Dreams, confessYou're divine and nothing less,—For with mortal palms, we fear,Yet must pet you, dreaming here—Yearning, too, to lift the tipsOf your fingers to our lips;Fearful still you may rebel,High and heav'nly oracle!Thus, though all unmeet our kiss,Pardon this!—and this!—and this!Little Maid-o'-Dreams, we callTruce and favor, knowing all!—All your magic is, in truth,Pure foresight and faith of youth—You're a child, yet even so,You're a sage, in embryo—Prescient poet—artist—greatAs your dreams anticipate.—Trusting God and Man, you doJust as Heaven inspires you to.
LittleMaid-o'-Dreams, with yourEery eyes so clear and pureGazing, where we fain would seeInto far futurity,—Tell us what you there behold,In your visions manifold!What is on beyond our sight,Biding till the morrow's light,Fairer than we see to-day,As our dull eyes only may?
Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with faceLike as in some woodland placeLifts a lily, chaste and white,From the shadow to the light;—Tell us, by your subtler glance,What strange sorcery enchantsYou as now,—here, yet afarAs the realms of moon and star?—Have you magic lamp and ring,And genii for vassaling?
Little Maid-o'-Dreams, confessYou're divine and nothing less,—For with mortal palms, we fear,Yet must pet you, dreaming here—Yearning, too, to lift the tipsOf your fingers to our lips;Fearful still you may rebel,High and heav'nly oracle!Thus, though all unmeet our kiss,Pardon this!—and this!—and this!
Little Maid-o'-Dreams, we callTruce and favor, knowing all!—All your magic is, in truth,Pure foresight and faith of youth—You're a child, yet even so,You're a sage, in embryo—Prescient poet—artist—greatAs your dreams anticipate.—Trusting God and Man, you doJust as Heaven inspires you to.
Dan Wallingford, my jo Dan!—Though but a child in years,Your patriot spirit thrills the landAnd wakens it to cheers,—You lift the flag—you roll the drums—We hear the bugle blow,—Till all our hearts are one with yours,Dan Wallingford, my jo!
Dan Wallingford, my jo Dan!—Though but a child in years,Your patriot spirit thrills the landAnd wakens it to cheers,—You lift the flag—you roll the drums—We hear the bugle blow,—Till all our hearts are one with yours,Dan Wallingford, my jo!
Dan Wallingford, my jo Dan!—Though but a child in years,Your patriot spirit thrills the landAnd wakens it to cheers,—You lift the flag—you roll the drums—We hear the bugle blow,—Till all our hearts are one with yours,Dan Wallingford, my jo!
Steadfastlyfrom his childhood's earliest hour—From simplest country life to state and power—His worth has known advancement,—each new heightA newer glory in his fellow's sight.So yet his happy fate—though mute the breathOf thronging multitudes and thundrous cheers,—Faith sees him raised still higher, through our tears,By this divine promotion of his death.
Steadfastlyfrom his childhood's earliest hour—From simplest country life to state and power—His worth has known advancement,—each new heightA newer glory in his fellow's sight.So yet his happy fate—though mute the breathOf thronging multitudes and thundrous cheers,—Faith sees him raised still higher, through our tears,By this divine promotion of his death.
Steadfastlyfrom his childhood's earliest hour—From simplest country life to state and power—His worth has known advancement,—each new heightA newer glory in his fellow's sight.
So yet his happy fate—though mute the breathOf thronging multitudes and thundrous cheers,—Faith sees him raised still higher, through our tears,By this divine promotion of his death.
Burnssang of bonny LesleyAs she gaed o'er the border,—Gaed like vain Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.I sing another Lesley,Wee girlie, more alluring,Who stays at home, the wise one,Her conquests there securing.A queen, too, is my Lesley,And gracious, though blood-royal,My heart her throne, her kingdom,And I a subject loyal.Long shall you reign, my Lesley,My pet, my darling dearie,For love, oh, little sweetheart,Grows never old or weary.
Burnssang of bonny LesleyAs she gaed o'er the border,—Gaed like vain Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.I sing another Lesley,Wee girlie, more alluring,Who stays at home, the wise one,Her conquests there securing.A queen, too, is my Lesley,And gracious, though blood-royal,My heart her throne, her kingdom,And I a subject loyal.Long shall you reign, my Lesley,My pet, my darling dearie,For love, oh, little sweetheart,Grows never old or weary.
Burnssang of bonny LesleyAs she gaed o'er the border,—Gaed like vain Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.
I sing another Lesley,Wee girlie, more alluring,Who stays at home, the wise one,Her conquests there securing.
A queen, too, is my Lesley,And gracious, though blood-royal,My heart her throne, her kingdom,And I a subject loyal.
Long shall you reign, my Lesley,My pet, my darling dearie,For love, oh, little sweetheart,Grows never old or weary.
FATHER AND SON
Mr. Judkins'boy came home yesterday with a bottle of bugs in his pocket, and as the quiet little fellow sat on the back porch in his favorite position, his legs elbowed and flattened out beneath him like a letter "W," his genial and eccentric father came suddenly upon him.
"And what's the blame' boy up to now?" said Mr. Judkins, in an assumed tone of querulous displeasure, as he bent over the boy from behind and gently tweaked his ear.
"Oh, here, mister!" said the boy, without looking up; "you thist let up on that, will you!"
"What you got there, I tell you!" continued the smiling Mr. Judkins, in a still gruffer tone, relinquishing the boy's ear, and gazing down upon the fluffy towhead with more than ordinary admiration. "What you got there?"
"Bugs," said the boy—"you know!"
"Dead, are they?" said Mr. Judkins.
"Some of 'em's dead," said the boy, carefully running a needle through the back of a large bumblebee. "All these uns is, you kin bet! You don't think a feller 'ud try to string a live bumblebee, I reckon?"
"Well, no, 'Squire," said Mr. Judkins, airily, addressing the boy by one of the dozen nicknames he had given him; "not a live bumblebee—a real stem-winder, of course not. But what in the name o' limpin' Lazarus air you stringin' 'em fer?"
"Got a live snake-feeder," said the boy, ignoring the parental inquiry. "See him down there in the bottom, 'ith all th' other uns on top of him. Thist watch him now, an' you kin see him pant. I kin. Yes, an' I got a beetle 'at's purt' nigh alive, too—on'y he can't pull in his other wings. See 'em?" continued the boy, with growing enthusiasm, twirling the big-mouthed bottle like a kaleidoscope. "Hate beetles! 'cause they allus act so big, an' make s'much fuss about theirselves, an' don't know nothin' neither! Bet ef I had as many wings as a beetle I wouldn't let no boy my size knock the stuffin' out o' me with no bunch o' weeds, like I done him!"
"Howd'ye know you wouldn't?" said Mr. Judkins, austerely, biting his nails and winking archly to himself.
"W'y, I know I wouldn't," said the boy, "'cause I'd keep up in the air where I could fly, an' wouldn't come low down ut all—bumpin' around 'mongst them bushes, an' buzzin' against things, an' buttin' my brains out a-tryin' to git thue fence cracks."
"'Spect you'd ruther be a snake-feeder, wouldn't you, Bud?" said Mr. Judkins suggestively. "Snake-feeders has got about enough wings to suit you, ef you want more'n one pair, and ever' day's a picnic with a snake-feeder, you know. Nothin' to do but jes' loaf up and down the crick, and roost on reeds and cat-tails, er fool around a feller's fish-line and light on the cork and bob up and down with it till she goes clean under, don't you know?"
"Don't want to be no snake-feeder, neither," said the boy, "'cause they gits gobbled up, first thing they know, by these 'ere big green bullfrogs ut they can't ever tell from the skum till they've lit right in their mouth—and then they're goners! No, sir;" continued the boy, drawing an extra quinine-bottle from another pocket, and holding it up admiringly before his father's eyes: "There's the feller in there ut I'd ruther be than have a pony!"
"W'y, it's a nasty p'izen spider!" exclaimed Mr. Judkins, pushing back the bottle with affected abhorrence, "and he's alive, too!"
"You bet he's alive!" said the boy, "an' you kin bet he'll never come to no harm while I own him!" and as the little fellow spoke his face glowed with positive affection, and the twinkle of his eyes, as he continued, seemed wonderfully like his father's own. "Tell you, I like spiders! Spiders is awful fat—all but their head—and that's level, you kin bet! Flies hain't got no business with a spider. Ef a spider ever reaches fer a fly, he's his meat! The spider, he likes to loaf an' lay around in the shade an' wait fer flies an' bugs an' things to come a-foolin' round his place. He lays back in the hole in the corner of his web, an' waits till somepin' lights on it an' nen when he hears 'em buzzin', he thist crawls out an' fixes 'em so's they can't buzz, an' he's got the truck to do it with! I bet ef you'd unwind all the web-stuff out of thist one little spider not bigger'n a pill, it 'ud be long enough fer a kite-string! Onc't they wuz one in our wood-house, an' a taterbug got stuck in his web, an' the spider worked purt' nigh two days 'fore he got him so's he couldn't move. Nen he couldn't eat him neither—'cause they's shells on 'em, you know, an' the spider didn't know how to hull him. Ever' time I'd go there the spider, he'd be a-wrappin' more stuff around th' ole bug, an' stoopin' down like he wuz a-whisperin' to him. An' one day I went in ag'in, an' he was a-hangin', alas an' cold in death! An' I poked him with a splinter an' his web broke off—'spect he'd used it all up on the wicked bug—an' it killed him; an' I buried him in a' ink-bottle an' mashed the old bug 'ith a chip!"
"Yes," said Judkins, in a horrified tone, turning away to conceal the real zest and enjoyment his face must have betrayed; "yes, and some day you'll come home p'izened, er somepin'! And I want to say right here, my young man, ef ever you do, and it don't kill you, I'll lint you within an inch of your life!" And as the eccentric Mr. Judkins whirled around the corner of the porch he heard the boy murmur in his low, absent-minded way, "Yes, you will!"
MR. JUDKINS' REMARKS
Judkins stopped us in front of the post-office yesterday to say that that boy of his was "the blamedest boy outside o' the annals o' history!" "Talk about this boy-naturalist out here at Indianapolis," says Judkins,—"w'y, he ain't nowhere to my boy! The little cuss don't do nothin' either only set around and look sleepy, and dern him, he gits off more dry things than you could print in your paper. Of late he's been a-displayin' a sort o' weakness fer Nature, don't you know; and he's allus got a bottle o' bugs in his pocket. He come home yesterday evening with a blame' mud-turtle as big as an unabridged dictionary, and turned him over in the back yard and commenced biffin' away at him with a hammer and a cold-chisel. 'W'y, you're a-killin' the turtle,' says I. 'Kill nothin'!' says he, 'I'm thist a-takin' the lid off so's I can see his clock works.' Hoomh!" says Judkins: "He's a good one!—only," he added, "I wouldn't have theboythink so fer the world!"
JUDKINS' BOY ON THE MUD-TURTLE
The mud-turtle is not a beast of pray, but he dearly loves catfish bait. If a mud-turtle gits your big toe in his mouth he will hang on till it thunders. Then he will spit it out like he was disgusted. The mud-turtle kin swim and keep his chin out of water ef he wants to but he don't care ef he does sink. The turtle kin stay under water until his next birthday, an' never crack a smile. He kin breathe like a grown person, but he don't haf to, on'y when he is on dry land, an' then I guess he thist does it to be soshibul. Allus when you see bubbles a-comin' up in the swimmin' hole, you kin bet your galluses they's a mud-turtle a-layin' down there, studyin' up some cheap way to git his dinner. Mud-turtles never dies, on'y when they make soup out of 'em. They is seven kinds of meat in the turtle, but I'd ruther eat thist plain burnt liver.
ON FROGS
Frogs is the people's friend, but they can't fly. Onc't they wuz tadpoles about as big as lickerish drops, an' after while legs growed on 'em. Oh, let us love the frog—he looks so sorry. Frogs kin swim better'n little boys, and they don't haf to hold their nose when they dive, neither. Onc't I had a pet frog; an' the cars run over him. It thist squshed him. Bet he never knowed what hurt him! Onc't they wuz a rich lady swallered one—when he wuz little, you know; an' he growed up in her, an' it didn't kill him ut all. An' you could hear him holler in her bosom. It was a tree-toad; and so ever' time he'd go p-r-r-r-r- w'y, nen the grand lady she'd know it was goin' to rain, an' make her little boy run an' putt the tub under the spout. Wasn't that a b'utiful frog?
ON PIRUTS
Piruts is reckless to a fault. They ain't afeard of nobody ner nothin'. Ef ever you insult a pirut onc't, he'll foller you to the grave but what he will revenge his wrongs. Piruts all looks like pictures of "Buffalo Bill"—on'y they don't shave off the whiskers that sticks out over the collar of their low-necked shirt. Ever' day is a picknick fer the piruts of the high seas. They eat gunpowder an' drink blood to make 'em savage, and then they kill people all day, an' set up all night an' tell ghost stories an' sing songs such as mortal ear would quail to listen to. Piruts never comes on shore on'y when they run out of tobacker; an' then it's a cold day ef they don't land at midnight, an' disguize theirselves an' slip up in town like a sleuth houn', so's the Grand Jury can't git on to 'em. They don't care fer the police any more than us people who dwells right in their midst. Piruts makes big wages an' spends it like a king. "Come easy, go easy," is the fatal watchword of them whose deeds is Deth. Onc't they wuz a pirut turned out of the house an' home by his cruel parents when he wuz but a kid, an' so he always went by that name. He was thrust adrift without a nickel, an' sailed fer distant shores to hide his shame fer those he loved. In the dead of night he stol'd a new suit of the captain's clothes. An' when he growed up big enough to fit 'em, he gaily dressed hissef and went up an' paced the quarter-deck in deep thought. He had not fergot how the captain onc't had lashed him to the jib-boom-poop an' whipped him. That stung his proud spirit even then; an' so the first thing he done was to slip up behind the cruel officer an' push him over-board. Then the ship wuz his fer better er fer worse. An' so he took command, an' hung high upon the beetling mast the pirut flag. Then he took the Bible his old mother give him, an' tied a darnic round it an' sunk it in the sand with a mocking laugh. Then it wuz that he wuz ready fer the pirut's wild seafaring life. He worked the business fer all they wuz in it fer many years, but wuz run in ut last. An', standin' on the gallus-tree, he sung a song which wuz all wrote off by hissef. An' then they knocked the trap on him. An' thus the brave man died and never made a kick. In life he wuz allus careful with his means, an' saved up vast welth, which he dug holes and buried, an' died with the secret locked in his bosom to this day.
ON HACKMENS
Hackmens has the softest thing in the bizness. They hain't got nothin' to do but look hump-shouldered an' chaw tobacker an' wait. Hackmens all looks like detectives, an' keeps still, an' never even spits when you walk past 'em. An' they're allus cold. A hackman that stands high in the p'fession kin wear a overcoat in dog-days an' then look chilly an' like his folks wuz all dead but the old man, an' he wuz a drunkard. Ef a hackman would on'y be a blind fiddler he'd take in more money than a fair-ground. Hackmens never gives nothin' away. You kin trust a hackman when you can't trust your own mother. Some people thinks when they hire a hack to take 'em some place that the hackman has got some grudge ag'in' 'em—but he hain't—he's allus that way. He loves you but he knows his place, and smothers his real feelings. In life's giddy scenes hackmens all wears a mask; but down deep in their heart you kin bet they are yourn till deth. Some hackmens look like they wuz stuck up, but they hain't—it's only 'cause they got on so much clothes. Onc't a hackman wuz stabbed by a friend of his in the same bizness, an' when the doctors wuz seein' how bad he wuz karved up, they found he had on five shurts. They said that wuz all that saved his life. They said ef he'd on'y had on four shurts, he'd 'a' been a ded man. An' the hackman hissef, when he got well, used to brag it wuz the closetest call he ever had, an' laid fer the other hackman, an' hit him with a car couplin' an' killed him, an' come mighty nigh goin' to the penitenchary fer it. Influenshal friends wuz all that saved him that time. No five shurts would 'a' done it. The mayor said that when he let him off, an' brought down the house, an' made hissef a strong man fer another term. Some mayors is purty slick, but a humble hackman may sometimes turn out to be thist as smooth. The on'y thing w'y a hackman don't show up no better is 'cause he loses so much sleep. That's why he allus looks like he had the headache, an' didn't care ef he did. Onc't a hackman wuz waitin' in front of a hotel one morning an' wuz sort o' dozin' like, an' fell off his seat. An' they run an' picked him up, an' he wuz unconshus, an' they worked with him till 'way long in the afternoon 'fore they found out he wuz thist asleep; an' he cussed fearful cause they waked him up, an' wondered why people couldn't never tend to their own bizness like he did.
ON DUDES
Ever'body is allus a-givin' it to Dudes. Newspapers makes fun of 'em, an' artists makes pictures of 'em; an' the on'y ones in the wide world that stuck on Dudes is me an' the Dudes theirse'f, an' we love an' cherish 'em with all a parent's fond regards. An' nobody knows much about Dudes neither, 'cause they hain't been broke out long enough yit to tell thist what the disease is. Some say it's softinning of the brains, an' others claim it can't be that, on the groun's they hain't got material fer the softinning to work on, &c., &c., till even "Sientests is puzzled," as the good book says. An' ef I wuz a-goin' to say what ails Dudes I'd have to give it up, er pernounce it a' aggervated case of Tyfoid blues, which is my 'onnest convictions. That's what makes me kind o' stand in with 'em—same as ef they wuz the under-dog. I am willing to aknolege that Dudes has their weakness, but so has ever'thing. Even Oscar Wild, ef putt to the test; an' I allus feel sorry fer George Washington 'cause he died 'fore he got to see Oscar Wild. An' then another reason w'y you oughten't to jump on to Dudes is, they don't know what's the matter with 'em any more than us folks in whom they come in daily contack. Dudes all walks an' looks in the face like they wuz on their way to fill an engagement with a revolvin' lady wax-figger in some milliner-winder, an' had fergot the number of her place of bizness. Some folks is mean enough to bitterly a'sert that Dudes is strained in their manner an' fools from choice; but they ain't. It's a gift—Dudes is Geenuses—that's what Dudes is!
ON RED HAIR
Onc't a pore boy wuz red-hedded, an' got mad at the other boys when they'd throw it up to him. An' when they'd laugh at his red hed, an' ast him fer a light, er wuzn't he afeard he'd singe his cap, an' orto' wear a tin hat, er pertend to warm their hands by him,—w'y, sometimes the red-hedded boy'd git purty hot indeed; an' onc't he told another boy that wuz a-bafflin' him about his red hair that ef he wuz him he'd git a fine comb an' go to canvassin' his own hed, and then he'd be liabul to sceer up a more livelier subjeck to talk about than red hair. An' then the other boy says, "You're a liar" an' that got the red-hedded boy into more trouble; fer the old man whipped him shameful' fer breakin' up soil with the other boy. An' this here red-hedded boy had freckles, too. An' warts. An' nobody ortn't to 'a' jumpt on to him fer that. Ef anybody wuz a red-hedded boy they'd have also warts an' freckles—an' thist red-hair's bad enough. Onc't another boy told him ef he wuz him he bet he could make a big day look sick some night. An' when the red-hedded boy says "How?" w'y, the other boy he says "Easy enough. I'd thist march around bare-hedded in the torch-light p'cession."—"Yes, you would," says the red-hedded boy, an' pasted him one with a shinny club, an' got dispelled from school 'cause he wuz so high-tempered an' impulsiv. Ef I wuz the red-hedded boy I'd be a pirut; but he allus said he wuz goin' to be a baker.
THE CROSS-EYED GIRL
"You don't want to never tamper with a cross-eyed girl," said Mr. Judkins, "and I'll tell you w'y: They've natur'lly got a better focus on things than a man would ever guess—studyin' their eyes, you understand. A man may think he's a-foolin' a cross-eyed girl simply because she's apparently got her eyes tangled on other topics as he's a-talkin' to her, but at the same time that girl may be a-lookin' down the windin' stairway of the cellar of his soul with one eye, and a-winkin' in a whisper to her own soul with the other, and her unconscious victim jes' a-takin' it fer granted that nothin' is the matter with the girl, only jes' cross-eyes! You see I've studied 'em," continued Judkins, "and I'm on to one fact dead sure—and that is, their natures is as deceivin' as their eyes is! Knowed one onc't that had her eyes mixed up thataway—sensitive little thing she was, and always referrin' to her 'misfortune,' as she called it, and eternally threatenin' to have some surgeon straighten 'em out like other folks'—and, sir, that girl so worked on my feelin's, and took such underholts on my sympathies that, blame me, before I knowed it I confessed to her that ef it hadn't 'a' been fer her defective eyes (I made it 'defective') I never would have thought of lovin' her, and, furthermore ef ever she did have 'em changed back normal, don't you understand, she might consider our engagement at an end—I did, honest. And that girl was so absolute cross-eyed it warped her ears, and she used to amuse herself by watchin' 'em curl up as I'd be a-talkin' to her, and that maddened me, 'cause I'm natur'lly of a jealous disposition, you know, and so, at last, I jes' casually hinted that ef she was really a-goin' to git them eyes carpentered up, w'y she'd better git at it: and that ended it.
"And then the blame' girl turned right around and married a fellow that had a better pair of eyes than mine this minute! Then I struck another cross-eyed girl—not really a legitimate case, 'cause, in reality, she only had one off eye—the right eye, ef I don't disremember—the other one was as square as a gouge. And that girl was, ef any difference, a more confusin' case than the other, and besides all that, she had some money in her own right, and warn't a-throwin' off no big discount on one game eye. But I finally got her interested, and I reckon something serious might 'a' come of it—but, you see, her father was dead, and her stepmother sort o' shet down on my comin' to the house; besides that, she had three grown uncles, and you know how uncles is. I didn't want to marry no family, of course, and so I slid out of the scheme, and tackled a poor girl that clerked in a post-office. Her eyes was bad! I never did git the hang of them eyes of hern. She had purty hair, and a complexion, I used to tell her, which outrivalled the rose. But them eyes, you know! I didn't really appreciate how bad they was crossed, at first. You see, it took time. Got her to give me her picture, and I used to cipher on that, but finally worked her off on a young friend of mine who wanted to marry intellect—give her a good send-off to him—and she was smart—only them eyes, you know! Why, that girl could read a postal card, both sides at once, and smile at a personal friend through the office window at the same time!"
HOMESICKNESS
There was a more than ordinary earnestness in the tone of Mr. Judkins as he said: "Referrin' to this thing of bein' homesick, I want to say right here that of all diseases, afflictions er complaints, this thing of bein' homesick takes the cookies! A man may think when he's got a' aggrivated case of janders, er white-swellin', say, er bone-erysipelas, that he's to be looked up to as bein' purty well fixed in this vale of trouble and unrest, but I want to tell you, when I want my sorrow blood-raw, don't you understand, you may give me homesickness—straight goods, you know—and I'll git more clean, legitimate agony out of that than you can out of either of the other attractions—yes, er even ef you'd ring in the full combination on me! You see, there's no way of treatin' homesickness only one—and that is to git back home—but as that's a remedy you can't git at no drug store, at so much per box—and ef you could, fer instance, and only had enough ready money anyhow to cover half the cost of a full box—and nothin' but a full box ever reached the case—w'y, it follers that your condition still remains critical. And homesickness don't show no favors. It's jes' as liable to strike you as me. High er low, er rich er poor, all comes under her jurishdiction, and whenever she once reaches fer a citizen, you can jes' bet she gits there Eli, ever' time!
"She don't confine herse'f to youth, ner make no specialty of little children either, but she stalks abroad like a census-taker, and is as conscientious. She visits the city girl clean up to Maxinkuckee, and makes her wonder how things really is back home without her. And then she haunts her dreams, and wakes her up at all hours of the night, and sings old songs over fer her, and talks to her in low thrillin' tones of a young man whose salary ain't near big enough fer two; and then she leaves her photograph with her and comes away, and makes it lively fer the boys on the train, the conductor, the brakeman and the engineer. She even nests out the travellin' man, and yanks him out of his reclinin' chair, and walks him up and down the car, and runs him clean out of cigars and finecut, and smiles to hear him swear. Then she gits off at little country stations and touches up the night operator, who grumbles at his boy companion, and wishes to dernation 'six' was in, so's he could 'pound his ear.'
"And I'll never forgit," continued Mr. Judkins, "the last case of homesickness I had, and the cure I took fer it. 'Tain't been more'n a week ago neither. You see my old home is a'most too many laps from this base to make it very often, and in consequence I hadn't been there fer five years and better, till this last trip, when I jes' succumbed to the pressure, and th'owed up my hands and went. Seemed like I'd 'a' died if I hadn't. And it was glorious to rack around the old town again—things lookin' jes' the same, mighty nigh, as they was when I was a boy, don't you know. Run acrost an old schoolmate, too, and tuck supper at his happy little home, and then we got us a good nickel cigar, and walked and walked, and talked and talked! Tuck me all around, you understand, in the meller twilight—till, the first thing you know, there stood the old schoolhouse where me and him first learnt to chew tobacco, and all that! Well, sir! you hain't got no idea of the feelin's that was mine! W'y, I felt like I could th'ow my arms around the dear old buildin' and squeeze it till the cupolo would jes' pop out of the top of the roof like the core out of a b'ile! And I think if they ever was a' epoch in my life when I could 'a' tackled poetry without no compunctions, as the feller says, w'y, then was the time—shore!"
Dearold friend of us all in needWho know the worth of a friend indeed,How rejoiced are we all to learnOf your glad return.We who have missed your voice so long—Even as March might miss the songOf the sugar-bird in the maples whenThey're tapped again.Even as the memory of theseBlendedsweets,—the sap of the treesAnd the song of the birds, and the old camp too,We think of you.Hail to you, then, with welcomes deepAs grateful hearts may laugh or weep!—You give us not only the bird that sings,But all good things.
Dearold friend of us all in needWho know the worth of a friend indeed,How rejoiced are we all to learnOf your glad return.We who have missed your voice so long—Even as March might miss the songOf the sugar-bird in the maples whenThey're tapped again.Even as the memory of theseBlendedsweets,—the sap of the treesAnd the song of the birds, and the old camp too,We think of you.Hail to you, then, with welcomes deepAs grateful hearts may laugh or weep!—You give us not only the bird that sings,But all good things.
Dearold friend of us all in needWho know the worth of a friend indeed,How rejoiced are we all to learnOf your glad return.
We who have missed your voice so long—Even as March might miss the songOf the sugar-bird in the maples whenThey're tapped again.
Even as the memory of theseBlendedsweets,—the sap of the treesAnd the song of the birds, and the old camp too,We think of you.
Hail to you, then, with welcomes deepAs grateful hearts may laugh or weep!—You give us not only the bird that sings,But all good things.
Fatherall bountiful, in mercy bearWith this our universal voice of prayer—The voice that needs must beUpraised in thanks to Thee,O Father, from Thy Children everywhere.A multitudinous voice, wherein we fainWouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain—No murmur of distress,Nor moan of loneliness,Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain.And, Father, give us first to comprehend,No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lendUs clearer sight to seeOur boundless debt to Thee,Since all thy deeds are blessings, in the end.And let us feel and know that, being Thine,We are inheritors of hearts divine,And hands endowed with skill,And strength to work Thy will,And fashion to fulfilment Thy design.So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside,Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride;As here to Thee we dareUplift our faltering prayer,Lend it some fervor of the glorified.We thank Thee that our land is loved of TheeThe blessèd home of thrift and industry,With ever-open doorOf welcome to the poor—Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly.Even thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grewInto a right that heroes battled to,With brothers long estranged,Once more as brothers rangedBeneath the red and white and starry blue.Ay, thanks—though tremulous the thanks expressed—Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best—For all the clanging frayWhose discord dies awayInto a pastoral song of peace and rest.
Fatherall bountiful, in mercy bearWith this our universal voice of prayer—The voice that needs must beUpraised in thanks to Thee,O Father, from Thy Children everywhere.A multitudinous voice, wherein we fainWouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain—No murmur of distress,Nor moan of loneliness,Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain.And, Father, give us first to comprehend,No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lendUs clearer sight to seeOur boundless debt to Thee,Since all thy deeds are blessings, in the end.And let us feel and know that, being Thine,We are inheritors of hearts divine,And hands endowed with skill,And strength to work Thy will,And fashion to fulfilment Thy design.So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside,Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride;As here to Thee we dareUplift our faltering prayer,Lend it some fervor of the glorified.We thank Thee that our land is loved of TheeThe blessèd home of thrift and industry,With ever-open doorOf welcome to the poor—Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly.Even thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grewInto a right that heroes battled to,With brothers long estranged,Once more as brothers rangedBeneath the red and white and starry blue.Ay, thanks—though tremulous the thanks expressed—Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best—For all the clanging frayWhose discord dies awayInto a pastoral song of peace and rest.
Fatherall bountiful, in mercy bearWith this our universal voice of prayer—The voice that needs must beUpraised in thanks to Thee,O Father, from Thy Children everywhere.
A multitudinous voice, wherein we fainWouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain—No murmur of distress,Nor moan of loneliness,Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain.
And, Father, give us first to comprehend,No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lendUs clearer sight to seeOur boundless debt to Thee,Since all thy deeds are blessings, in the end.
And let us feel and know that, being Thine,We are inheritors of hearts divine,And hands endowed with skill,And strength to work Thy will,And fashion to fulfilment Thy design.
So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside,Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride;As here to Thee we dareUplift our faltering prayer,Lend it some fervor of the glorified.
We thank Thee that our land is loved of TheeThe blessèd home of thrift and industry,With ever-open doorOf welcome to the poor—Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly.
Even thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grewInto a right that heroes battled to,With brothers long estranged,Once more as brothers rangedBeneath the red and white and starry blue.
Ay, thanks—though tremulous the thanks expressed—Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best—For all the clanging frayWhose discord dies awayInto a pastoral song of peace and rest.
Sayfirst he loved the dear home-hearts, and thenHe loved his honest fellow citizen—He loved and honored him, in any postOf duty where he served mankind the most.All that he asked of him in humblest needWas but to find him striving to succeed;All that he asked of him in highest placeWas justice to the lowliest of his race.When he found these conditions, proved and tried,He owned he marvelled, but was satisfied—Relaxed in vigilance enough to smileAnd, with his own wit, flay himself a while.Often he liked real anger—as, perchance,The summer skies like storm-clouds and the glanceOf lightning—for the clearer, purer blueOf heaven, and the greener old earth, too.All easy things to do he did with care,Knowing the very common danger there;In noblest conquest of supreme debateThe facts are simple as the victory great.That which had been a task to hardiest mindsTo him was as a pleasure, such as findsThe captive-truant, doomed to read throughoutThe one lone book he really cares about.Study revived him: Howsoever dimAnd deep the problem, 'twas a joy to himTo solve it wholly; and he seemed as oneRefreshed and rested as the work was done.And he had gathered, from all wealth of loreThat time has written, such a treasure store,His mind held opulence—his speech the rareFair grace of sharing all his riches there—Sharing with all, but with the greatest zestSharing with those who seemed the neediest:The young he ever favored; and through theseShall he live longest in men's memories.
Sayfirst he loved the dear home-hearts, and thenHe loved his honest fellow citizen—He loved and honored him, in any postOf duty where he served mankind the most.All that he asked of him in humblest needWas but to find him striving to succeed;All that he asked of him in highest placeWas justice to the lowliest of his race.When he found these conditions, proved and tried,He owned he marvelled, but was satisfied—Relaxed in vigilance enough to smileAnd, with his own wit, flay himself a while.Often he liked real anger—as, perchance,The summer skies like storm-clouds and the glanceOf lightning—for the clearer, purer blueOf heaven, and the greener old earth, too.All easy things to do he did with care,Knowing the very common danger there;In noblest conquest of supreme debateThe facts are simple as the victory great.That which had been a task to hardiest mindsTo him was as a pleasure, such as findsThe captive-truant, doomed to read throughoutThe one lone book he really cares about.Study revived him: Howsoever dimAnd deep the problem, 'twas a joy to himTo solve it wholly; and he seemed as oneRefreshed and rested as the work was done.And he had gathered, from all wealth of loreThat time has written, such a treasure store,His mind held opulence—his speech the rareFair grace of sharing all his riches there—Sharing with all, but with the greatest zestSharing with those who seemed the neediest:The young he ever favored; and through theseShall he live longest in men's memories.
Sayfirst he loved the dear home-hearts, and thenHe loved his honest fellow citizen—He loved and honored him, in any postOf duty where he served mankind the most.
All that he asked of him in humblest needWas but to find him striving to succeed;All that he asked of him in highest placeWas justice to the lowliest of his race.
When he found these conditions, proved and tried,He owned he marvelled, but was satisfied—Relaxed in vigilance enough to smileAnd, with his own wit, flay himself a while.
Often he liked real anger—as, perchance,The summer skies like storm-clouds and the glanceOf lightning—for the clearer, purer blueOf heaven, and the greener old earth, too.
All easy things to do he did with care,Knowing the very common danger there;In noblest conquest of supreme debateThe facts are simple as the victory great.
That which had been a task to hardiest mindsTo him was as a pleasure, such as findsThe captive-truant, doomed to read throughoutThe one lone book he really cares about.
Study revived him: Howsoever dimAnd deep the problem, 'twas a joy to himTo solve it wholly; and he seemed as oneRefreshed and rested as the work was done.
And he had gathered, from all wealth of loreThat time has written, such a treasure store,His mind held opulence—his speech the rareFair grace of sharing all his riches there—
Sharing with all, but with the greatest zestSharing with those who seemed the neediest:The young he ever favored; and through theseShall he live longest in men's memories.
Tothe lorn ones who loved him first and best,And knew his dear love at its tenderest,We seem akin—we simplest friends who knewHis fellowship, of heart and spirit too:We who have known the happy summertideOf his ingenuous nature, glorifiedWith the inspiring smile that ever litThe earnest face and kindly strength of it:His presence, all-commanding, as his thoughtInto unconscious eloquence was wrought,Until the utterance became a spellThat awed us as a spoken miracle.Learning, to him, was native—was, in truth,The earliest playmate of his lisping youth,Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress,It was as laughter, health and happiness:And so he played with it—joyed at its call—Ran rioting with it, forgetting allDelights of childhood, and of age and fame,—A devotee of learning, still the same!In fancy, even now we catch the glanceOf the rapt eye and radiant countenance,As when his discourse, like a woodland stream,Flowed musically on from theme to theme:The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea,He worshipped as their high divinity—Nor did his reverent spirit find one thingOn earth too lowly for his worshipping.The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain,The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain—All—all were fashioned beautiful and good,As the soul saw and senses understood.Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and loveEnfolded all below as all above—Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind,He gave his love's vast largess as designed.Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, heWrought ever bravely for humanity—Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied—Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died.This was the man we loved—are loving yet,And still shall love while longing eyes are wetWith selfish tears that well were brushed awayRemembering his smile of yesterday.—For, even as we knew him, smiling still,Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill,He waits with the old welcome—just as whenWe met him smiling, we shall meet again.
Tothe lorn ones who loved him first and best,And knew his dear love at its tenderest,We seem akin—we simplest friends who knewHis fellowship, of heart and spirit too:We who have known the happy summertideOf his ingenuous nature, glorifiedWith the inspiring smile that ever litThe earnest face and kindly strength of it:His presence, all-commanding, as his thoughtInto unconscious eloquence was wrought,Until the utterance became a spellThat awed us as a spoken miracle.Learning, to him, was native—was, in truth,The earliest playmate of his lisping youth,Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress,It was as laughter, health and happiness:And so he played with it—joyed at its call—Ran rioting with it, forgetting allDelights of childhood, and of age and fame,—A devotee of learning, still the same!In fancy, even now we catch the glanceOf the rapt eye and radiant countenance,As when his discourse, like a woodland stream,Flowed musically on from theme to theme:The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea,He worshipped as their high divinity—Nor did his reverent spirit find one thingOn earth too lowly for his worshipping.The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain,The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain—All—all were fashioned beautiful and good,As the soul saw and senses understood.Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and loveEnfolded all below as all above—Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind,He gave his love's vast largess as designed.Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, heWrought ever bravely for humanity—Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied—Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died.This was the man we loved—are loving yet,And still shall love while longing eyes are wetWith selfish tears that well were brushed awayRemembering his smile of yesterday.—For, even as we knew him, smiling still,Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill,He waits with the old welcome—just as whenWe met him smiling, we shall meet again.
Tothe lorn ones who loved him first and best,And knew his dear love at its tenderest,We seem akin—we simplest friends who knewHis fellowship, of heart and spirit too:
We who have known the happy summertideOf his ingenuous nature, glorifiedWith the inspiring smile that ever litThe earnest face and kindly strength of it:
His presence, all-commanding, as his thoughtInto unconscious eloquence was wrought,Until the utterance became a spellThat awed us as a spoken miracle.
Learning, to him, was native—was, in truth,The earliest playmate of his lisping youth,Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress,It was as laughter, health and happiness:
And so he played with it—joyed at its call—Ran rioting with it, forgetting allDelights of childhood, and of age and fame,—A devotee of learning, still the same!
In fancy, even now we catch the glanceOf the rapt eye and radiant countenance,As when his discourse, like a woodland stream,Flowed musically on from theme to theme:
The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea,He worshipped as their high divinity—Nor did his reverent spirit find one thingOn earth too lowly for his worshipping.
The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain,The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain—All—all were fashioned beautiful and good,As the soul saw and senses understood.
Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and loveEnfolded all below as all above—Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind,He gave his love's vast largess as designed.
Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, heWrought ever bravely for humanity—Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied—Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died.
This was the man we loved—are loving yet,And still shall love while longing eyes are wetWith selfish tears that well were brushed awayRemembering his smile of yesterday.—
For, even as we knew him, smiling still,Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill,He waits with the old welcome—just as whenWe met him smiling, we shall meet again.