Chapter II: Part 2

"The harp that wance through Tara's halls
The sowl av music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that sowl were dead."
And all who've heard the lonesome _keens_
That that grim ghost has blown,
Know well by Tara's harp he means
That batthered ould trombone.

* * * * *

SUSAN VAN DOOZEN

I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty,
To bring to me shekels and fame,
And the only right way one may write one to-day
Is to give it some Irish girl's name.
There's "Rosy O'Grady," that dear "steady lady,"
And sweet "Annie Rooney" and such,
But mine shall be nearly original, really,
For Susan Van Doozen is Dutch.

_O Susan Van Doozen! the girl of my choos'n',_
_You stick in my bosom like glue;
While this you're perusin', remember I'm mus'n',_
_Sweet Susan Van Doozen, on you.
So don't be refus'n' my offer, and bruis'n'_
_A heart that is willing to woo;
And please be excus'n', not cold and refus'n',--
O Susan Van Doozen, please do_!

Now through it I'll scatter--a quite easy matter-- Some lines that we all of us know, How "The neighbors all cry as she passes them by, 'There's Susan, the pride of the row!'" And something like "daisy" and "setting me crazy," --These lines the dear public would miss-- Then chuck a "sweetheart" in, and "never to part" in, And end with a chorus like this:

_O Susan Van Doozen! before I'd be los'n'
One glance from your eyes of sky-blue,
I vow I'd quit us'n' tobacco and booz'n',
(That word is not nice, it is true).
I wear out my shoes, 'n' I'm los'n' my roos'n'_
_My reason, I should say, dear Sue_,--
_So please change your views 'n' become my own Susan_,
_O Susan Van Doozen, please do_!

* * * * *

SISTER SIMMONS

Almost every other evening jest as reg'lar as the clock When we're settin' down ter supper, wife and I, there comes a knock An' a high-pitched voice, remarking', "Don't get up; it's _me_, yer know"; An' our mercury drops from "summer" down ter "twenty-five below," An' our cup of bliss turns sudden inter wormwood mixed with gall, Fer we know it's Sister Simmons come ter make her "reg'lar call."

In she comes an' takes the rocker. Thinks she'll slip her bunnit off, But she'll keep her shawl on, coz she's 'fraid of addin' ter her cough. No, she won't set down ter supper. Tea? well, yes, a half er cup. Her dyspepsy's been so lately, seems as if she _should_ give up; An', 'tween rheumatiz an' as'ma, she's jest worn ter skin an' bone. It's a good thing that she told us,--by her looks we'd never known.

Next, she starts in on the neighbors; tells us all their private cares, While we have the fun er knowin' how she talks of _our_ affairs; Says, with sobs, that Christmas comin' makes her feel _so_ bad, for, oh! Her Isaiah, the dear departed, allers did enjoy it so. Her Isaiah, poor henpecked critter, 's been dead seven years er more, An' looked happier in his coffin than he ever did afore.

So she sits, her tongue a-waggin' in the same old mournful tones, Spoilin' all our quiet evenin's with her troubles an' her groans, Till, by Jude, I'm almost longin' fer those mansions of the blest, "Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest!" But if Sister Simmons' station is before the Throne er Grace, I'll just ask 'em to excuse me, an' I'll try the other place.

* * * * *

"THE FIFT' WARD J'INT DEBATE"

Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation, He says thim Phillypynos air the r-r-ruin av the nation. He says this counthry's job is jist a-mindin' av her biz, And imparyilism's thrayson, so ut is, so ut is. But big Moike Macnamara, him that runs the gin saloon, He wants the nomina-a-tion, so he sings a different chune; He's a-howlin' fer ixpansion, so he puts ut on the shlate Thot he challenged Dan O'Hoolihan ter have a j'int debate.

_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye 'd been there! Ho, ho! Begorra! 'Twas lovely, Oi declare_; _The langwudge, sure 't was iligant, the rhitoric was great_, _Whin Dan and Mack, they had ut back, At our big j'int debate_.

'T was in the War-r-d Athletic Club we had ut fixed ter hear 'em, And all the sates was crowded, fer the gang was there ter cheer 'em; A foine debatin' platfor-r-m had been built inside the ring, And iverybuddy said 't was jist the thing, jist the thing. O'Hoolihan, he shtarted off be sayin', ut was safe Ter say that aich ixpansionist was jist a murth'rin thafe; And, whin I saw big Mack turn rid, and shtart ter lave his sate, Oi knew we 'd have a gor-r-geous toime at our big j'int debate.

Thin Moike he tuk his tur-r-n ter shpake, "Av Oi wance laid me hand," Says he, "upon an 'Anti,' faith! Oi'd make his nose ixpand; Oi 'd face the schnakin' blackguar-r-d, and Oi'd baste him where he shtood. Oi'd annix him to a graveyard, so Oi would, so Oi would!" Thin up jumped Dan O'Hoolihan a-roar-r-in' out "Yez loie!" And flung his b'aver hat at Mack, and plunked him in the eye; And Moike he niver shtopped ter talk, but grappled wid him straight, And the ar-r-gymint got loively thin, at our big j'int debate.

Oi niver in me loife have seen sich char-r-min' illycution, The gistures av thim wid their fists was grand in ixecution; We tried to be impar-r-tial, so no favoroite we made, But jist sicked them on tergither, yis indade, yis indade. And nayther wan was half convinced whin Sar-r-gint Leary came, Wid near a dozen other cops, and stopped the purty game; But niver did Oi see dhress-suits in sich a mortial state As thim the or-r-ators had on at our big j'int debate.

_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye'd been there! Ho, ho! Begorra! The foight was on the square_; _Ter see the wagon goin' off, wid thim two on the sate_!-- _Oi 'd loike ter shtroike, 'twixt Dan and Moilce_, _Another j'int debate_.

* * * * *

HIS NEW BROTHER

Say, I've got a little brother, Never teased to have him, nuther, But he's here; They just went ahead and bought him, And, last week the doctor brought him, Wa'n't that queer?

When I heard the news from Molly, Why, I thought at first 't was jolly, 'Cause, you see, I s'posed I could go and get him And then Mama, course, would let him Play with me.

But when I had once looked at him, "Why!" I says, "My sakes, is _that_ him? Just that mite!" They said, "Yes," and, "Ain't he cunnin'?" And I thought they must be funnin',-- He's a _sight!_

He's so small, it's just amazin', And you 'd think that he was blazin', He's so red; And his nose is like a berry, And he's bald as Uncle Jerry On his head.

Why, he isn't worth a dollar! All he does is cry and holler More and more; _Won't_ sit up--you can't arrange him,-- _I_ don't see why Pa do'n't change him At the store.

Now we've got to dress and feed him, And we really didn't _need_ him More 'n a frog; Why'd they buy a baby brother, When they know I'd _good_ deal ruther Have a dog?

* * * * *

CIRCLE DAY

Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run outdoors and play; Be good boys and don't be both'rin', till the company's gone away." She and sister Mary's hustlin', settin' out the things for tea, And the parlor's full of women, such a crowd you never see; Every one a-cuttin' patchwork or a-sewin' up a seam, And the way their tongues is goin', seems as if they went by steam. Me and Billy's been a-listenin' and, I tell you what, it beats Circus day to hear 'em gabbin', when the Sewin' Circle meets.

First they almost had a squabble, fightin' 'bout the future life; When they'd settled that they started runnin' down the parson's wife. Then they got a-goin' roastin' all the folks there is in town, And they never stopped, you bet yer, till they'd done 'em good and brown. They knew everybody's business and they made it mighty free, But the way they loved _each other_ would have done yer good to see; Seems ter me the only way ter keep yer hist'ry off the streets Is to be on hand a-waitin' when the Sewin' Circle meets.

Pretty quick they'll have their supper, then's the time to see the fun; Ma'll say the rolls is _awful_, and she's 'fraid the pie ain't done. Really everything is bully, and she knows it well enough, But the folks that's havin' comp'ny always talks that kind of stuff. That sets all the women goin', and they say, "How _can_ you make Such _delicious_ pies and biscuits, and such _lovely_ choc'late cake?" Me and Billy don't say nothin' when we pitches in and eats Up the things there is left over when the Sewin' Circle meets.

I guess Pa do'n't like the Circle, 'cause he said ter Uncle Jim That there cacklin' hen convention was too peppery for _him_. And he'll say to Ma, "I'm sorry, but I've really got ter dodge Down t' the hall right after supper--there's a meetin' at the lodge." Ma'll say, "Yes, so I expected." Then a-speakin' kinder cold, "Seems ter me, I'd get a new one; that excuse is gettin' old!" Pa'll look sick, just like a feller when he finds you know he cheats, But he do'n't stay home, you bet yer, when the Sewin' Circle meets.

* * * * *

SERMON TIME

"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that, And I'll say it over 'n over, till I've got it good and pat, For when I get home from meetin', Gran'ma'll ask me for the text, And if I say I've forgot it, she'll be goin' for me next, Say in', I don't pay attention, and what _am_ I comin' to; Tellin' 'bout when _she_ was little, same as old folks always do. Say, I'll bet she didn't like it any better than the rest, Sittin' 'round all stiff and starchy, dressed up in your Sunday best.

"Blessed are the poor"--I tell yer, some day I'll be clearin' out, Leavin' all this dressin' nonsense, 'cause I'm goin' ter be a scout, Same as "Deadwood Dick," a-killin' all the Injuns on the plains: _He_ do'n't comb his hair, you bet yer; no, nor wash, unless it rains. And bimeby I'll come home, bringin' loads of gold and di'mon' rings; My, won't all the boys be jealous when they see those kind of things! 'N' I'll have a reputation, folks'll call me "Lariat Ben," Gran'ma'll think I 'mount ter somethin', maybe, when she sees me then.

"Blessed are the"--There's a blackbird, outside, sittin' on a limb,-- Gosh! I wish it wasn't Sunday, p'raps I wouldn't go for him. Sis says stonin' birds is wicked, but she's got one on her hat,-- S'pose that makes it right and proper, if yer kill 'em just for that. There's that dudey city feller, sittin' in the Deacon's pew. Needn't feel so big now, Smarty, just because your clothes are new; Me and Sam has rigged a hat line; when it's dark to-morrer night We'll just catch your shiny beaver and we'll send it out of sight.

"Blessed are"--There's Mr. Wiggin sound asleep. I wish he'd snore. Cracky! Now he's been and done it, dropped his hymn-book on the floor. See how cross his wife is lookin'. Say, I bet they'll have a row; Pa said that she wore the breeches, but she's got a dress on now. There's Nell Baker with her uncle. Her 'n I don't speak at school, 'Cause she wouldn't help a feller when I clean forgot the rule. Used to be my girl before that--Gee! what was that text about? "Blessed--blessed--blessed" something. I'll ask Sis when we get out.

* * * * *

"TAKIN' BOARDERS"

_We'd_ never thought of takin' 'em,--'t was Mary Ann's idee,-- Sence she got back from boardin'-school she's called herself "Maree" An' scattered city notions like a tom-cat sheds his fur. She thought our old melodeon wa'n't good enough fer her, An' them pianners cost so that she said the only way Was ter take in summer boarders till we 'd made enough to pay; So she wrote adver_tis_ements out to fetch 'em inter camp, An' now there's boarders thicker here than June bugs round a lamp.

Our best front parlor'll jest be sp'iled; they h'ist up every shade An' open all the blinds, by gum! an' let the carpet fade. They're in there week days jest the same as Sunday; I declare, I really think our haircloth set is showin' signs o' wear! They set up ha'f the night an' sing,--no use ter try ter sleep, With them a-askin' folks ter "Dig a grave both wide an' deep," An' "Who will smoke my mashum pipe?" By gee! I tell yer what: If they want me to dig their graves, I'd jest as soon as not!

There ain't no comfort now at meals; I can't take off my coat, Nor use my knife to eat, nor tie my napkin 'round my throat, Nor drink out of my sasser. Gosh! I hardly draw my breath 'Thout Mary Ann a-tellin' me she's "mortified to death!" Before they came our breakfast time was allus ha'f-past six; By thunderation! 't wouldn't do; you'd orter hear the kicks! So jest to suit 'em 't was put off till sometime arter eight, An' when a chap gits up at four that's mighty long ter wait.

The idee was that Mary Ann would help her Ma; but, land! She can't be round a minute but some boarder's right on hand Ter take her out ter walk or ride--_she_ likes it well enough, But when you 're gittin' grub for twelve, Ma finds it kinder tough. We ain't a-sayin' nothin' now, we'll see this season through, But folks that bought one gold brick ain't in love with number two; An' if you're passin' down our way next summer, cast your eye At our front fence. You'll see a sign, "NO BOARDERS NEED APPLY."

* * * * *

A COLLEGE TRAINING

Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair, With a weird array of raiment and a wondrous wealth of hair, With a lazy love of languor and a healthy hate of work And a cigarette devotion that would shame the turbaned Turk. And he called his father "Guv'nor," with a cheek serene and rude, While that raging, wrathful rustic calld his son a "blasted dude." And in dark and direful language muttered threats of coming harm To the "idle, shif'less critter" from his father's good right arm.

And the trouble reached a climax on the lawn behind the shed,-- "Now, I'm gon' ter lick yer, sonny," so the sturdy parent said, "And I'll knock the college nonsense from your noddle, mighty quick!"-- Then he lit upon that chappy like a wagon-load of brick. But the youth serenely murmured, as he gripped his angry dad, "You're a clever rusher, Guv'nor, but you tackle very bad"; And he rushed him through the center and he tripped him for a fall, And he scored a goal and touchdown with his papa as the ball.

Then a cigarette he lighted, as he slowly strolled away, Saying, "That was jolly, Guv'nor, now we'll practice every day"; While his father from the puddle, where he wallowed in disgrace, Smiled upon his offspring, proudly, from a bruised and battered face, And with difficulty rising, quick he hobbled to the house. "Henry's all right, Ma!" he shouted to his anxious, waiting spouse, "He jest licked me good and solid, and I tell yer, Mary Ann, When a chap kin lick _your husband_ he's a mighty able man!"

* * * * *

A CRUSHED HERO

On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm, Sits a freckled youth and lanky, red of hair and long of arm; But his mien is proud and haughty and his brow is high and stern, And beneath their sandy lashes, fiery eyes with purpose burn. Bow before him, gentle reader, he's the hero we salute, He is Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Search not Fame's immortal marbles, never there his name you'll find, For our hero, let us whisper, is a hero in his mind; And a youth may bathe in glory, wade in slaughter time on time, When a novel, wild and gory, may be purchased for a dime. And through reams of lurid pages has he slain the Sioux and Ute, Bloody Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Hark, a heavy step advancing,--list, a father's angry cry, "He hain't shucked a single nubbin; where's that good-fer-nothin' Hi?" "Here, base catiff," comes the answer, "here am I who was your slave, But no more I'll do your shuckin', though I fill a bloody grave! Freedom's fire my breast has kindled; there'll be bloodshed, tyrant! brute!" Quoth brave Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

"Breast's a-blazin', is it, Sonny?" asks his father with a smile, "Kind er like a stove, I reckon, what they call 'gas-burner' style. Good 'base-burner' 's what your needin'"--here he pins our hero fast, "Come, young man, we'll try the woodshed, keep the bloodshed till the last." Then an atmosphere of horse-whip, interspersed with cow-hide boot, Wraps young Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

* * * * *

Weep ye now, oh, gentle reader, for the fallen, great of heart, As ye wept o'er Saint Helena and the exiled Bonaparte; For a picture, sad as that one, to your pity I would show Of a spirit crushed and broken,--of a hero lying low; For where husks are heaped the highest, working swiftly, hushed and mute, Shucketh Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

* * * * *

A THANKSGIVING DREAM

I'm pretty nearly certain that't was 'bout two weeks ago,-- It might be more, or, p'raps 't was less,--but, anyhow, I know 'T was on the night I ate the four big saucers of ice cream That I dreamed jest the horriblest, most awful, _worstest_ dream. I dreamed that 'twas Thanksgiving and I saw our table laid With every kind of goody that, I guess, was ever made; With turkey, and with puddin', and with everything,--but, gee! 'T was dreadful, 'cause they was alive, and set and looked at me.

And then a great big gobbler, that was on a platter there, He stood up on his drumsticks, and he says, "You boy, take care! For if, Thanksgivin' Day, you taste my dark meat or my white, I'll creep up to your bedroom in the middle of the night; I'll throw off all the blankets, and I'll pull away the sheet, I'll prance and dance upon you with my prickly, tickly feet; I'll kick you, and I'll pick you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!' Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that gobbler says, says he.

And then a fat plum puddin' kind er grunted-like and said: "I'm round and hot and steamin', and I'm heavier than lead, And if you dare to eat me, boy, upon Thanksgivin' Day, I'll come at night and tease you in a frightful sort of way. I'll thump you, and I'll bump you, and I'll jump up high and fall Down on your little stomach like a sizzlin' cannon-ball I'll hound you, and I'll pound you, and I'll screech 'Remember me!' Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that puddin says, says he.

And then, soon as the puddin' stopped, a crusty ol' mince pie Jumped from its plate and glared at me and winked its little eye; "You boy," it says, "Thanksgivin' Day, don't dare ter touch a slice Of me, for if you do, I'll come and cramp you like a vise. I'll root you, and I'll boot you, and I'll twist you till you squeal, I'll stand on edge and roll around your stomach like a wheel; I'll hunch you, and I'll punch you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!'"

* * * * *

I don't know what came after that, 'cause I woke up, you see.

You wouldn't b'lieve that talk like that one ever _could_ forget, But, say! ter-day's Thanksgivin,' and I've et, and et, and et! And when I'd stuffed jest all I could, I jumped and gave a scream, 'Cause all at once, when 't was too late, I 'membered 'bout that dream. And now it's almost bedtime, and I ought ter say my prayers And tell the folks "good-night" and go a-pokin' off up-stairs; But, oh, my sakes! I dasn't, 'cause I know them things'll be All hidin' somewheres 'round my bed and layin there fer me.

* * * * *

O'REILLY'S BILLY-GOAT

A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes, Among the crags of Shantytown a peaceful quiet reigns, For down upon McCarty's dump, in fiery fight for fame, The Shanties meet the Mudvilles in the final pennant game; And heedless of the frantic fray, in center field remote, Behind the biggest ash-heap lies O'Reilly's billy-goat.

The eager crowd bends forward now, in fierce excitement's thrall, The pitcher writhes in serpent twist, the umpire says, "Play ball!" The batsman swings with sudden spite,--a loud, resounding "spat," And hissing through the ambient air the horse-hide leaves the bat; With one terrific battle-cry, the "rooter" clears his throat, But still serene in slumber lies O'Reilly's billy-goat.

Alas, alas for Shantytown! the Mudvilles forge ahead; Alas for patriotic hopes! the green's below the red; With one half inning still to play the score is three to two, The Shantys have a man on base,--be brave my lads, and true; Bold Captain Muggsy comes to bat, a batsman he of note, And slowly o'er the ash-heap walks O'Reilly's billy-goat.

The yelling Mudville hosts have wrecked his slumbers so serene, With deep disgust and sullen eye he gazes o'er the scene. He notes the center-fielder's garb, the Mudvilles' shirt of red; He firmly plants his sturdy legs, he bows his horned head, And, as upon his shaggy ears the Mudville slogan smote, A sneer played 'mid the whiskers of O'Reilly's billy-goat.

The valiant Muggsy hits the ball. Oh, deep and dark despair! He hits it hard and straight, but ah, he hits it in the air! The Mudville center-fielder smiles and reaches forth in glee, He knows that fly's an easy out for such a man as he. Beware, oh rash and reckless youth, nor o'er your triumph gloat, For toward you like a comet flies O'Reilly's billy-goat.

Across the battle-field is borne a dull and muffled sound, The fielder like a bullock falls, the ball rolls on the ground. Around the bases on the wing the gallant Muggsy speeds, And follows swiftly in the track where fast his comrade leads. And from the field of chaos where the dusty billows float, With calm, majestic mien there stalks O'Reilly's billy-goat.

Above the crags of Shantytown the flaunting pennant waves, And cheering myriads chant the praise of Muggsy's lusty braves. The children shout in gladsome glee, each fair one waves her hand, As down the street the heroes march with lively German band; But wilder grows the tumult when, with ribboned horns and coat, They see, on high in triumph borne, O'Reilly's billy-goat.

* * * * *

THE CUCKOO CLOCK

When Ezry, that's my sister's son, come home from furrin parts, He fetched the folks a lot of things ter brighten up their hearts; He fetched 'em silks and gloves and clothes, and knick-knacks, too, a stock, But all he fetched fer us was jest a fancy cuckoo clock. 'T was all fixed up with paint and gilt, and had a little door Where sat the cutest little bird, and when 't was three or four Or five or six or any time, that bird would jest come out And, 'cordin' ter what time it was, he'd flap his wings and shout: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

Well, fust along we had it, why, I thought 'twas simply prime! And used to poke the hands around ter make it "cuckoo" time; And allers when we'd company come, they had ter see the thing, And, course they almost had a fit when "birdie" come ter sing. But, by and by, b'gosh! I found it somehow lost its joys, I found it kind er made me sick to hear that senseless noise; I wished 't was jest a common clock, that struck a gong, yer know, And didn't have no foolish bird ter flap his wings and go: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

Well, things git on from bad to wuss, until I'm free ter grant, I'd smash it into kindlin', but a present, so, I can't! And, though a member of the church, and deacon, I declare, That thing jest sets me up on end and makes me want ter swear! I try ter be religious and ter tread the narrer way, But seems as if that critter knew when I knelt down ter pray, And all my thoughts of heaven go a-tumblin' down ter,--well, A different kind of climate--when that bird sets out ter yell: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

I read once in a poetry book, that Ezry had ter home, The awful fuss a feller made about a crow, that come And pestered him about ter death and made him sick and sore, By settin' on his mantel-piece and hollerin' "Nevermore!" But, say, I'd ruther have the crow, with all his fuss and row, His bellerin' had _some_ sense, b'gosh! 'T was _English_, anyhow; And all the crows in Christendom that talked a Christian talk Would seem like nightingales, compared ter that air furrin squawk: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

* * * * *

THE POPULAR SONG

I never was naturally vicious;
My spirit was lamb-like and mild;
I never was bad or malicious;
I loved with the trust of a child.
But hate now my bosom is burning,
And all through my being I long
To get one solid thump on the head of the chump
Who wrote the new popular song.

The office-boy hums it,
The book-keeper drums it,
It's whistled by all on the street;
The hand-organ grinds it,
The music-box winds it,
It's sung by the "cop" on the beat.
The newsboy, he spouts it,
The bootblack, he shouts it,
The washwoman sings it all wrong;
And I laugh, and I weep,
And I wake, and I sleep,
To the tune of that popular song.

Its measures are haunting my dreaming;
I rise at the breakfast-bell's call
To hear the new chambermaid screaming
The chorus aloud through the hall.
The landlady's daughter's piano
Is helping the concert along,
And my molars I break on the tenderloin steak
As I chew to that popular song.

The orchestra plays it,
The German band brays it,
'T is sung on the platform and stage;
All over the city
They're chanting the ditty;
At summer resorts it's the rage.
The drum corps, it beats it,
The echo repeats it,
The bass-drummer brings it out strong,
And we speak, and we talk,
And we dance, and we walk,
To the notes of that popular song.

It really is driving me crazy;
I feel that I'm wasting away;
My brain is becoming more hazy,
My appetite less every day.
But, ah! I'd not pray for existence,
Nor struggle my life to prolong,
If, up some dark alley, with him I might dally
Who wrote that new popular song.

The bone-player clicks it,
The banjoist picks it,
It 'livens the clog-dancer's heels;
The bass-viol moans it,
The bagpiper drones it,
They play it for waltzes and reels.
I shall not mind quitting
The earthly, and flitting
Away 'mid the heavenly throng,
If the mourners who come
To my grave do not hum
That horrible popular song.

* * * * *

MATILDY'S BEAU

I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind That solves a whole blame murder case by footmarks left behind; But then, again, on t'other hand, my eyes hain't shut so tight But I can add up two and two and get the answer right; So, when prayer-meet'ns, Friday nights, got keepin' awful late, And, fer an hour or so, I'd hear low voices at the gate-- And when that gate got saggin' down 'bout ha'f a foot er so-- I says ter mother: "Ma," says I, "Matildy's got a beau."

We ought ter have expected it--she's 'most eighteen, yer see; But, sakes alive! she's always seemed a baby, like, ter me; And so, a feller after _her_! why, that jest did beat all! But, t' other Sunday, bless yer soul, he come around ter call; And when I see him all dressed up as dandy as yer please, But sort er lookin' 's if he had the shivers in his knees, I kind er realized it then, yer might say, like a blow-- Thinks I, "No use! I'm gittin' old; Matildy's got a beau."

Just twenty-four short years gone by--it do'n't seem five, I vow!-- I fust called on Matildy--that's Matildy's mother now; I recollect I spent an hour a-tyin' my cravat, And I'd sent up ter town and bought a bang-up shiny hat. And, my! oh, my! them new plaid pants; well, wa'n't I something grand When I come up the walk with some fresh posies in my hand? And didn't I feel like a fool when her young brother, Joe, Sang out: "Gee crickets! Looky here! Here comes Matildy's beau!"

And now another feller comes up _my_ walk, jest as gay, And here's Matildy blushin' red in jest her mother's way; And when she says she's got ter go an errand to the store, We know _he_ 's waitin' 'round the bend, jest as I've done afore; Or, when they're in the parlor and I knock, why, bless yer heart! I have ter smile ter hear how quick their chairs are shoved apart. They think us old folks don't "catch on" a single mite; but, sho! I reckon they fergit I was Matildy's mother's beau.

* * * * *

"SISTER'S BEST FELLER"

My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, And handsome and strong as a feller can be; And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, You never would think she could boss him at all; But, my jing! She do'n't do a thing But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string! It jest makes me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, To think that he'll let a girl bully him so.

He goes to walk with her and carries her muff And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun! And, oh, say! When they go to a play, He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late.

He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; And all he's got for 'em 's a handkerchief case-- A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; But, my land! He thinks it's just grand, "'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint," And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't.

'Fore _I_ go an errand for her any time I jest make her coax me, and give me a dime; But that great, big silly--why, honest and true-- He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to. Oh, gee whiz! I tell you what 'tis! I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his. _I_ won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee! My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!

* * * * *

"THE WIDDER CLARK"

It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill, The wind comes down the chimbly with a whistle sharp and shrill, The dead leaves rasp and rustle in the corner by the shed, And the branches scratch and rattle on the skylight overhead. The cracklin' blaze is climbin' up around the old backlog, As we set by the fireplace here, myself and cat and dog; And as fer me, I'm thinkin', as the fire burns clear and bright, That it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

It's bad enough fer me, b'gosh, a-pokin' round the place, With jest these two dumb critters here, and nary human face To make the house a home agin, same as it used ter be While mother lived, for she was 'bout the hull wide world ter me. My bein' all the son she had, we loved each other more-- That's why, I guess, I'm what they call a "bach" at forty-four. It's hard fer _me_ to set alone, but women folks--'t ain't right, And it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

I see her t' other mornin', and, I swan, 't wa'n't later 'n six, And there she was, out in the cold, a-choppin' up the sticks To kindle fire fer breakfast, and she smiled so bright and gay, By gee, I simply couldn't bear ter see her work that way! Well, I went in and chopped, I guess, enough ter last a year, And she said "Thanks," so pretty, gosh! it done me good ter hear! She do'n't look over twenty-five, no, not a single mite; Ah, hum! it must be lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

I sez ter her, "Our breakfasts ain't much fun fer me or you; Seems's if two lonesome meals might make one social one fer two." She blushed so red that I did, too, and I got sorter 'fraid That she was mad, and, like a fool, come home; I wish I'd stayed! I'd like ter know, now, if she thinks that Clark's a pretty name-- 'Cause, if she do'n't, and fancies mine, we'll make 'em both the same. I think I'll go and ask her, 'cause 't would ease my mind a sight Ter know 't wa'n't quite so lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

* * * * *

FRIDAY EVENING MEETINGS

Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago, When the prayers were long and fervent and the anthems staid and slow, Where the creed was like the pewbacks, of a pattern straight and stiff, And the congregation took it with no doubting "but" or "if," Where the girls sat, fresh and blooming, with the old folks down before, And the boys, who came in later, took the benches near the door.

Oh, the Friday evening meetings, how the ransomed sinners told Of their weary toils and trials ere they reached the blessed fold; How we trembled when the Deacon, with a saintly relish, spoke Of the fiery place of torment till we seemed to smell the smoke; And we all joined in "Old Hundred" till the rafters seemed to ring When the preacher said, "Now, brethren: Hallelujah! Let us sing."

Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the waiting 'round about, 'Neath the lamplight, at the portal, just to see when _she_ came out, And the whispered, anxious question, and the faintly murmured "Yes," And the soft hand on your coat-sleeve, and the perfumed, rustling dress,-- Oh, the Paradise of Heaven somehow seemed to show its worth When you walked home with an angel through a Paradise on earth.

Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the happy homeward stroll, While the moonlight softly mingled with the love-light in your soul; Then the lingering 'neath the lattice where the roses hung above, And the "good-night" kiss at parting, and the whispered word of love,-- Ah, they lighted Life's dark highway with a sweet and sacred glow From the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago.

* * * * *

THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER

Little foot, whose lightest pat Seems to glorify the mat, Waving hair and picture hat, Grace the nymphs have taught her; Gown the pink of fit and style, Lips that ravish when they smile,-- Like a vision, down the aisle Comes the parson's daughter.

As she passes, like a dart To each luckless fellow's heart Leaps a throbbing thrill and smart, When his eye has sought her; Tries he then his sight to bless With one glimpse of face or tress-- Does she know it?--well, I guess! Parson's pretty daughter.

Leans she now upon her glove Cheeks whose dimples tempt to love, And, with saintly look above, Hears her "Pa" exhort her; But, within those upturned eyes, Fair as sunny summer skies, Just a hint of mischief lies,-- Parson's roguish daughter.

From their azure depths askance, When the hymn-book gave the chance, Did I get one laughing glance? I was sure I caught her. Are her thoughts so far amiss As to stray, like mine, to bliss? For, last night, I stole a kiss From the parson's daughter.

* * * * *

MY OLD GRAY NAG

When the farm work's done, at the set of sun,
And the supper's cleared away,
And Ma, she sits on the porch and knits,
And Dad, he puffs his clay;
Then out I go ter the barn, yer know,
With never a word ner sign,
In the twilight dim I harness him--
That old gray nag of mine.

He's used ter me, and he knows, yer see,
Down jest which lane ter turn;
Fact is--well, yes--he's been, I guess,
Quite times enough ter learn;
And he knows the hedge by the brook's damp edge,
Where the twinklin' fireflies shine,
And he knows who waits by the pastur' gates--
That old gray nag of mine.

So he stops, yer see, fer he thinks, like me,
That a buggy's made fer two;
Then along the lane, with a lazy rein,
He jogs in the shinin' dew;
And he do'n't fergit he can loaf a bit
In the shade of the birch and pine;
Oh, he knows his road, and he knows his load--
That old gray nag of mine.

No, he ain't the sort that the big-bugs sport,
Docked up in the latest style,
But he suits us two, clean through and through,
And, after a little while,
When the cash I've saved brings the home we've craved,
So snug, and our own design,
He'll take us straight ter the parson's gate--
That old gray nag of mine.

* * * * *

THROUGH THE FOG

The fog was so thick yer could cut it
'Thout reachin' a foot over-side,
The dory she'd nose up ter butt it,
And then git discouraged an' slide;
No noise but the thole-pins a-squeakin',
Or, maybe, the swash of a wave,
No feller ter cheer yer by speakin'--
'Twas lonesomer, lots, than the grave.

I set there an' thought of my trouble,
I thought how I'd worked fer the cash
That bust and went up like a bubble
The day that the bank went ter smash.
I thought how the fishin' was failin',
How little this season I'd made,
I thought of the child that was ailin',
I thought of the bills ter be paid.

"And," says I, "All my life I've been fightin'
Through oceans of nothin' but fog;
And never no harbor a-sightin'--
Jest driftin' around like a log;
No matter how sharp I'm a-spyin',
I never see nothin' ahead:
I'm sick and disgusted with tryin'--
I jest wish ter God I was dead."

It wa'n't more'n a minute, I'm certain,
The words was jest out er my mouth,
When up went the fog, like a curtain,
And "puff" came the breeze from the south;
And 'bout a mile off, by rough guessin',
I see my own shanty on shore,
And Mary, my wife and my blessin',
God keep her, she stood in the door.

And I says ter myself, "I'm a darlin';
A chap with a woman like that,
To set here a-grumblin' and snarlin',
As sour as a sulky young brat--
I'd better jest keep my helm steady,
And not mind the fog that's adrift,
For when the Lord gits good and ready,
I reckon it's certain ter lift."

* * * * *

THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP

My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold,
And her fluttering banners are brave of hue,
And her shining sails are of satin fold,
And her tall sides gleam where the warm waves woo:
While the flung spray leaps in a diamond dew
From her bright bow, dipping its dance of glee;
For the skies are fair and the soft winds coo,
Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea.

My dream-ship's journeys are long and bold,
And the ports she visits are far and few;
They lie by the rosy shores of old,
'Mid the dear lost scenes my boyhood knew;
Or, deep in the future's misty blue,
By the purple islands of Arcady,--
And Spain's fair turrets shine full in view,
Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea.

My dream-ship's cargo is wealth untold,
Rare blooms that the old home gardens grew,
Sweet pictured faces, and loved songs trolled
By lips long laid 'neath the churchyard yew;
Or wondrous wishes not yet come true,
And fame and glory that is to be;--
Hope holds the wheel all the lone watch through,
Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea.

ENVOY

Heart's dearest, what though the storms may brew,
And earth's ways darken for you and me?
The breeze is fair--let us voyage anew,
Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea.

* * * * *

LIFE'S PATHS

It's A wonderful world we're in, my dear,
A wonderful world, they say,
And blest they be who may wander free
Wherever a wish may stray;
Who spread their sails to the arctic gales,
Or bask in the tropic's bowers,
While we must keep to the foot-path steep
In this workaday life of ours.

For smooth is the road for the few, my dear,
And wide are the ways they roam:
Our feet are led where the millions tread,
In the worn, old lanes of home.
And the years may flow for weal or woe,
And the frost may follow the flowers,
Our steps are bound to the self-same round
In this workaday life of ours.

But narrow our path may be, my dear,
And simple the scenes we view,
A heart like thine, and a love like mine,
Will carry us bravely through.
With a happy song we'll trudge along,
And smile in the shine or showers,
And we'll ease the pack on a brother's back
By this workaday life of ours.

* * * * *

THE MAYFLOWER

In the gleam and gloom of the April weather,
When the snows have flown in the brooklet's flood,
And the Showers and Sunshine sport together,
And the proud Bough boasts of the baby Bud;
On the hillside brown, where the dead leaves linger
In crackling layers, all crimped and curled,
She parts their folds with a timid finger,
And shyly peeps at the waking world.

The roystering West Wind flies to greet her,
And bids her haste, with a gleeful shout:
The quickening Saplings bend to meet her,
And the first green Grass-blades call, "Come out!"
So, venturing forth with a dainty neatness,
In gown of pink or in white arrayed,
She comes once more in her fresh completeness,
A modest, fair little Pilgrim Maid.

Her fragrant petals, their beauties showing,
Creep out to sprinkle the hill and dell,
Like showers of Stars in the shadows glowing,
Or Snowflakes blossoming where they fell;
And the charmed Wood leaps into joyous blooming,
As though't were touched by a Fairy's ring,
And the glad Earth scents, in the rare perfuming,
The first sweet breath of the new-born Spring.

* * * * *

MAY MEMORIES

To my office window, gray,
Come the sunbeams in their play,
Come the dancing, glancing sunbeams, airy fairies of the May;
Like a breath of summer-time,
Setting Memory's bells a-chime,
Till their jingle seems to mingle with the measure of my rhyme.

And above the tramp of feet,
And the clamor of the street,
I can hear the thrush's singing, ringing high and clear and sweet,--
Hear the murmur of the breeze
Through the bloom-starred apple trees,
And the ripples softly splashing and the dashing of the seas;

See the shadow and the shine
Where the glossy branches twine,
And the ocean's sleepy tuning mocks the crooning in the pine;
Hear the catbird whistle shrill
In the bushes by the rill,
Where the violets toss and twinkle as they sprinkle vale and hill;

Feel the tangled meadow-grass
On my bare feet as I pass;
See the clover bending over in a dew-bespangled mass;
See the cottage by the shore,
With the pansy beds before,
And the old familiar places and the faces at the door.

Oh, the skies of blissful blue,
Oh, the woodland's verdant hue,--
Oh, the lazy days of boyhood, when the world was fair and new!
Still to me your tale is told
In the summer's sunbeam's gold,
And my truant fancy straying, goes a-Maying as of old.

* * * * *

BIRDS'-NESTING TIME

The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust Through the dingy school-house pane, A shining scimitar, free from rust, That cuts the cloud of the drifting dust, And scatters a golden rain; And the boy at the battered desk within Is dreaming a dream sublime, For study's a wrong, and school a sin, When the joys of woods and fields begin, And it's just birds'-nesting time.

He dreams of a nook by the world unguessed, Where the thrush's song is sung, And the dainty yellowbird's fairy nest, Lined with the fluff from the cattail's crest, 'Mid the juniper boughs is hung; And further on, by the elder hedge, Where the turtles come out to sleep, The marsh-hen builds, by the brooklet's edge, Her warm, wet home in the swampy sedge, 'Mid the shadows so dark and deep.

He knows of the spot by the old stone wall, Where the sunlight dapples the glade, And the sweet wild-cherry blooms softly fall, And hid in the meadow-grass rank and tall, The "Bob-white's" eggs are laid. He knows, where the sea-breeze sobs and sings, And the sand-hills meet the brine, The clamorous crows, with their whirring wings, Tell of their treasure that sways and swings In the top of the tasselled pine.

* * * * *

And so he dreamed, with a happy face, Till the noontide recess came, And when't was over, ah, sad disgrace, The teacher, seeing an empty place, Marked "truant" against his name; While he, forgetful of book or rule, Sought only a tree to climb: For where is the boy who remembers school When the cowslip blows by the marshy And it's just birds'-nesting time?

* * * * *

THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL

Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming
Through the window, sets its gleaming,
With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall,
With its tassel torn and tattered,
And its blade, deep-bruised and battered,
Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall.

None can tell its stirring story,
None can sing its deeds of glory,
None can say which cause it struck for, or from what limp hand it fell;
On the battle-field they found it,
Where the dead lay thick around it--
Friend and foe--a gory tangle--tossed and torn by shot and shell.

Who, I wonder, was its wearer,
Was its stricken soldier bearer?
Was he some proud Southern stripling, tall and straight and brave and true?
Dusky locks and lashes had he?
Or was he some Northern laddie,
Fresh and fair, with cheeks of roses, and with eyes and coat of blue?

From New England's fields of daisies,
Or from Dixie's bowered mazes,
Rode he proudly forth to conflict? What, I wonder, was his name?
Did some sister, wife, or mother,
Mourn a husband, son, or brother?
Did some sweetheart look with longing for a love who never came?

Fruitless question! Fate forever
Keeps its secret, answering never.
But the grim old blade shall blossom on this mild Memorial Day;
I will wreathe its hilt with roses
For the soldier who reposes
Somewhere 'neath the Southern grasses in his garb of blue or gray.

May the flowers be fair above him,
May the bright buds bend and love him,
May his sleep be deep and dreamless till the last great bugle-call;
And may North and South be nearer
To each other's heart, and dearer,
For the memory of their heroes and the old swords on the wall.

* * * * *

NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE

Pavements a-frying in street and in square, Never a breeze in the blistering air, Never a place where a fellow can run Out of the shine of the sizzling sun: "General Humidity" having his way, Killing us off by the hundred a day; Mercury climbing the tube like a shot,-- Suffering Caesar! I tell you it's hot!

Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck, Necktie and bosom and wristbands a wreck, Handkerchief dripping and worn to a shred Mopping and scouring my face and my head; Simply ablaze from my head to my feet, Back all afire with the prickles of heat,-- Not on my cuticle one easy spot,-- Jiminy Moses! I tell you it's _hot_!

Give me a fan and a seat in the shade, Bring me a bucket of iced lemonade; Dress me in naught but the thinnest of clothes, Start up the windmill and turn on the hose: Set me afloat from my toes to my chin, Open the ice-box and fasten me in,-- If it should freeze me, why, that matters not,-- Brimstone and blazes! I tell you it's HOT!

* * * * *

SUMMER NIGHTS AT GRANDPA'S

Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't they soft and still! Just the curtains rustlin' on the window-sill, And the wind a-blowin', warm and wet and sweet-- Smellin' like the meadows or the fields of wheat; Just the bullfrogs pipin' in amongst the grass, Where the water's shinin' like a lookin'-glass; Just a dog a-barkin' somewheres up along, So far off his yelpin' 's like a kind of song.

Summer nights at Grandpa's--hear the crickets sing, And the water bubblin' down beside the spring; Hear the cattle chewin' fodder in the shed, And an owl a-hootin' high up overhead; Hear the "way-off noises," faint and awful far-- So mixed-up a feller do'n't know what they are-- But so sort er lazy that they seem ter keep Sayin' over 'n' over, "Sonny, go ter sleep."

Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't it fun ter lay In the early mornin' when it's gettin' day-- When the sun is risin' and it's fresh and cool, And you 're feelin' happy coz there ain't no school?-- When you hear the crowin' as the rooster wakes, And you think of breakfast and the buckwheat cakes; Sleepin' in the city's too much fuss and noise; Summer nights at Grandpa's are the things for boys.

* * * * *

GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS"

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe.
Out on the gnarled old tree,
Out where the robin redbreasts pipe,
And buzzes the bumblebee;
Swinging high on the bending bough,
Scenting the lazy breeze,
What is the gods' ambrosia now
To apples of gold like these?

Ruddy the blush of their maiden cheeks
After the sunbeam's kiss--
Every quivering leaflet speaks,
Telling a tale of bliss;
Telling of dainties hung about,
Each in a verdant wreath,
Shimmering satin all without,
Honey and cream beneath.

Would ye haste to the banquet rare,
Taste of the feast sublime?
Brush from the brow the lines of care,
Scoff at the touch of Time?
Come in the glow of the olden days,
Come with a youthful face,
Come through the old familiar ways,
Up from the dear, old place.

Barefoot, trip through the meadow lane,
Laughing at bruise and scratch;
Come, with your hands all rich with stain
Fresh from the blackberry patch;
Come where the orchard spreads its store
And the breath of the clover greets;
Quick! they are waiting you here once more,--
Grandfather's "summer sweets."

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe,
Out on the gnarled, old tree--
Out where the robin redbreasts pipe,
And buzzes the bumblebee;
Swinging high on the bending bough,
Scenting the lazy breeze,
What is the gods' ambrosia now
To apples of gold like these?

* * * * *

MIDSUMMER

Sun like a furnace hung up overhead, Burnin' and blazin' and blisterin' red; Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep, One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep; Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still, Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,--Labor and laziness callin' to me: "Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?"

There's the old cornfield out there in the sun, Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done; There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout, Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out; But, there's the river, so clear and so cool, There's the white lilies afloat on the pool, Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree-- "Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?"