Chapter III: Part 3

He spread out his arms and they passed one by one,
Each laden with treasures and toys,
And never or ever a night of such fun
Was passed by such girls and such boys;
Nor ever will Annie be orphan with him,
He told me, and Little Boy Blue
Came back from the shadows all misty and dim,
So glad that the toy dog was true.

And always and always he’ll keep them with him,
He told me, through all of the years,
Poor Topsy and Alice and Dear Tiny Tim,
And Topsy will know no more tears.
But tales of them all he will bring Christmas night,
The brightest and sweetest and best,
That our boys and girls may know joy and delight
From Santa’s Child Hosts of the Blest!

THE RECONCILIATION OF PA

My Pa, he’s disappointed tuz I ain’t a boy. ’At is
He ain’t now but he used to was. He likes me tuz I’m his
An’ buys me lots of toys an’ things; but w’en I first begun
Ma said he’s awful fond of boys an’ ’ist wished I was one.
But now he don’t care any more, tuz I’m growed up so nice
He likes me better ’n before, an’ there ain’t any price
’At you could offer him for me an’ he would take it, tuz
I’m so much nicer, don’t you see, ’an my Pa thought I was.

W’en I’m come first my Mamma said ’at he ’ud ruther I
’Ud been a boy the stork ’ud brought; she says she don’t see w’y,
Tuz she ’ist thinks ’at little girls are awful nice, an’ w’en
You wash ’eir face an’ brush ’eir turls, ’ey’re nicer ’n ever ’en.
But he is disappointed tuz at first he didn’t know
How rilly truly nice I was; but w’en I came to grow
He wouldn’t take the world for me, so he told Ma, ’ist tuz
I’m so much nicer, don’t you see, ’an my Pa thought I was.

An’ my Ma says ’at if I grow up ’ist so nice an’ sweet
As I am now, my Pa ’ll know ’at stork was hard to beat;
An’ he won’t never wish again ’at I’m a boy, ’ist tuz
He’ll know how sweet I am, an’ ’en he’s glad I’m w’at I was;
Tuz boys are awful nice at first, ’at is, you think they are,
An’ w’en they’re big they’re ’ist the worst! An’ girls is better far,
An’ Ma says if you want ’em sweet, ’ist sweet as sweet can be,
You’ll find it awful hard to beat a little girl like me.

A WORLD WITHOUT CARE

There’s a song that is sweet
And a whistle that’s clear;
There’s a dog at his feet
And another one near;
There’s a fish in the brook
And a line that is whirled,
There’s a worm on a hook--
All is well with the world.

There’s a rock that has slipped
From the bank to the brink,
There’s a hat that is dipped
In the brook for a drink;
There’s a line that is cast
Where an eddy is swirled,
There’s a fat perch caught fast--
All is well with the world.

There’s a heartful of joy
And a handful of fish,
There’s a satisfied boy
Glad as gladness could wish;
There are leaves green and cool
Where the fat perch is curled,
There are more in the pool--
All is well with the world.

There’s an angler come home
At the close of the day,
There’s a chirp in the gloam
Of a whistle so gay,
There’s a monster near-caught
Where the foam danced and curled,
There’s a meal piping hot--
All is well with the world.

RIGHT AFTER SCHOOL

I Know where’s the happiest Kingdom in all of the world I have seen,
No bigger than Grandfather’s orchard, and all of it’s grassy and green,
It has but a few dozen people, the happiest youngsters alive,
’Tis ruled by a Princess of seven, and one little soldier of five;
There’s one little crown made of daisies and one little sword made of tin,
And one little drum that goes rolling betimes with a terrible din;
You’d think that a war was beginning by all of the noise that is made,
When, really, it’s only the army declaring itself on parade.

In all of the bounds of the Kingdom there isn’t a book or a chore;
The reign of the Princess begins when the schoolday is over at four;
Her castle with turrets and towers is right near a big apple tree.
It isn’t a visible castle, but if you were there you could see;
And if you should chance to be looking that way when the proud
Princess comes,
You’d see a bold soldier go marching and hear a fierce rattle of drums,
You’d see loyal subjects and happy, with no thought of table or rule,
You’d want to belong to the Kingdom--the Kingdom of Right-After-School!

It’s really a well-behaved people--they put by their slates and their books
And have little use for an army except as a matter of looks;
But nobody dares say addition, division, subtraction--if you
Should mention a one of these subjects the tin sword would run you right
through!
But you can say swinging or jumping or follow-my-leader, nor fear
You break any law of the country--and if from your window you hear
A chorus of voices or laughter, when evening grows twilit and cool,
You’ll know ’tis the music they make in the Kingdom of Right-After-School!

There’s not a sad heart in the Kingdom, nor ever or ever a tear,
And all of the sorrows of schooldays are lost or forgotten in here;
The make-believe fairies go singing with songs that are wondrously sweet;
The green turf is flecked with white dresses and patters with fast-flying
feet;
It’s just between School’s-Out and Teatime--an hour or so of the day,
And often I see them there crowning with daisies the Princess of Play;
Then some one calls: “Supper-time, children!”--when evening grows twilit
and cool.
It fades from my sight till tomorrow--the Kingdom of Right-After-School!

A PLEA FOR OLD FRIENDS

I was fond, indeed, of Paul Revere,
In the days of my earlier age,
And the picture of him stands out clear
From the old school reader page;
And I’ve seen the light in the belfry tower,
I’ve heard the hoof beats, too,
But, alas! alas! in an evil hour,
They say it’s all untrue!

And Barbara Frietchie--all these years,
From guileless boyhood down,
I’ve seen the flag and heard the cheers
In far off Fredericktown;
And I’ve seen Jackson lift his hat
And bid his troops march on,
But now, alas! they tell me that
Is a dreamer’s tale, and gone!

And oft at night, as though ’t were real,
I’ve heard the flame’s wild roar,
I’ve seen Jim Bludso hold the wheel
Till the last galoot’s ashore;
I thought the better of men for it,
And of duty to die or do,
But some wise men, of little wit,
Say none of the tale is true.

Oh, leave me the ride of Paul Revere
And the story of Fredericktown!
The nozzle agin’ th’ bank--so clear
From guileless boyhood down!
Leave me the curfew that was not rung,
Leave them for me and you;
And let more songs like these be sung,
Though none of the tales be true!

THE BOYVILLE CADETS

Hark! What is that clatter and patter of feet?
The Boyville Cadets are half-way up the street!
They march two by two, a most bloodthirsty horde,
Led by Captain Tom Jones, with a big wooden sword.
They’re mostly barelegged and coatless and brown,
A make-believe army from all parts of town,
With guns on their shoulders all whittled from lath,
And woe to the foeman who crosses their path.

Bob Brown has a fife and Bill Blake has a drum.
See now in what martial procession they come;
Jim Dobbs waves the flag with victorious flirt,
A long willow pole with a red woolen shirt.
And Corporal Brownlegs, he squints down the line:
“Attention! Right shoulder! Guide right!” Oh, it’s fine
To know you’ve no troubles, no worries, no debts,
And march down the street with the Boyville Cadets!

Now Sergeant Big Freckles cries, “Hep! Hep!” and “Hep!”
To see that the army keeps right perfect step.
And General Red Hair reins up with great force,
To shout some command from his make-believe horse.
Then Captain Tom Jones gives a formal salute,
And rests his big sword on the toe of his boot,
For woe to the foe that harasses or frets
The solid platoon of the Boyville Cadets!

Then Corporal Barefoot is ordered to scout
For bloodthirsty redskins, and look all about.
They march, single file, through the thick-growing trees,
For favorite haunts of the red men are these.
Far off in the woods, is an ear-splitting shout.
Alas! ’Tis the death-cry of Barefoot, the scout!
And now all the air rings with war-whoops and cries;
Bang! bang! go the laths, and the red savage dies!

A hand-to-hand fight, and the battle is done;
In the orchard the redskins lie dead, every one.
But, oh, woe is me! For all gory and red
Lies Barefoot, the scout, by the red men struck dead!
The Boyville Cadets lift him out of the dirt;
They wrap him about with the old woolen shirt;
And then, with drums muffled and heads sadly bowed,
They bear him back home, with the flag for a shroud.

Then General Red Hair, in orders, gives thanks
To all of his soldiers, and bids them break ranks.
For out of the distance he hears a shrill call:
“Tom! Joe! Bill! Jim! Children! Why, where are you all?”
Then Barefoot, the scout, to his life is restored,
And Captain Tom Jones hides his big wooden sword;
For there’s wood to be split and there’s water to get
In the dull private life of the Boyville Cadet.

A LITTLE BOY I KNOW

A little boy I used to know, from whom I’ve been away,
Oh, very many years, took me upon a trip today.
It seemed so ood to be with him, and he was glad to be
Companion, guide, and friend until the journey’s end with me.
I quite forgot my cares with him, nor could I well be sad,
As long as he was at my side, for he was blithe and glad,
And oh, the merry songs he sang, the tunes he whistled clear
That I had half forgotten till he sang and whistled here!

By many a winding stream we went, and many a limpid brook,
Where oft he bade me stop and cast a line and fishing hook
Until we drew a struggling fish from out some eddy deep,
And once upon the bank we lay and both fell fast asleep.
By clover meadows sweet we strayed, where cow bells tinkled far,
Deep in the woods where hollow logs and darting squirrels are,
And here and there he bade me stop till he would climb a tree
To shake a limb and rattle down some nuts for him and me.

Down many a shady lane we walked, through some familiar land,
Where dreams of faces long forgot arose on every hand;
We saw a cottage by the road, and in the kitchen door
A woman with the sweetest face--a glimpse and nothing more.
And as she vanished from our sight I saw the teardrops shine
In both his eyes, and I could feel the tears well up in mine;
He plucked his shabby sleeve to brush the teardrops from his eye
And whispered, “I saw Mother there!” and I said, “So did I!”

And there were spreading apple trees where oft he bade me lie
Upon the grass and watch the clouds that swept across the sky.
He lent me many a dream to dream--of fame and love and truth,
Such dreams as Fancy stores within the Treasureheart of Youth!
Ofttimes we found a sparkling spring and lay upon the brink
Our lips laved with its bubbling stream, to drink and drink and drink;
And oh, the joys we two renewed, and oh, the hum of bees,
The songs of birds, the violets and treasures such as these!

A little boy I used to know, a lad of nine or ten,
Took me a journey glad today--I hope he’ll come again
To take my hand and walk with me where golden sunshine gleams,
To lead me by familiar ways and lend me all his dreams!
To keep me near the hopes we had, to whistle merry tunes,
To find me dawns like those we knew and sunny afternoons;
A little boy his Mother loved!--a lad of nine or ten;
Perhaps you’ve known and walked with him--I hope he comes again!

ASLEEP AT THE CIRCUS

Now the last roasted peanut is swallowed,
The last clown has gone on parade;
The last sugared popcorn been followed
By sips of the last lemonade.
His eyes, once so big, that shone brightly
Through all of the glad afternoon,
Are shut, and his fingers close tightly
And cling to his gaudy balloon.

The last acrobat’s been applauded,
And shuffled his way from the mat;
The last bareback rider’s been lauded;
The clown, with his sugar-loaf hat,
Has gone with his powder and spangles;
The diver has made his last leap;
And here in my arms are brown tangles
Of curls, and a boy fast asleep.

One sticky hand rests on my shoulder,
One holds fast the gaudy balloon,
That shrinks, and before it’s much older
Will fade like the glad afternoon.
His dreams, it may be, of the maddest
Of somersaults, recklessly hurled;
The tiredest, sleepiest, gladdest
And stickiest lad in the world!

And oh, but the spangles were splendid!
And oh, but the music was grand!
The side-splitting clown laughter blended
With soul-stirring airs by the band,
Till naught of the glad marvel lingers
Save what in his dreams he may keep,
As he clasps his balloon with close fingers
And rests in my arms, fast asleep.

And so from these joys without number,
Ere aught of the glitter was gone,
He went to his dream-laden slumber,
Where on plays the music, and on.
For him all the revel is maddest,
For him not a flag has been furled,
The tiredest, sleepiest, gladdest
And stickiest lad in the world!

THE BARRIERS

Scrub out his freckles, ’twas Nature who gave ’em;
Silence his whistle and comb out his hair,
Muffle his footsteps, for People--Lord save ’em em--
Want something noiseless and soulless and fair;
Bleach out the spots where the Summer sun kissed him,
Still all the tunes and the bird calls he knew,
Then, when he’s boy no more, who could resist him?
Sun and the Wind, here’s a lesson for you.

Sun and the Wind and the freshness of showers,
How could you tempt him to revel and roam
Past the long hedges and through the wild flowers?
Did you not know it would cost him a home?
Did you not know when the gay bluebird glistened
Up on the bough and with wonder he rose,
Rose with his heart beating glad, as he listened,
Did you not know it would freckle his nose?

Hide your heads, Daisies, that wave over yonder,
Gleam in the sunlight and dance by the creek,
You bade him leave the pale shadow and wander--
Did you not know he might freckle his cheek?
You, too, the larks through the green meadows winging,
Did you not tempt him with glad song and free?
Why did you not let him learn through your singing
He would be outcast through following thee?

Heartless blackberries, you led him from shelter;
Nuts, without shame, you did bid him to climb;
Butterflies bright, that he chased helter-skelter,
Have you no shame for the depths of your crime?
What if the heart of him beats but the truer,
What if the soul of him still sweeter grows,
What if the eyes of him sparkle the truer,
Do you not see you have freckled his nose?

Scrub out the freckles--oh, well, doesn’t matter;
Maybe they’ll wash out with plentiful tears;
Muffle his footsteps, that no boyish patter
Rise to offend supersensitive ears;
Bid him not whistle the songs the fields taught him,
Let him be pale, still, anaemic, and thin,
Teach him and bleach him, and when you have got him
Thoroughly colorless, let him come in!

THE PLAINT OF THE NEW DOLL

We dot a doll to our house;
It tum on Trissmus day;
It wuzn’t hangin’ on a tree;
It tum some uzzer way;
’Ey wouldn’t let me play wiz it,
’Ey said ’at it might fall;
En so it laid ’ere all day long
En squall en squall en squall.

’E funniestes’ ’ittle sing,
Espeshully fer a doll;
En Mamma told me wen it tum
It wuzn’t dressed at all;
’Ey only let me take one peek,
I ast ’em if I tould
’Es press to see if it would squeak
Like my own dolly would.

En ’en ’ey laughed en laughed en laughed,
En wouldn’t tell me why;
I dess tant ’magine why ’ey laughed,
It ain’t no use t’ try;
En how ’ey fussed en fussed en fussed
En I dess almos’ all
’E uncles en ’e aunts I dot
Tum in to see ’at doll.

En ’en ’ey laughed en Papa laughed
’Es like a silly boy;
I never saw growed up folks make
Such fuss about a toy.
I dess I dot mos’ fifteen dolls,
’E nices’ ever wuz,
En never tissed one half as much
As my own Papa does.

I dess ’ey’ve everyone fordot
’At I’m ’eir little dirl;
’Ey haven’t changed my dress today,
My hair’s all out of turl;
’Ey’s tandy on my face an’ hands,
I don’t look nice at all,
’Ey’ve everyone fordotten me
Fer dess a nasty doll!

I wis’ ’et I tould det it onct;
I’d frow it all about,
En knock it--so! En slap it--so!
En shake its sawdust out;
En ’en w’en ’ey saw how it looked
I dess know ’ey’d all be
Ez dlad ez tould be ’ess t’ have
One little dirl--like me!

A CHILD’S ALMANAC

My Mamma says ’at w’en it rains
’Ey’re washin’ Heaven’s window-panes
An’ careless angels ’ist do fill
’Eir pails too full an’ ’atway spill
Some water down on us. ’At’s w’y
It rains some days w’en maybe I
Would like to play. An’ ’en she says
It’s ’ist ’em angels’ carelessness
’At makes ’em raindrops fall ’at way
At picnics an’ on circus day.

My Mamma says ’at w’en it snows
’Ey’re angels pickin’ geese, she knows,
An’ ’stead o’ usin’ ’em t’ stuff
’Eir pillow cases, ’ey ’ist puff
An’ blow an’ don’t clear up ’eir muss
Till all ’em feathers fall on us.
An’ she says ’ey ’ist pick ’atway
’Cuz ’ey want geese f’r Tris’mus day,
An’ ’at’s w’y ’ere’s ’e mostes’ snow
Right close t’ Tris’mus time, you know.

My Mamma says w’en wind ’ist roars
An’ blows, ’at’s w’en ’e angels snores,
But w’en it lightnings, she says, w’y,
’Ey’re scratchin’ matches on ’e sky.
An’ w’en it rumbles ’bove our heads
’Ey’re movin’ furniture an’ beds
Up ’ere, an’ cleanin’ house an’ shakes
’Eir moth balls out an’ ’at’s w’at makes
It hail. An’ weather, she ’ist ’clares
Is ’ist w’at angels does upstairs.

THE LOSER

The sun withheld its light that day; that night the stars were dim;
The portent of the earth and sky was ominous for him;
There was no gladness in the world; the fields held no delight;
The day of all his joys dissolved and melted into night;
He rubbed his pitching arms and felt the muscles rise and fall;
He wondered what the cruel fate that lost the game of ball;
He wandered idly by the brook, forsaken and alone,
To be a hero nevermore, unsung, unwept, unknown.

’Twas only yesterday he was the idol of the team!
Those cheers and loud hurrahs he heard--could they have been a dream?
They called him Tim the Tiger then! Small boys by scores he saw
To bear his glove, his coat, his shoes, with gratitude and awe.
With joy they saw his arm laid bare--that mighty arm and brown
That wound itself about his head and mowed the batsmen down;
And when he went upon the field, the mighty cheer for him
Showed how their hopes of victory were all bound up in Tim!

It was but yesterday he bore the laurels on his brow,
But who, alas! is there so low to do him honor now?
His heart swells, bursting in his chest; the heart so bruised and sore;
Could he but go back on the field and pitch that game once more!
The tears fall from his eyes like rain, the hot and angry tears,
No sorrow has he known like this in all his fifteen years;
How will he meet the Tigers now? How look intothe eyes
Of those who staked their all on him and saw him lose the prize?

To school he walks secluded ways where once with pride he strode,
With awestruck youngsters all about, the middle of the road;
Far from the madding crowd he stands upon the playground there
His honors fallen like the leaves in Autumn’s frosty air;
A humble Tiger is he now, and small boys pass him by
With cruel sneers where once he heard the cheers ring shrill and high;
And Reddy Blake, the Cyclone Curve, is pitcher forthe team,
While he’s but the somnambulist of a quick-vanished dream!

BACK TO SCHOOL

Fell in the creek twice yesterday!
Slipped and slid from a load of hay,
Stepped on a stone and bruised my toe;
Hardly walk ’cause I’m blistered so;
Hit my knee till it’s blue and black,
Sat in the sun and burned my back
When I went to swim, but my, I’m glad!
Best vacation I ever had.

Slid off the old red barn last week.
Wind all gone so I couldn’t speak
When they laid me in upon the bed
And put cold water on my head.
Got poison-ivy on my legs
When I went in the weeds to look for eggs;
But I’ve had more fun since I don’t know when!
Hate to go back to school again.

Burned my hands till they’re awful sore
When the calf ran out of the big barn door
And I tried to hold the rope and fell
Most twenty feet down the old dry well.
Lost my hat that was almost new,
In the great big lake, when the high wind blew;
And my pants are torn from many a climb,
But I never had such a summer-time.

Ate poison berries by the creek
Till they thought I’d die, I felt so sick;
But they gave me ipecac to take,
And it cured up all my stomach-ache!
Got stung by bees, but I got stung best
When I started home with a hornet’s nest,
And I all swelled up; but I’m gone down now,
And it’s all in a boy’s life, anyhow!

Nose all peeled till it’s red and rough,
Hands all brown, but I’m awful tough
From the exercise, and I’m big and strong,
’Cause I hoed in a corn-field all day long.
And my uncle said that I might stay
For harvest-time, and he’d give me pay;
And I’d like to stay, but I have to go
Back home to school, ’cause my Ma said so.

DISENCHANTMENTS

Here is the brook where the bold pirates ferried,
Swashbuckling wretches, cold-blooded, unkind;
Here is the tree where vast treasure was buried,
Doubloons we dug for but never could find.
How things have changed since these waters were riven,
Splashed with our paddles and churned into foam!
Since the dark nights when the pickaxe was driven
Where the lost treasure lay under the loam!

Here is the wood with its fastness unbounded,
Whence the red savage stole noiselessly out,
Warning us not till his warwhoop was sounded,
Leaving us scalped on the greensward about.
How things have changed from the steed and the stirrup,
Flintlock and tomahawk whittled from lath,
Where our blood ran there’s no fluid but syrup
From the sap maples along our war path!

Here is the plain where our scouts reconnoitred,
Crawling and creeping through morass and glade,
Sighting some bloodthirsty savage who loitered
Near by the scene of some scalp-lifting raid.
How things have changed since the red deer went leaping,
Since came the bison by hundreds to browse,
Silent the plain where our brave scouts went creeping,
Save for the lowing of far distant cows.

Here is the cave where our clans were assembled,
Guarded by sentries, nor traitor could reach;
Ghostly and tomb-like, where heroes dissembled
Blood-chilling fears in their boldness of speech.
Bruce had a refuge here, Wallace lay wounded,
Hallowed its clammy walls, safe its retreat,
Once ’twas a labyrinth, gloomy, unsounded,
’Tis but a gravel pit, just off the street.

How things have changed in the years since we knew them,
Pirate and redskin and treasure and clan;
Men walk beside them and past them and through them,
Giving no heed that our blood there once ran;
Making no sign for the struggles that swept them,
Flintlock and scalplock, raid, warfare, and strife,
How things have changed since we cherished and kept them!
All of the romance has gone out of life!

A RAINY NIGHT

’Bout eight o’clock first night that we
Were down at the academy
’Twas awful rainy out, and so
We both of us stayed in, you know;
But we could hear the wind and rain
Come splashing on the window-pane;
And after while, why, Henry Stout
Put up the curtain and looked out,
And said, “My! Ain’t she coming down!
I wish I was in Beaverstown.”

And then nobody spoke at all,
Just listened to the rain-drops fall;
And Henry sniffled up his nose
Because he had a cold, I s’pose.
And then he said, “I wonder how
Our folks are getting on by now.”
And I said, “Oh, I guess all right.
My! Ain’t it rainy out to-night!”
And Henry gave a great big sigh
And swallowed hard--and so did I.

And then he said, “My! Such a noise!
I guess there’s lots of homesick boys
Around tonight.” And I said, “Oh,”--
Just careless like--“Oh, I don’t know.”
And then he said, “I guess Jim Brown
Is glad he stayed in Beaverstown
And didn’t have to come down here.”
And I said, “Do your eyes feel queer?
I got a speck in mine, I guess,
They water so.” And he said, “Yes.”

And then he looked and tried to smile,
And we kept still for quite a while,
And heard it rain; and then he said,
“I s’pose our folks are gone to bed
And sound asleep by now, I guess.”
And then I swallowed and said, “Yes.”
So then we both got into bed
And heard it rain; and then he said,
“My! Ain’t she just a-pouring down!
I wish I was in Beaverstown.”

KITCHEN MIRACLES

In Aunt Amelia’s kitchen there are many wonders done,
Such miracles are wrought as never seen beneath the sun:
A pumpkin from the garden--just a yellow sphere that lies
Beneath her skilful handling ripens quickly into pies;
The corn grows into fritters, you must marvel at the change;
The apples change to dumplings in the glowing kitchen range
She waves her hands above it, and the milk is cottage cheese.
You merely watch her, and you see such miracles as these.

She finds it easy, quite, to make blueberries into rolls;
And eggs are changed to omelets above the glowing coals;
And sometimes when she’s fixing the materials for pies
She turns cider into mince-meat right before your very eyes!
Sometimes she makes a currant roll--you would not think she could--
Or makes a peach turn over, or does something just as good;
But she says quite the hardest task that ever she has found
Is, when she has her boys at tea, to make these things go ’round!

JIM BRADY’S BIG BROTHER

Jim Brady’s big brother’s a wonderful lad,
And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had;
He swung by one arm from the limb of a tree
And hung there while Jim counted up forty-three
Just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound
Across a wide creek and lit square on the ground
Just as light as a deer; and the things he can do,
So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true.

Jim Brady’s big brother could throw a fly ball
From center to home just like nothing at all;
And often while playing a game he would stand
And take a high fly with just only one hand;
Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home run
And won the big game when it stood three to one
Against the home team, and Jim Brady, he showed
The place where it lit in the old wagon road!

Jim Brady’s big brother could bat up a fly
That you hardly could see, for it went up so high;
He’d bring up his muscle and break any string
That you tied on his arm like it wasn’t a thing!
He used to turn handsprings, and cart-wheels, and he
Could jump through his hands just as slick as could be,
And circuses often would want him to go
And be in the ring, but his mother said no.

Jim Brady’s big brother would often make bets
With boys that he’d turn two complete summersets
From off of the spring-board before he would dive,
And you’d hardly think he would come up alive;
And nobody ever who went there to swim
Could do it, but it was just easy for him;
And they’d all be scared, so Jim said, when he’d stay
In under and come up a half mile away.

Jim Brady’s big brother, so Jim said, could run
Five miles in a race just as easy as one.
Right often he walked on his hands half a block
And could have walked more if he’d wanted to walk!
And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school,
Where he is gone now, and some day, when it’s cool,
He’ll get him to prove everything to be true
That Jimmy told us his big brother could do!

THE SCAPEGOAT

If anybody comes in late
To dinner and don’t shut the gate,
Or doesn’t sweep the porch, or go
Right out and shovel off the snow,
Or bring in wood or wipe his feet,
Or leave the woodshed nice and neat--
It’s me!

If anybody doesn’t think
To carry out the cow a drink,
Or tracks mud on the kitchen floor,
Or doesn’t shut the cellar door,
Or leaves the broom out on the stoop,
Or doesn’t close the chicken coop--
It’s me!

If anybody doesn’t bring
The hammer in, or breaks a thing,
Or dulls the axe, or doesn’t know
What has become of so-and-so
That’s lost for maybe six weeks past,
If anybody had it last--
It’s me!

If anything is lost or gone,
They’ve got some one to blame it on;
I get the blame for all the rest
Because I am the little-est;
And if they have to blame some one
For what is or what isn’t done--
It’s me!

A TRAGEDY OF CENTER FIELD

He muffed the fly that lost the game; he never did before;
The boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more.
Our captain didn’t say a word; he just picked up his bat
And started home with downcast head--what words could equal that?
Nobody spoke on our whole side, or didn’t even ask
How Stubby came to muff the fly. Bud Hicks picked up his mask
And sighed an awful sorry sigh. Stub Weeks is not the same--
Our boys don’t think he ever will, because he lost the game.

Nobody asked him to explain. They couldn’t understand
How Stubby dropped it when he had the ball right in his hand.
It sailed from Pudgy Williams’ bat and soared just like a bird
To center field where Stubby was. Nobody hardly stirred
Because it was so critical, but Bud Hicks gave a shout,
He knew a fly in center field was just as good as out
When Stubby Weeks was under it. And then he gave a cry
Of agony too great for words when Stubby muffed the fly.

Our boys all slowly walked away, and even Red Blake’s team
Were too surprised to cheer because it seemed just like a dream.
And over there in center field Stub Weeks was dreaming, too,
As though he was Napoleon and this was Waterloo.
The blow was such an awful one he acted sort of stunned,
And then he walked in from the field expecting to be shunned
Forevermore by all his friends. His throat was hoarse and dry;
We knew his heart was broken then because he muffed the fly.

He saw us all pick up our things and walk away, and then
The awful stain upon his name came back to him again.
He thought of how it should have been--the loud hurrahs and cheers,
And leaned against the back-stop fence and drenched it with his tears,
Till all the boys felt sorry then, and told him not to mind
Because the sun was in his eyes and must have made him blind.
But weeks and weeks have passed since then--his heart is awful sore,
Our boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more!

IN SWIMMING

’Ist boys--th’ kind you used t’ know,
What-d’-y’-call-him, So-and-so
An’ What’s-His-Name--an’ every one
’Ist full o’ health an’ out for fun.
No meanness in a one of us,
’Ist brown an’ strong an’ mischievous,
’Cuz that’s th’ way ’at boys all grow--
’Ist boys--th’ kind you used t’ know.

’Ist boys--th’ kind you used t’ be.
What! Never climbed an apple tree
An’ shook ’em down? Why, Mister, you--
You never was a boy, real true.
I’ll bet ’at you was mischievous
As you could be. You’re foolin’ us
’Cuz you can’t help but see ’at we
Are boys--’ist like you used t’ be.

Of course we ought t’ be at school,
But my! The water’s nice an’ cool
An’ when it calls you, w’y, you ’ist
Can’t be a real boy an’ resist.
An’ say! We caught a fish down there
’Most two feet long--right close t’ w’ere
You’re standin’ now. Now don’t you see
We’re boys--’ist like you used t’ be?

Say, you ain’t goin’ t’ tell our Ma
’At you was passin’ by an’ saw
Us swimmin’ here. W’y, Mister, you
Won’t never feel right if you do.
Don’t be a tattle-tale! W’y, say,
If you should give us boys away
You couldn’t never bear to see
A boy--’ist like you used t’ be.

Come on, now! You ain’t goin’ t’ tell
On us. I know it, ’ist as well
As anythin’. You wouldn’t hurt
Her feelin’s ’ist t’ do us dirt.
You won’t? Thanks, Mister. You’re a brick.
We’re goin’ home, Sir, pretty quick.
It’s awful fine here, ’cuz, y’ see,
We’re boys--’ist like you used t’ be.

AN UNUSUAL CHUM

Henry Blake’s father goes fishing with him,
And goes in the creek so’s to teach him to swim;
He talks to him just like they’re awful close chums
And sometimes at night he helps Henry do sums;
And once he showed Henry how he used to make
A basket by whittling a peach stone and take
The bark off of willows for whistles although
He hadn’t made one since a long time ago.

Henry Blake’s father is just like his chum,
And when he goes fishing he lets Henry come;
He fixes two seats on the bank of the brook
And shows Henry how to put frogs on his hook;
And sometimes he laughs in the jolliest way
At some little thing that he hears Henry say,
And dips up a drink in his hat like you do
When only just boys go a-fishing with you.

Henry Blake’s father will take him and stay
Somewhere in the woods for a half holiday
And wear his old clothes and bring home a big sack
Of hick’ries and walnuts to help Henry crack;
And sit on a dead log somewhere in the shade
To eat big sandwiches his mother has made;
And Henry Blake’s father, he don’t seem as though
He’s more than his uncle, he likes Henry so!

AND JUST THEN

Don’t you remember when the ship, the pirate ship, that flew
The black flag with the gleaming skull, in the fierce gale that blew,
Went on the rocks? I think it was upon the Spanish Main;
The sails were torn to tatters and there fell a driving rain,
The air was pierced with cries of fear, shocks followed upon shocks,
“Come, man the lifeboats,” called the mate, “the ship is on the rocks!”
And just when lightnings rent the air and all the sky was red,
Your mother said, “You’ve read enough, my boy! It’s time for bed!”

Don’t you remember when the score stood six to six, until
The very ending of the game and every heart stood still?
The Red Sox pitcher took his place, while not a watcher stirred,
A hit, a pass, an error and a runner got to third.
Don’t you remember, as you read, you almost heard the crack
As bat met ball and you could feel cold chills go down your back?
And just as you had but a page to find which players led,
Your mother said, “You’ve read enough, my boy! It’s time for bed!”

Don’t you remember when Wild Bill and Deadshot Dick, the scout,
Were prisoned in the rocky cave with redskins all about,
With all their ammunition gone, nor food to eat, as they
Had been a thousand times before, but always got away?
The war-whoops rang out fierce and shrill. Said Dick, “I have a plan;
We will escape or sell our lives as dearly as we can.”
And just as you turned o’er the page to see what plans they’d lay,
The clock struck nine--your mother came and took the book away.

Oh, Captain Kidd, it seemed to me when you went on the rock
You always timed the hour of it to be at nine o’clock!
And Dick, the scout, the redskins came and fell on you with rage
Just when my boyhood bed time came and I turned down the page!
And Spike, the wizard of the slab, who mowed the batsmen down
Like blades of grass, the hero of the little country town,
You seemed to time the crisis of your fiercest game, someway,
At nine o’clock, when Mother came and took the book away!

AFTERWARD

I’m glad I was always so good to her;
I was just up there in the nursery
Picking up things--you know--that were
Left strewn about as carelessly
As a child will do when she’s called from play;
I picked them up with a mist and blur
In my eyes, and I laid them all away--
I’m glad I was always so good to her.

And many’s the picture that came to me,
That came to me o’er a Teddy bear
Or a doll or a whole tin infantry
Arrayed in a battle column there;
Picture on picture of girls and girls
(One year and two years and three) that were;
Of pinafores and blue frocks and curls--
I’m glad I was always so good to her.

Dreams on dreams and they ride me down,
Column and phalanx, and voices call;
And grasses grow green and come sere and brown,
And leaves bud, blossom and blow and fall;
She had been six now--and seven--and ten--
_So_ tall--and _so_ tall--how fair they were,
How fair they were and they would have been,
Those lost ones--I’m glad I was good to her.

CIRCUS DAY

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, Mother dear.
I think at 4 o’clock A.M., the circus will be here;
If it was any other day ’twould take an awful shock
To rouse me from my little bed before quite 8 o’clock;
You needn’t mind my breakfast, for I’ll be in dreadful haste,
And if I see the cars unload I’ll have no time to waste;
Perhaps they’ll wash the cages, Ma, and I’ll be there to see
The men take off the sideboards from the whole menagerie.

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, Mother dear,
Because the place where it unloads is full two miles from here;
I’d faint without my breakfast if ’twas any other day,
But I’ll be strong enough, I think, to run quite all the way;
The boys I know will all be there; ’twill be a wondrous sight
To see the elephants led out before it’s hardly light;
And hear the lions roar, which makes goose pimples when you hear--
If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, Mother dear.

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, Mother dear,
No matter if you whisper it I’ll be quite sure to hear;
If I was being waked to turn the wringer it would be
A good deal harder job, of course, for you to waken me;
But I will leave my stockings on and put my shirt in place,
And if I’m rushed for time I will not need to wash my face;
And in the early morning light you’ll see me leaving here
About three minutes after four, so call me, Mother dear.

If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, Mother dear;
I will not yawn and rub my eyes and ask if morning’s here;
I will not pull the covers up as I have done before
And ask you if I cannot sleep just half an hour more;
I’ll jump right out of bed as soon as ever you may call
And be all dressed and down the stair and gone out through the hall
Before you say Jack Robinson--the circus will be here
At 4 o’clock, so call me early, early, Mother dear!

THE TOUR OF A SMILE

My papa smiled this morning when
He came down stairs, you see,
At Mamma; and when he smiled, then
She turned and smiled at me;
And when she smiled at me, I went
And smiled at Mary Ann,
Out in the kitchen and she lent
It to the hired man.

So then he smiled at someone, who
He saw, when going by;
Who also smiled and ere he knew
Had twinkles in his eye;
So he went to his office then
And smiled right at his clerk,
Who put some more ink on his pen
And smiled back from his work.

So when his clerk went home he smiled
Right at his wife, and she
Smiled over at their little child
As happy as could be;
And then their little child, she took
The smile to school, and when
She smiled at teacher from her book,
Teacher smiled back again.

And then the teacher passed on one
To little James McBride,
Who couldn’t get his lessons done,
No matter how he tried;
And Jamesy took it home and told
How teacher smiled at him
When he was tired and didn’t scold,
But said, “Don’t worry, Jim!”

And when I happened to be there
That very night to play,
His mother had a smile to spare
Which came across my way;
And then I took it after while
Back home, and Mamma said:
“Here is that very self-same smile
Come back with us to bed!”

WHEN GRANDPA PLAYS

I don’t know what makes Grandpa tired; he’s hardly done a thing
Except to put some hammocks up and help us children swing;
He only came an hour ago, and we’ve been here all day.
He says we’re most too much for him and thinks he’ll hardly stay;
He just played drop-the-handkerchief and blind man’s buff, but he
Says, My! we’ve got him out of breath and tired as he can be.
He says it’s most too much for him to play leap-frog and ball,
But we have been here all day long, and we’re not tired at all!

He started to play hide and seek, and first he had to blind
And then he ran with all his might to see who he could find,
And Tommy Watkins beat him in from there behind a tree,
Till Grandpa had to give it up and say, “All’s out’s in free!”
And then he sat down on a stump and said he’s tired to death.
He had to hold his sides a while till he could catch his breath.
He said he’d like to shake a tree and make some apples fall,
But he’s too tired, and we boys here are hardly tired at all!

He only ran in under once when we were in the swing,
And then he had to rest because he’s tired as everything;
And once he showed us how to climb a great, tall tree, but when
He only got a few feet up he slid right down again.
He said he used to climb a tree, oh, very, very tall
And sit across a branch way up and never tire at all,
But now he’s out of practice, and his legs won’t stay around
The trunk, and he feels safer when he stays down on the ground!

And sometimes when he goes back home and holds us by the hand,
All wringing wet and out of breath, our Ma says “Goodness, Land!
I think you are the youngest boy of all the boys in sight.”
But Grandpa rubs his legs and arms and limps and says “Not quite!”
And sometimes in the parlor, why, he says he was so strong
When he was just a boy they used to take him right along
To lift the heavy things and do the hardest work, you know,
But now us boys ’ll tire him out in just an hour or so!

THE PARTED WAYS

I used to know a little lad,
A youngster of thirteen,
Who wasn’t very good or bad,
But somewhere in between.
He had such freckles on his nose
As your nose seems to bear;
Indeed, I’d almost think that those
Were some he used to wear.

He used to have an old straw hat
All frazzled at the brim,
Indeed, I’d almost think that that
Came down to you from him.
And he had such a dog as now
Barks joyfully along
With you--it makes me wonder how
It could have lived so long.

And in his heart he held such song
As fell upon my ear,
And echoed through the shadows long
When you came whistling near;
So when at twilight, dawn or noon
This overture you bring,
It seems to be the very tune
This other lad would sing.

And he had pockets bulged with things
By which he set much store,
With knives and marbles, tops and strings
And half a hundred more;
I see your pockets emptied now,
Your things cast up with care,
Until they seem to be, somehow,
His treasures you have there.

I know not where it was or when,
But with his heart of song
He went and came not back again,
And took his dreams along;
So some day in a little while
He’ll wave a sun-browned hand.
And leave you with his cheery smile--
And you will understand.

A MESSAGE HOME

Say, Little Boy, ’twixt dawn and dusk who treads such devious ways,
I wish you would remember me to all your sunny days;
For once they were such friends of mine; so bid them my good cheer
And say you saw an old, old friend, who holds them very dear;
Remember me to those cool paths, that led by fields and streams,
Where what were my songs now are yours and what were mine your dreams;
Just say you saw an old, old friend, who wanted you to tell
Them all he sent them love and cheer and wished them always well.

And, Little Boy, if you should lie beneath some spreading tree,
Be good enough to say it has remembrance sweet from me;
For once it used to cover me with shade so thick and cool
And bid me lie and rest and dream as I came home from school;
And when you romp with comrade boys at noontime, Lad, I pray,
Remember me to all of them and to the games they play;
And let no games too humble be, no youngsters be too small
To know an old, old friend sends love and blessings to them all.

Remember me to all your dreams, to rose and bush and stem,
To days too short to hold your joys, remember me to them;
To all your secrets deep and vast, of things that are and were
And are to be, half-whispered in the twilight’s dusk and blur;
Just say an old friend, long away, but still remembering
Would have them know his heart is full of memories that bring
Delight to bygone fellowships, and he would have you tell
Them all he sends them love and cheer, and wishes them so well!

For, over land and over sea the hearts of us that fare
Swell with the messages they bid the homebound comrade bear;
And over days and over years have I fared forth and so
I bid you bear my greetings, Lad, to all the joys you know.
Remember me to all the hearts and hopes and dreams and deeds,
Bear blessings of mine everywhere the path of boyland leads;
Just say you saw an old, old friend, who wanted you to tell
The joys and boys of youth he loved and wished them always well.

LULLABY

Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming
With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow,
Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming
Hear their rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go;
Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing
In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies,
Creep, creep, creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little chatter
Sings his prattling little, rattling little, tattling little tune,
Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter,
As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon;
Beaming little, gleaming little fire flies go dreaming
To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies,
Creep, creep, creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver
In the mushy little, rushy little, reedy, weedy bogs,
Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river
In the joking little, croaking little cadence of the frogs,
Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming
Where the clover heads like fairy little night caps rise,
Creep, creep, creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

DISGUISING TOIL

When I was just a little boy and sent to cut the weeds,
I played myself a hero bold and given to mighty deeds;
I played myself an armored knight, my scythe a broadsword keen,
The weeds an army of my foes come marching o’er the green;
I laid my good broadsword about, they broke and ran pell-mell,
At every stroke some stubborn lout and his retainers fell.
And when I told them of my play, with lusty shouts and glee,
The neighbor boys brought scythes and fell to cutting weeds for me.

When I was just a little boy and sent to cut the wood,
I played myself a frontier scout, six feet in buckskin stood;
I played the red men swarmed about and all the timbers laid
Must be quick hewed and fashioned for an old frontier stockade;
Quick fell my axe with flashing blade, for all about I heard
The war-whoop of the warriors who in the thicket stirred.
And when I told them of my play, with lusty strokes and cry,
The neighbor boys fell to and wrought my woodpile brimming high.

When I was just a little boy and sent to scrub the walk
With hose and broom, I used to play it was the good ship Hawk
Or Hornet, Spider or Whatnot, afire far out at sea,
Nor help at hand where’er I looked, to windward or to lee;
And how I fought the tongues of flame that swept by stern and bow!
The clouds of smoke that rolled above--I almost see them now!
And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout,
The neighbor boys plied hose and broom to put the fire out.

And when I had to shovel snow I led’ some hardy band
Of undismayed discoverers, in far-off Arctic land;
With stores and goods and blubber, too, all buried deep below
The mark that I had left beneath some good six feet of snow;
And almost famished, there I dug, full knowing I should find
At last the goodly stores of stuff that we had left behind.
And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout,
The neighbor boys plied willing spades and helped me dig them out.

LITTLE GIRL WITH THE CURLS