Chapter I: Front Matter

THE POEMS AND PROSE
SKETCHES OF
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

ARMAZINDY

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S
SONS NEW YORK 1917

Copyright, 1894, 1898, by
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

⁂ _The publication of this volume in the Homestead Edition
of the works of James Whitcomb Riley is made possible by
the courtesy of The Bowen-Merrill Company, of Indianapolis,
the original publishers of Mr. Riley’s books._

TO HENRY EITEL

CONTENTS

PAGE

ARMAZINDY

ARMAZINDY 3

THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 15

NATURAL PERVERSITIES 17

THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 20

WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 22

THE BLIND GIRL 25

WE DEFER THINGS 28

THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 29

FOR THIS CHRISTMAS 31

A POOR MAN’S WEALTH 32

THE LITTLE RED RIBBON 34

“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?” 35

A GOOD-BYE 37

WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED 38

“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD” 40

TO A POET-CRITIC 41

AN OLD-TIMER 42

THE SILENT VICTORS 44

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 51

THREE SINGING FRIENDS 56

A NOON LULL 59

A WINDY DAY 60

MY HENRY 62

THE SONG I NEVER SING 64

TO EDGAR WILSON NYE 67

LITTLE DAVID 68

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 69

RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES 71

SERENADE—TO NORA 72

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE 74

WHAT REDRESS 76

DREAMER, SAY 77

WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_ 79

MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 81

“RINGWORM FRANK” 85

AN EMPTY GLOVE 87

OUR OWN 89

MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY

_The Frog_ 93

“TWIGGS AND TUDENS” 95

DOLORES 113

WHEN I DO MOCK 114

MY MARY 115

_Eros_ 118

ORLIE WILDE 119

LEONAINIE 128

TO A JILTED SWAIN 130

THE VOICES 131

_A Barefoot Boy_ 134

THE YOUTHFUL PATRIOT 135

PONCHUS PILUT 136

A TWINTORETTE 139

SLUMBER-SONG 140

THE CIRCUS PARADE 141

FOLKS AT LONESOMEVILLE 143

THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS 144

THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY 146

CHARMS 148

A FEW OF THE BIRD-FAMILY 150

THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 151

THE TRESTLE AND THE BUCK-SAW 153

THE KING OF OO-RINKTUM-JING 154

THE TOY PENNY-DOG 156

JARGON-JINGLE 157

THE GREAT EXPLORER 158

THE SCHOOL-BOY’S FAVORITE 159

ALBUMANIA 162

THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN 165

SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME 168

HOME-MADE RIDDLES 169

THE LOVELY CHILD 171

THE YELLOWBIRD 172

ENVOY 173

ARMAZINDY

ARMAZINDY

Armazindy;—fambily name
_Ballenger_,—you’ll find the same,
As her Daddy answered it,
In the old War-rickords yit,—
And, like him, she’s airnt the good
Will o’ all the neighborhood.—
Name ain’t down in _History_,—
But, i jucks! it _ort_ to be!
Folks is got respec’ fer _her_—
Armazindy Ballenger!—
’Specially the ones ’at knows
Fac’s o’ how her story goes
From the start:—Her father blowed
Up—eternally furloughed—
When the old “Sultana” bu’st,
And sich men wuz needed wusst.—
Armazindy, ’bout fourteen-
Year-old then—and thin and lean
As a killdee,—but—_my la!_—
Blamedest nerve you ever saw!
The girl’s mother’d _allus_ be’n
Sickly—wuz consumpted when
Word came ’bout her husband.—So
Folks perdicted _she’d_ soon go—
(Kind o’ grief _I_ understand,
Losin’ _my_ companion,—and
Still a widower—and still
Hinted at, like neighbers will!)
So, app’inted, as folks said,
Ballenger a-bein’ dead,
Widder, ’peared-like, gradjully,
Jes grieved after him tel _she_
Died, nex’ Aprile wuz a year,—
And in Armazindy’s keer
Leavin’ the two twins, as well
As her pore old miz’able
Old-maid aunty ’at had be’n
Struck with palsy, and wuz then
Jes a he’pless charge on _her_—
_Armazindy Ballenger_.

Jevver watch a primrose ’bout
Minute ’fore it blossoms out—
Kindo’ loosen-like, and blow
Up its muscles, don’t you know,
And, all suddent, bu’st and bloom
Out life-size?—Well, I persume
’At’s the only measure I
_Kin_ size Armazindy by!—
Jes a _child_, _one_ minute,—nex’,
_Woman-grown_, in all respec’s
And intents and purposuz—
’At’s what Armazindy wuz!

Jes a _child_, I tell ye! Yit
She made things git up and git
Round that little farm o’ hern!—
Shouldered all the whole concern;—
Feed the stock, and milk the cows—
Run the _farm_ and run the _house_!—
_Only_ thing she didn’t do
Wuz to plough and harvest too—
But the house and childern took
Lots o’ keer—and had to look
After her old fittified
Grandaunt.—Lord! ye could’a’ cried,
Seein’ Armazindy smile,
’Peared-like, sweeter all the while!
And I’ve heerd her laugh and say:—
“Jes afore Pap marched away,
He says, ‘I depend on _you_,
Armazindy, come what may—
You must be a Soldier, too!’”

Neighbers, from the fust, ’ud come—
And she’d _let_ ’em help her _some_,—
“Thanky, ma’am!” and “Thanky, sir!”
But no charity fer _her_!—
“_She_ could raise the means to pay
Fer her farm-hands ever’ day
Sich wuz needed!”—And she _could_—
In cash-money jes as good
As farm-produc’s ever brung
Their perducer, _old_ er young!
So folks humored her and smiled,
And at last wuz rickonciled
Fer to let her have her own
Way about it.—But a-goin’
Past to town, they’d stop and see
“Armazindy’s fambily,”
As they’d allus laugh and say,
And look sorry right away,
Thinkin’ of her Pap, and how
He’d indorse his “Soldier” now!
’Course _she_ couldn’t never be
Much in _young-folks’_ company—
Plenty of _in_-vites to go,
But das’t leave the house, you know—
’Less’n _Sund’ys_ sometimes, when
Some old _Granny_’d come and ’ten’
Things, while Armazindy _has_
Got away fer Church er “Class.”
Most the youngsters _liked_ her—and
’Twuzn’t hard to understand,—
Fer, by time she wuz sixteen,
Purtier girl you never seen—
’Ceptin’ she lacked schoolin’, ner
Couldn’t rag out stylisher—
Like some _neighber_-girls, ner thumb
On their blame’ melodium,
Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed
Round the old back-porch and washed
Their clothes fer ’em—rubbed and scrubbed
Fer girls’d ort to jes be’n clubbed!

—And jes sich a girl wuz Jule
Reddinhouse.—_She’d_ be’n to school
At _New Thessaly_, i gum!—
Fool before, but that he’pped _some_—
’Stablished-like more confidence
’At she _never_ had no sense.
But she wuz a cunnin’, sly,
Meek and lowly sort o’ lie,
’At men-folks like me and you
B’lieves jes ’cause we ortn’t to.—
Jes as purty as a snake,
And as _pizen_—mercy sake!
Well, about them times it wuz,
Young Sol Stephens th’ashed fer us;
And we sent him over to
Armazindy’s place to do
_Her_ work fer her.—And-sir! Well—
Mighty little else to tell,—
Sol he fell in love with her—
Armazindy Ballenger!

Bless ye!—’Ll, of all the love
’At I’ve ever yit knowed of,
That-air case o’ theirn beat all!
W’y, she _worshipped_ him!—And Sol,
’Peared-like, could ’a’ kissed the sod
(Sayin’ is) where that girl trod!
Went to town, she did, and bought
Lot o’ things ’at neighbers thought
Mighty strange fer _her_ to buy,—
Raal chintz dress-goods—and ’way high!—
Cut long in the skyrt,—also
Gaiter-pair o’ shoes, you know;
And lace collar;—yes, and fine
Stylish hat, with ivy-vine
And red ribbons, and these-’ere
Artificial flowers and queer
Little beads and spangles, and
Oysturch-feathers round the band!
Wore ’em, Sund’ys, fer a while—
Kindo’ went to Church in style,
Sol and Armazindy!—Tel
It was noised round purty well
They wuz _promised_.—And they wuz—
Sich news travels—well it does!—
Pity ’at _that_ did!—Fer jes
That-air fac’ and nothin’ less
Must ’a’ putt it in the mind
O’ Jule Reddinhouse to find
Out some dratted way to hatch
Out _some_ plan to break the match—
’Cause she _done_ it!—_How?_ they’s none
Knows adzac’ly _what_ she done;
_Some_ claims she writ letters to
Sol’s folks, up nigh Pleasant View
Somers—and described, you see,
“Armazindy’s fambily”—
Hintin’ “ef Sol married _her_,
He’d jes be pervidin’ fer
Them-air twins o’ hern, and old
Palsied aunt ’at couldn’t hold
Spoon to mouth, and layin’ near
Bedrid’ on to eighteen year’,
And still likely, ’pearantly,
To live out the century!”
Well—whatever plan Jule laid
Out to reach the p’int she made,
It wuz _desper’t_.—And she won,
Finully, by marryun
Sol herse’f—_e-lopin’_, too,
With him, like she _had_ to do,—
’Cause her folks ’ud allus swore
“Jule should never marry pore!”

This-here part the story I
Allus haf to hurry by,—
Way ’at Armazindy jes
Drapped back in her linsey dress,
And grabbed holt her loom, and shet
Her jaws square.—And ef she fret
Any ’bout it—never ’peared
Sign ’at _neighbers_ seed er heerd;—
Most folks liked her all the more—
I know _I_ did—certain-shore!—
(’Course _I’d_ knowed her _Pap_, and what
_Stock_ she come of.—Yes, and thought,
And think _yit_, no man on earth
’S worth as much as that girl’s worth!)

As fer Jule and Sol, they had
Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!—
Her folks let her go.—They said,
“Spite o’ them she’d made her bed
And must sleep in it!”—But she,
’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free
As she ust to—ner so _late_,
Ner so _fine_, I’m here to state!—
Sol wuz pore, of course, and she
Wuzn’t ust to poverty—
Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes
’Filiate with lonesomeness,—
’Cause Sol _he_ wuz off and out
With his th’asher nigh about
Half the time; er, season done,
He’d be off mi-anderun
Round the country, here and there,
Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air
Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit
Jule a bit!—and then, to boot,
_She_ had now the keer o’ two
Her own childern—and to do
Her own work and cookin’—yes,
And sometimes fer _hands_, I guess,
Well as fambily of her own.—
Cut her pride clean to the bone!
So how _could_ the whole thing end?—
She set down, one night, and penned
A short note, like—’at she sewed
On the childern’s blanket—blowed
Out the candle—pulled the door
To close after her—and, shore-
Footed as a cat is, clumb
In a rigg there and left home,
With a man a-drivin’ who
“Loved her ever fond and true,”
As her note went on to say,
When Sol read the thing next day.

Raally didn’t ’pear to be
Extry waste o’ sympathy
Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit,
Sake o’ them-air little bit
O’ two _orphants_—as you might
Call ’em _then_, by law and right,—
Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and
Tried to hold him out their hand
Same as allus: But he’d flinch—
Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch,
He let _all_ holts go; and so
Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,—
Tel, to make a long tale short,
He wuz fuller than he ort
To ’a’ be’n, at work one day
’Bout his th’asher, and give way,
Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched
In the beltin’.
... Rid and fetched
Armazindy to him.—He
Begged me to.—But time ’at she
Reached his side, he smiled and _tried_
To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died....
Hands all turned and left her there
And went somers else—_some_where.
Last, she called us back—in clear
Voice as man’ll ever hear—
Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me,
As her old Pap’s ust to be.—
Give us orders what to do
’Bout the body—he’pped us, too.
So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed
In Armazindy’s hands at last.
More’n that, she claimed ’at she
Had consent from him to be
Mother to his childern—now
’Thout no parents anyhow.

_Yes-sir!_ and she’s _got_ ’em, too,—
Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do—
So they let her have _her way_—
Like she’s doin’ yit to-day!
Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her—
Armazindy Ballenger—
To in-large her fambily
Jes _one_ more by takin’ _me_—
Which I’m feared she never will,
Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still.

THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy?
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw
The stars through the window, and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed.

O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;
Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of
love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories my memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o’er the head
Once bowed o’er my own in the old trundle-bed.

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

I am not prone to moralize
In scientific doubt
On certain facts that Nature tries
To puzzle us about,—
For I am no philosopher
Of wise elucidation,
But speak of things as they occur,
From simple observation.

I notice _little_ things—to wit:—
I never missed a train
Because I didn’t _run_ for it;
I never knew it rain
That my umbrella wasn’t lent,—
Or, when in my possession,
The sun but wore, to all intent,
A jocular expression.

I never knew a creditor
To dun me for a debt
But I was “cramped” or “bu’sted”; or
I never knew one yet,
When I had plenty in my purse,
To make the least invasion,—
As I, accordingly perverse,
Have courted no occasion.

Nor do I claim to comprehend
What Nature has in view
In giving us the very friend
To trust we oughtn’t to.—
But so it is: The trusty gun
Disastrously exploded
Is always sure to be the one
We didn’t think was loaded.

Our moaning is another’s mirth,—
And what is worse by half,
We say the funniest thing on earth
And never raise a laugh:
’Mid friends that love us overwell,
And sparkling jests and liquor,
Our hearts somehow are liable
To melt in tears the quicker.

We reach the wrong when most we seek
The right; in like effect,
We stay the strong and not the weak—
Do most when we neglect.—
Neglected genius—truth be said—
As wild and quick as tinder,
The more you seek to help ahead
The more you seem to hinder.

I’ve known the least the greatest, too—
And, on the selfsame plan,
The biggest fool I ever knew
Was quite a little man:
We find we ought, and then we won’t—
We prove a thing, then doubt it,—
Know _everything_ but when we don’t
Know _anything_ about it.

THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That he might hide the tears that fell
Above the lesson—“Little Nell.”

And so it is he puts aside
The poem he has vainly tried

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

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

WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS

My dear old friends—It jes beats all,
The way you write a letter
So’s ever’ _last_ line beats the _first_,
And ever’ _next_-un’s better!—
W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down
You make so inte_rest_in’,
A feller, readin’ of ’em all,
Can’t tell which is the _best_-un.

It’s all so comfortin’ and good,
’Pears-like I almost _hear_ ye
And git more sociabler, you know,
And hitch my cheer up near ye
And jes smile on ye like the sun
Acrosst the whole per-rairies
In Aprile when the thaw’s begun
And country couples marries.

It’s all so good-old-fashioned like
To _talk_ jes like we’re _thinkin’_,
Without no hidin’ back o’ fans
And giggle-un and winkin’,
Ner sizin’ how each other’s dressed—
Like some is allus doin’,—
“_Is_ Marthy Ellen’s basque be’n _turned_
Er shore-enough a new-un!”—

Er “ef Steve’s city-friend hain’t jes
‘A _lee_tle kindo’-sorto’”—
Er “wears them-air blame’ eye-glasses
Jes ’cause he hadn’t ort to?”—
And so straight on, _dad-libitum_,
Tel all of us feels, _some_way,
Jes like our “comp’ny” wuz the best
When we git up to come ’way!

That’s why I like _old_ friends like _you_,—
Jes ’cause you’re so _abidin’_.—
Ef I wuz built to live “_fer keeps_,”
My principul residin’
Would be amongst the folks ’at kep’
Me allus _thinkin’_ of ’em,
And sorto’ eechin’ all the time
To tell ’em how I love ’em.—

Sich folks, you know, I jes love so
I wouldn’t live without ’em,
Er couldn’t even drap asleep
But what I _dreamp’_ about ’em,—
And ef we minded God, I guess
We’d _all_ love one another
Jes like one famb’ly,—me and Pap
And Madaline and Mother.

THE BLIND GIRL

If I might see his face to-day!—
He is so happy now!—To hear
His laugh is like a roundelay—
So ringing-sweet and clear!
His step—I heard it long before
He bounded through the open door
To tell his marriage.—Ah! so kind—
So good he is!—And I—so blind!

But thus he always came to me—
Me, first of all, he used to bring
His sorrow to—his ecstasy—
His hopes and everything;
And if I joyed with him or wept,
It was not long _the music_ slept,—
And if he sung, or if I played—
Or both,—we were the braver made.

I grew to know and understand
His every word at every call,—
The gate-latch hinted, and his hand
In mine confessed it all:
He need not speak one word to me—
He need not sigh—I need not see,—
But just the one touch of his palm,
And I would answer—song or psalm.

He wanted recognition—name—
He hungered so for higher things,—
The altitudes of power and fame,
And all that fortune brings:
Till, with his great heart fevered thus,
And aching as impetuous,
I almost wished sometimes that _he_
Were blind and patient made, like me.

But he has won!—I knew he would.—
Once in the mighty Eastern mart,
I knew his music only could
Be sung in every heart!
And when he proudly sent me this
From out the great metropolis,
I bent above the graven score
And, weeping, kissed it o’er and o’er.—

And yet not blither sing the birds
Than this glad melody,—the tune
As sweetly wedded with the words
As flowers with middle-June;
Had he not _told_ me, I had known
It was composed of love alone—
His love for _her_.—And she can see
His happy face eternally!—

While _I_—O God, forgive, I pray!—
Forgive me that I did so long
To look upon his face to-day!—
I know the wish was wrong.—
Yea, I am thankful that my sight
Is shielded safe from such delight:—
I can pray better, with this blur
Of blindness—both for him and her.

WE DEFER THINGS

We say and we say and we say,
We promise, engage and declare,
Till a year from to-morrow is yesterday,
And yesterday is—Where?

THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY

The Muskingum Valley!—How longin’ the gaze
A feller throws back on its long summer days,
When the smiles of its blossoms and _my_ smiles wuz one-
And-the-same, from the rise to the set o’ the sun:
Wher’ the hills sloped as soft as the dawn down to noon,
And the river run by like an old fiddle-tune,
And the hours glided past as the bubbles ’ud glide,
All so loaferin’-like, ’long the path o’ the tide.

In the Muskingum Valley—it ’peared-like the skies
Looked lovin’ on me as my own mother’s eyes,
While the laughin’-sad song of the stream seemed to be
Like a lullaby angels was wastin’ on me—
Tel, swimmin’ the air, like the gossamer’s thread,
’Twixt the blue underneath and the blue overhead,
My thoughts went astray in that so-to-speak realm
Wher’ Sleep bared her breast as a piller fer them.

In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far away,
I know that the winter is bleak there to-day—
No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees—
Wher’ the buds ust to bloom, now the icicles freeze.—
That the grass is all hid ’long the side of the road
Wher’ the deep snow has drifted and shifted and blowed—
And I feel in my life the same changes is there,—
The frost in my heart, and the snow in my hair.

But, Muskingum Valley! my memory sees
Not the white on the ground, but the green in the trees—
Not the froze’-over gorge, but the current, as clear
And warm as the drop that has jes trickled here;
Not the choked-up ravine, and the hills topped with snow,
But the grass and the blossoms I knowed long ago
When my little bare feet wundered down wher’ the stream
In the Muskingum Valley flowed on like a dream.

FOR THIS CHRISTMAS

Ye old-time stave that pealeth out
To Christmas revellers all,
At tavern-tap and wassail-bout,
And in ye banquet-hall.—
Whiles ye old burden rings again,
Add yet ye verse, as due:
“_God bless you, merry gentlemen_”—
_And gentlewomen, too!_

A POOR MAN’S WEALTH

A poor man? Yes, I must confess—
No wealth of gold do I possess;
No pastures fine, with grazing kine,
Nor fields of waving grain are mine;
No foot of fat or fallow land
Where rightfully my feet may stand
The while I claim it as my own—
By deed and title, mine alone.

Ah, poor indeed! perhaps you say—
But spare me your compassion, pray!—
When I ride not—with you—I walk
In Nature’s company, and talk
With one who will not slight or slur
The child forever dear to her—
And one who answers back, be sure,
With smile for smile, though I am poor.

And while communing thus, I count
An inner wealth of large amount,—
The wealth of honest purpose blent
With Penury’s environment,—
The wealth of owing naught to-day
But debts that I would gladly pay,
With wealth of thanks still unexpressed
With cumulative interest.—

A wealth of patience and content—
For all my ways improvident;
A faith still fondly exercised—
For all my plans unrealized;
A wealth of promises that still,
Howe’er I fail, I hope to fill;
A wealth of charity for those
Who pity me my ragged clothes.

A poor man? Yes, I must confess—
No wealth of gold do I possess;
No pastures fine, with grazing kine,
Nor fields of waving grain are mine;
But ah, my friend! I’ve wealth, no end!
For millionaires might condescend
To bend the knee and envy me
This opulence of poverty.

THE LITTLE RED RIBBON

The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
The summer-time comes, and the summer-time goes—
And never a blossom in all of the land
As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows;
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
And never a glimmer of sun in the skies
As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!

Dreams only are true; but they fade and are gone—
For her face is not here when I waken at dawn;
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose
_Mine_ only; _hers_ only the dream and repose.

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears,
And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years,
Moaning over the one only song that it knows,—
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!

“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?”

“How did you rest, last night?”—
I’ve heard my gran’pap say
Them words a thousand times—that’s right—
Jes them words thataway!
As punctchul-like as morning dast
To ever heave in sight
Gran’pap ’ud allus haf to ast—
“How did you rest, last night?”

Us young-uns used to grin,
At breakfast, on the sly,
And mock the wobble of his chin
And eyebrows helt so high
And kind: “_How did you rest, last night?_”
We’d mumble and let on
Our voices trimbled, and our sight
Wuz dim, and hearin’ gone.

...

Bad as I ust to be,
All I’m a-wantin’ is
As puore and ca’m a sleep fer me
And sweet a sleep as his!
And so I pray, on Jedgment Day
To wake, and with its light
See _his_ face dawn, and hear him say—
“How did you rest, last night?”

A GOOD-BYE

“Good-bye, my friend!”
He takes her hand—
The pressures blend:
They understand
But vaguely why, with drooping eye,
Each moans—“Good-bye!—Good-bye!”

“Dear friend, good-bye!”
O she could smile
If she might cry
A little while!—
She says, “I _ought_ to smile—but I—
Forgive me—_There!_—Good-bye!”

“‘Good-bye?’ Ah, no:
I hate,” says he,
“These ‘good-byes’ so!”
“And _I_,” says she,
“Detest them so—why, I should _die_
Were this a _real_ ‘good-bye!’”

WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED

When Maimie married Charley Brown,
Joy took possession of the town;
The young folks swarmed in happy throngs—
They rang the bells—they carolled songs—
They carpeted the steps that led
Into the church where they were wed;
And up and down the altar-stair
They scattered roses everywhere;
When, in her orange-blossom crown,
Queen Maimie married Charley Brown.

So beautiful she was, it seemed
Men, looking on her, dreamed they dreamed;
And he, the holy man who took
Her hand in his, so thrilled and shook.
The gargoyles round the ceiling’s rim
Looked down and leered and grinned at him,
Until he half forgot his part
Of sanctity, and felt his heart
Beat worldward through his sacred gown—
When Maimie married Charley Brown.

The bridesmaids kissed her, left and right—
Fond mothers hugged her with delight—
Young men of twenty-seven were seen
To blush like lads of seventeen,
The while they held her hand to quote
Such sentiments as poets wrote.—
Yea, all the heads that Homage bends
Were bowed to her.—But O my friends,
_My_ hopes went up—_my_ heart went down—
When Maimie married—_Charley Brown!_

“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD”

I

This woman, with the dear child-heart,
Ye mourn as dead, is—where and what?
With faith as artless as her Art,
I question not,—

But dare divine, and feel, and know
Her blessedness—as hath been writ
In allegory.—Even so
I fashion it:—