Chapter XXXI: Part I (11)

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein;

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnit turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug.
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty, and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again
Saying only “It might have been!”

Alas! for maiden, alas! for judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall,

For of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these “It might have been!”

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And in the hereafter angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Mr. Whittier’s statement of the origin of his poem of “Maud Müller” is thus given. He was driving with his sister through York, U.S.A., and stopped at a harvest field to inquire the way. A young girl raking hay near the stone-wall stopped to answer their inquiries. Whittier noticed as she talked that she bashfully raked the hay around and over her bare feet, and she was fresh and fair. The little incident left its impression, and he wrote out the poem that very evening. “But if I had had any idea,” he said, “that the plaguey little thing would have been so liked, I should have taken more pains with it.” To the inquiry as to the title, Maud Müller, he said it was suggested to him, and was not a selection. It came as the poem came. But he gives it the short German pronunciation, as Meuler, not the broad Yankee, Muller.

――――

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS.
[_Being the only genuine sequel to “Maud Müller.”_]

Maud Müller, all that summer day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay;

Yet, looking down the distant lane,
She hoped the judge would come again.

But when he came, with smile and bow,
Maud only blushed, and stammered, “Ha-ow?”

And spoke of her “pa,” and wondered whether
He’d give consent they should wed together.

Old Müller burst in tears, and then
Begged that the judge would lend him “ten;”

For trade was dull and wages low,
And the “craps,” this year, were somewhat slow.

And ere the languid summer died,
Sweet Maud became the Judge’s bride.

But, on the day that they were mated,
Maud’s brother Bob was intoxicated;

And Maud’s relations, twelve in all,
Were very drunk at the judge’s hall.

And when the summer came again,
The young bride bore him babies twain.

And the judge was blest, but thought it strange
That bearing children made such a change:

For Maud grew broad and red and stout:
And the waist that his arm once clasped about

Was more than he now could span. And he
Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,

How that which in Maud was native grace
In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;

And thought of the twins, and wished that they
Looked less like the man who raked the hay

On Müller’s farm, and dreamed with pain
Of the day he wandered down the lane.

And, looking down that dreary track,
He half regretted that he came back.

For, had he waited, he might have wed
Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;

For there be women fair as she,
Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.

Alas for maiden! alas for judge!
And the sentimental,――that’s one-half “fudge;”

For Maud soon thought the judge a bore,
With all his learning and all his lore.

And the judge would have bartered Maud’s fair face
For more refinement and social grace.

If, of all words of tongue and pen,
The saddest are, “It might have been,”

More sad are these we daily see:
“It is, but hadn’t ought to be.”

BRET HARTE.

――――

KATE KETCHEM.

Kate Ketchem on a winter’s night
Went to a party dressed in white.

Her chignon in a net of gold
Was about as large as they ever sold.

Gayly she went because her “pap”
Was supposed to be a rich old chap.

But when by chance her glances fell
On a friend who had lately married well,

Her spirits sunk and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast.

A wish she would’nt have made known
To have an establishment of her own.

Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng
With chestnut hair worn pretty long.

He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd
And knowing her slightly stopped, and bowed.

Then asked her to give him a single flower
Saying he’d think it a priceless dower.

Out from those with which she was decked
She took the poorest she could select.

And, blushed as she gave it, looking down
To call attention to her gown.

“Thanks,” said Fudge, and he thought how dear
Flowers must be at that time of year.

Then several charming remarks he made
Asked if she sang, or danced, or played.

And being exhausted, inquired whether
She thought it was going to be pleasant weather.

And Kate displayed her “jewelry”
And dropped her lashes becomingly.

And listened with no attempt to disguise
The admiration in her eyes.

At last like one who has nothing to say
He turned around, and walked away.

Kate Ketchem smiled, and said “you bet
I’ll catch that Fudge, and his money yet.

“He’s rich enough to keep me in clothes
And I think I could manage him as I chose.

“He could aid my father as well as not,
And buy my brother a splendid yacht.

“My mother for money should never fret
And all it cried for the baby should get.

“And after that with what he could spare
I’d make a show at a charity fair.”

Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill
And saw Kate Ketchem standing still.

“A girl more suited to my mind
It isn’t an easy thing to find;

“And everything she has to wear
Proves her as rich as she is fair.

“Would she were mine, and I to day
Had the old man’s cash my debts to pay.

“No creditors with a long account
No tradesmen wanting ‘that little amount.’

“But all my scores paid up when due
By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew.”

But he thought of her brother not worth a straw
And her mother, that would be his, in law.

So undecided he walked along
And Kate was left alone in the throng.

But a lawyer smiled when he sought by stealth
To ascertain old Ketchem’s wealth.

And as for Kate she schemed and planned
Till one of the dancers claimed her hand.

He married her for her father’s cash,
She married him to cut a dash.

But as to paying his debts do you know
The father couldn’t see it so;

And at hints for help Kate’s hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

And when Tom thought of the way he had wed
He longed for a single life instead.

And closed his eyes in a sulky mood
Regretting the days of his bachelorhood.

And said in a sort of reckless vein,
“I’d like to see her catch me again.

“If I were free as on that night
When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white.”

She wedded him to be rich and gay
But husband and children did’nt pay.

He wasn’t the prize she hoped to draw
And would’nt live with his mother-in-law.

And oft when she had to coax and pout
In order to get him to take her out,

She thought how very attentive and bright
He seemed at the party that winter’s night.

Of his laugh as soft as a breeze of the south
(’Twas now on the other side of his mouth);

How he praised her dress, and gems, in his talk
As he took a careful account of stock.

Sometimes she hated the very walls――
Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls.

Till her weak affection to hatred turned
Like a dying tallow candle burned.

And for him who sat there her peace to mar,
Smoking his everlasting cigar.

He wasn’nt the man she thought she saw
And grief was duty, and hate was law.

So she took up her burden with a groan
Saying only “I might have known.”

Alas for Kate, and alas for Fudge,
Though I do not owe them any grudge.

And, alas, for any who find to their shame
That two can play at their little game.

For of all hard things to bear and grin
The hardest is knowing you’re taken in.

Ah! well as a general thing we fret
About the one we didn’t get.

But I think we need’nt make a fuss
If the one we don’t want did’nt get us.

PHŒBE CAREY.

――――

MAUD MÜLLER IN DUTCH.

Maud Müller, von summer afternoon
Vas dending bar in her fadder’s saloon,
She solt dot bier, and singed “Shoo Fly,”
Und vinked at der men mit her lefd eye.
Bud ven she looked oud on der shdreed.
Und saw dem gals all dressed so shweed,
Her song gifed out on a ubber note,
Cause she had such a hoss in her troat;
Und she vished she had shdamps to shbend,
So she might git such a Grecian Bend.
Hans Brinker valked shlowly down her shdreed,
Shmilin at all der gals he’d meed;
Old Hans vas rich――as I’ve been dold,――
Had houses und lots, and a barrel of gold.
He shdopped by der door, und pooty soon
He valked righd indo dot bier saloon.
Und he vinked at Maud, und said, “My dear,
Gif me, of you pblease, a glass of bier.”
She vend to der pblace vere der bier keg shtood,
Und pringed him a glass dot vas fresh und goot,
“Dot’s goot,” said Hans, “dot’s a better drink
As effer I had in mine life, I dink.”
He dalked for a vhile, den said, “Goot day,”
Und up der shdreet he dook his vay.
Maud hofed a sigh, and said, “Oh, how
I’d likd to been dot olt man’s frow,
Such shplendid close I den vood vear,
Dot all the gals around vood shdare.
In dot Union Park I’d drive all tay,
Und efery evenin go to der blay.
Hans Brinker, doo, felt almighty gweer,
(But dat mit peen von trinkin beer.)
Und he says to himself, as he valked along,
Hummin der tune of a olt lofe song,
“Dot’s der finest gal I efer did see,
Und I vish dot she my wife cood be.”
But here his solillogwy came to an end,
As he dinked of der gold dot she might shbend;
Und he maked up his mind dot as for him,
He’d marry a girl mit lots of “din.”
So he vent righd off dot fery day,
Und married a vooman olt und gray.
He vishes now, but all in vain,
Dot he vas free to marry again;
Free as he vas dot afternoon,
Ven he med Maud Müller in der bier saloon.
Maud married a man without some “soap”――
He vas lazy doo――but she did hope
Dot he’d get bedder when shildren came;
But vhen dey had, he vas yoost der same.
Und ofden now dem dears vill come
As she sits alone ven her day’s vork’s done,
Und dinks of der day Hans called her “my dear,”
Und asked her for a glass of bier;
But she don’d comblain, nor efer has,
Und only says, “Dot coodn’t vas.”

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE MAUD MULLER.
(_Improved._)

Maud Muller, on a summer’s day,
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay――

But when she glanced to Huntsville town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died――and Fleming’s Improved
With a nameless longing her breast moved.

A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

“Uncle Pete” rode slowly for her sake,
Showing his “Improved Riding Rake.”

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple trees, to greet the maid.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown.

And merrily sparkled her hazel eyes
As “Uncle Pete” described his prize.

Maud Muller looked, and sighed “Law sake!
That’s MY idea of a perfect Rake.”

_American Advertisement._

――――

MISS MÜLLER IN URBE.

Miss Müller so the gossips say,
Flirted in quite a shameless way,

But Maud with a laugh pronounced it fudge――
Yet we caught her wink at the ratty judge,

And the judge――but we mention this sub rose――
Blushed up to the roots of his bulbous nose;

Still he crained his neck, and in passing by,
Gave a sinister wink with his dexter eye.

Quoth Maud to herself as on she passed,
“I’ve his royal nibs in tow at last;

My mother shall wear a seal skin sack――
My pa swing on his broadcloth black;

My brother shall sip his whiskey-skins,
And my sister revel in gay breast pins!”

Quoth the judge as he sauntered listless on,
“She’s a rattling girl! you bet I’m gone!

No doubt my last wife’s ma will kick
And my heirs cut up the very nick;

And though I’ve known her a short short spell,
You bet I’ll have her in spite of”――well

No matter his word it was short and stout
And the name of a place that’s now played out

According to Bucher. Alack for all
The maid and judge ne’er wedded at all;

For he passed in his checks from too much gin
And the maid grew long, and lank, and thin.

And she as her charms glimmered away
She ceased for to flirt, and began for to pray.

God pity the maid, and pity the judge,
And these days of twaddle, and bosh, and fudge,

For of all sad words from a heart bereft
The saddest are these, “You bet I’m left.”

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE MODERN MAUD MÜLLER.

Maud Müller worked at making hay
And cleared her forty cents a day.

Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine,
And so she worked in the sweet sunshine――

Singing as glad as a bird in May
“Barbary Allen” the livelong day.

She often glanced at the far off town
And wondered if eggs were up, or down.

And the sweet song died of a strange disease
Leaving a phantom-taste of cheese,

And an appetite and a nameless ache
For soda-water, and ginger cake.

The Judge rode slowly into view――
Stopped his horse in the shade, and threw

His fine cut out, while the blushing Maud
Marvelled much at the kind he “chawed.”

He was “dry as a fish” he said with a wink
And kind o’ thought that a good square drink

Would brace him up. So the cup was filled
With the crystal wine that the old spring spilled;

And she gave it him with a sun browned hand,
“Thanks” said the Judge, in accents bland;

“A thousand thanks for a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand――” but there he laughed,

And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day
And raked the Judge instead of the hay.

_Cincinnati Commercial._

――――

MAUD MÜLLER, AND THE JUDGE.

Maud Müller on an August day
Took the Fever of the Hay,

Sneezing she went and her shrill Ah-chee
The mock-bird echoed from the tree.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane
Smoothing his chestnut horse’s mane,

And drew his bridle in the shade
With a stimulation to greet the maid.

He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
The pollen from which makes sufferers sneeze,

And Maudie forgot her swollen nose
And even her graceful bare brown toes,

And listened while a pleased surprise
Looked from her watering hazel eyes.

At last with a wild “Ah-chee! Ah-cha!
Ah-choo! Ah-choo!” he rode away.

Maud Müller looked and sneezed “Ah-chee!
That I the Judge’s bride might be!

He would dress me with silks and diamond rings
And take me up to the ‘White Mountings,’

And I’d use the finest cambric _mouchoir_
And never have the Hay Fever more.”

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill
And heard her sternutations shrill.

“Would she were mide, and I to-day
Rid of this dab Fever of the Hay.”

But he thought of her sisters and clearly saw
Her mother would be his mother-in-law.

The baby would smear his broadcloth coat
And her brother borrow a five dollar note;

So closing his heart the Judge rode on
And Maudie was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon
When they heard him lustily a-choo-in.

And the young girl sneezed beside the well
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower
With an aquiline beak of ten Roman power,

And oft when the wine in his nose was red
And he knew the old woman was safe in bed,

The proud man sighed with a furnace force
“Ah could I only get a divorce

And marry the girl I saw that day
When I had the Fever of the Hay.”

She wedded a man unlearned and poor
And they had twins every twelve month――sure;

And oft when the summer sun shone hot
She wished she could drown the pesky lot.

Again in the shade of the apple trees
She saw a rider draw rein, and sneeze,

As she looked down because she knew
Her nose was big enough for two.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls

And for him with a pipe in his ugly mug――
Oh, if she had him by the lug!

A manly form at her side she saw
And there was no estival catarrh.

Then she took up her burden of life anew
Sighing only “Ah-chee! Ah-choo!”

Alas! for maiden; for Judge alas!
For household drudger, and gray haired ass.

Of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are “Hay fever time again.”

Ah! well for us that a region lies
Where the infusoria never rise;

And in the hereafter Angels may
Find a cure for the Fever of the Hay.

_New York World._

――――

MAUD MÜLLER ON THE ICE.

Maud Müller on a winter’s day
Went out upon the ice to play.

Beneath her Derby gleamed her locks
Of her red banged hair, and her crimson socks.

She straddled about from ten to two
And then a hole in the ice fell through.

On the bottom of the pond she sat
As wet and mad as a half drowned rat.

A man with a hicking pole went there
And fished her out by her auburn hair.

And her mother is said to have thumped her well――
Though just how hard Miss Maud can’t tell――

And hung her over the stove to dry
With a thumb in her mouth, and a fist in her eye.

Alas for the maiden! alas for the hole!
And ’rah for the man with the hicking pole!

For the truest words of tongue or pen
Are “A skating girl’s like a headless hen.”

_Brooklyn Eagle._

――――

MISS MULLER.

[“Miss Muller’s furniture, which was distrained for the payment of Queen’s taxes, refused by her on the ground that women are not allowed to vote for Parliamentary representatives, has been bought back by some of her friends, without her knowledge, and restored to her without her having paid the taxes.”――_Daily paper._]

Miss Muller, on a summer day,
Refused her taxes just to pay.

“I won’t stump up at all,” quoth she,
“Until to vote they make me free.”

So sordid man began his tricks,
And seized the dauntless maiden’s “sticks.”

He seized her table, and her chair,
While she stood by with martyr air.

She saw her dear belongings go,
And spoke of giving “blow for blow.”

About her thronged a female clan,
Who’d sworn to trounce despotic man.

And these, to cause the tyrant pain,
Bought back their leader’s “sticks” again.

That table and that chair so dear
They wrested from the auctioneer.

They brought them home, they set them down,
Then shrieked their triumph through the town.

Miss Muller smiled, and said, “You bet
I haven’t paid my taxes yet.”

If, of all words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are, “It might have been.”

Well-nigh as sad are man’s when he
Wails, “Muller, you have worsted me.”

_Funny Folks._ July 19, 1884.

――――:o:――――

BARBARA FRITCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord,
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.

On that pleasant morn of the early fall,
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Forty flags with their silver stars
Flapped in the morning wind, the sun
Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town;
She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead;

Under his slouched hat, left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!” The dust brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!” out blazed the rifle blast.

It shivered the window pane and sash,
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out of the window sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot if you must, this old grey head.
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life, at that woman’s deed and word.

“Who touches a hair on yon grey head,
Dies like a dog. March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long the free flag tossed
Over the heads of the rebel host;
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds, that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Fritchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier!
Over Barbara Fritchie’s grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace, and order, and beauty, draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below, in Frederick town!

J. G. WHITTIER.

Barbara Fritchie was 96 years old at the time of the occurrence, which took place literally as described in the poem.

A PARODY.

Drough der streets of Frederickdown,
Wid der red hot sun shining down,
Past der saloons filled mit beer,
Dem repel fellers valked on der ear.

All day drough Frederickdown so fasd,
Hosses foot and sodgers past,
Und der repel flag skimming ond so pright,
You vould dink py jiminy id had a ridght.

Off der mony flags dot flapped in der morning vind
Nary a vone could enybody find,
Ub shumbed old Miss Frietchie den,
Who vos pent down py nine score years und den.

She took der flag der men hauled down,
Und stuck id fasd on her nighd-gown,
Un pud id in der vindow vere all could see
Dot dere vas vone who did lofe dot goot old flag so free.

Yust den ub come Stonewall Jack,
Riden on his hosses’ pack,
Under his prows he squinted his eyes,
By golly de olt flag make him much surprise.

“Halt!” vell efery man stood him sdill,
“Fire!” vas echoed from hill to hill;
Id broke her strings of dot nighd-gown,
Put olt Babra she vas round.

She freezed on dot olt flag right quick,
Und oud of der vindow her head did stick:
“Scoot, of you must, dis old cray head,
Put spare dot country’s flag!” she said.

A look of shameness soon came o’er
Der face of Jack, und der tears did pour;
“Who pulls ond a hair of dot pald head,
Dies like a monkey!――skip along,” he said.

All dot day und all dot night,
Undil efery repel vas knocked oud of sight,
Und vay pehind from Frederickdown,
Dot flag stuck fasd to dot olt nighd-gown.

Babra Frietchie’s vork vas done,
She don’d eny more kin hafe some fun;
Pully for her! und drop a dear
For dot olt gal midoud some fear.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

HIRAM HOVER.
(_A Ballad of New England life._)

Where the Moosatockmaguntic
Pours its waters in the Skuntic,
Met, along the forest-side,
Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

She, a maiden fair and dapper,
He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,
Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk,
In the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, Pentucket’s pensive daughter,
Walked beside the Skuntic water,
Gathering, in her apron wet,
Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.

“Why,” he murmured, loth to leave her,
“Gather yarbs for chills and fever,
When a lovyer, bold and true,
Only waits to gather you?”

“Go,” she answered, “I’m not hasty;
I prefer a man more tasty:
Leastways, one to please me well
Should not have a beasty smell.”

“Haughty Huldah!” Hiram answered;
“Mind and heart alike are cancered:
Jest look here! these peltries give
Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

“I, you think, am but a vagrant,
Trapping beasts by no means fragrant:
Yet――I’m sure it’s worth a thank――
I’ve a handsome sum in bank.”

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover;
And, before the year was over,
Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,
Bought a cape, against the cold.

Black and thick the furry cape was;
Of a stylish cut the shape was;
And the girls, in all the town,
Envied Huldah up and down.

Then, at last, one winter morning,
Hiram came, without a warning:
“Either,” said he, “you are blind,
Huldah, or you’ve changed your mind.

“Me you snub for trapping varmints,
Yet you take the skins for garments:
Since you wear the skunk and mink,
There’s no harm in me, I think.”

“Well,” said she, “we will not quarrel,
“Hiram: I accept the moral.
Now the fashion’s so, I guess
I can’t hardly do no less.”

Thus the trouble all was over
Of the love of Hiram Hover;
Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde
Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favour,
Things of good and evil savour;
That, which first appeared to part,
Warmed, at last, the maiden’s heart.

Under one impartial banner,
Life, the hunter, Love, the tanner,
Draw, from every beast they snare,
Comfort for a wedded pair!

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor.

This is an imitation of the style of some of Whittier’s delightful ballads, only substituting a comical for an earnest motive. Change that motive, and a few expressions, and it would become a serious poem.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

ALL OR NOTHING.

Whoso answers my questions
Knoweth more than me;
Hunger is but knowledge
In a less degree:
Prophet, priest and poet
Oft prevaricate,
And the surest sentence
Hath the greatest weight.

When upon my gaiters
Drops the morning dew,
Somewhat of Life’s riddle
Soaks my spirit through.
I am buskined by the goddess
Of Monadnock’s crest,
And my wings extended
Touch the East and West.

Or ever coal was hardened
In the cells of earth,
Or flowed the founts of Bourbon,
Lo! I had my birth.
I am crowned coeval
With the Saurian eggs,
And my fancy firmly
Stands on its own legs.

Wouldst thou know the secret
Of the barberry-bush,
Catch the slippery whistle
Of the moulting thrush,
Dance upon the mushrooms,
Dive beneath the sea,
Or anything else remarkable,
Thou must follow me!

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor.

This is a fair imitation of some of Emerson’s early poems. “Brahma” is, however, the most frequently parodied, although no parody approaches the mystery of the original.

BRAHMA.

If the red slayer thinks he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain.
They know well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanquished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

This first appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, (No. 1) November, 1857.

――――

DAMN, AH!

_An exclamation to the tortoise-shell cat which sings so diabolically under my window by night._

If the grey tom cat think he sing
Or if the song think it be sung,
They know not who would boot-jacks fling,――
How many bricks at him I’ve flung!

When comes the night, to me he’s near,
Rainy or shiny, all the same,
He on the roof will still appear
And caterwaul his tom-cat flame.

They reckon ill who bolt him out,
For like a bird with mighty wings
He’ll perch upon the water-spout,
And twice as loud the tom-cat sings.

His voice will oft attract a brood
Of female felines, six or seven,
To chaunt their hymns round my abode,
As though it were the tom-cat’s heaven.

――――

MUTTON.

If the fat butcher thinks he slays,
Or he――the mutton――thinks he’s slain,
Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says――
“I’ll come, and ‘cut and come again.’”

To hungry wolves that on him leer
Mutton is sheep, and sheep the same,
No famished god would at him sneer――
To famine, chops are more than fame.

Who hiss at him, him but assures
That they are geese, but wanting wings――
Your coat is his whose life is yours,
And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.

Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,
And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,
Come taste, ye lovers of the good――
Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.

ANONYMOUS.

Colonel John Hay.

JIM BLUDSO.

Wal, no! I can’t tell whar he lives,
Because he don’t live, you see;
Leastways, he’s got out of the habit
Of livin’ like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three years
That you haven’t heard folks tell
How Jemmy Bludso passed-in his checks,
The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren’t no saint――them engineers
Is all pretty much alike――
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,
And another one here in Pike.
A keerless man in his talk was Jim.
And an awkward man in a row――
But he never flunked, and he never lied;
I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had――
To treat his engines well;
Never be passed on the river;
To mind the pilot’s bell;
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,
A thousand times he swore,
He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats have their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last.
The Movastar was a better boat,
But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed;
And so come tearin’ along that night,――
The oldest craft on the line,
With a nigger squat on her safety valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire burst out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made
To that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin’ and cursin,’ but Jim yelled out
Over all the infernal roar,
“I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot’s ashore.”

Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat
Jim Bludso’s voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,――
And Bludso’s ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren’t no saint――but at jedgment
I’d run my chance with Jim,
’Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn’t shook hands with him.
He’d seen his duty, a dead-sure thing――
And went for it thar and then:
And Christ ain’t a going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.

JOHN HAY.

――――

THE BLOOMIN’ FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH.

It war Bob war the Bloomin Flower,
They know’d him on Poker Flat;
He’d gouged a few down Gilgal way,
But no one complained o’ that.
He scored his stiffs[126] on the heft of his knife――
Forty I’ve heern ’em say;
It might have been more――Bob kept his accounts
In a loosish sorter way.

Bob warn’t a angel ter look at,
And the Bible it warn’t _his_ book;
He swore the most oaths that war swor’d in the camp,
Or blarmedly I am mistook;
But he warn’t a outen-out bad ’un,
And he’d got a heart you could touch;
And he never draw’d iron[127] on boy, or man,
As didn’t pervoke him much.

And you can’t say fair as drinking
War counted among his sins;
For at nary a sittin’ would he put down
More nor fifteen whisky skins.
But one day we was drinkin’ and jawin’,
Round Haggarty’s bar, and I fear
That Haggarty riled him, bein’ so slow,
So he jist sliced off Haggarty’s ear.

Then Haggarty went for him savage,
Instead of a-holding his jor;
And Bob went for his ’leven-inch knife,
And scatter’d Hag’s scraps on the floor.
One of Hag’s friends then drew upon Bob,
And shot Joe Harris instead;
And I take it the bar floor got at last
’Bout knee-deep in red.

But when the fun was over in there.
Bob ran a-muck in the street;
And he speared and potted each derned cuss
As he chanced to meet.
And quiet folks shut up their doors――
They thought it safer, you see――
All but a man with his wife and child,
That was settin’ down to tea.

Into their parlour rushed Bloomin’ Bob,
To that father and mother’s surprise;
Jobb’d his bowie through one, and took
The tother between the eyes.
Then he clutched the innocent slumb’rin’ babe,
Jist meanin’ to knock out its brains;
But at that moment there reach’d his ear
Some long-forgotten strains.

* * * * *

Some soft and touching music this,
Music solemn and sweet,
Played by a common organ-man
Down at the end of the street.
And it went straight home to the digger’s heart,
And he did not squelch the child,
But lay it down in its little cot,
And rocked the same――and smiled!

Talk soft! They say the angels
That night smole down on Bob;
And a sorter radiant halo
Gleamed brightly round his nob.
I can’t swear to all this for certain,
And it do seem a queerish start;
But I won’t set by and hear none o’ you say
Bob hadn’t a tender heart!

This admirable parody was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, Editor of _Judy_. In the first volume of this Collection it was erroneously styled a parody of Bret Harte.

――――:o:――――

THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL.

The darkest, strangest mystery
I ever read, or heern, or see,
Is ’long of a drink at Taggart’s Hall――
Tom Taggart’s, of Gilgal.

I’ve heern the tale a thousand ways,
But never _could_ git through the maze
That hangs around that queer day’s doin’s:
But I’ll tell the yarn to you-uns.

Tom Taggart stood behind his bar;
The time was fall, the skies was far;
The neighbours round the counter drawed,
And ca’mly drinked and jawed.

At last come Colonel Blood, of Pike,
And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus――like;
And each, as he meandered in,
Remarked “A whiskey-skin.”

Tom mixed the beverage full and far,
And slammed it, smoking on the bar,
Some says three fingers, some says two,――
I’ll leave the choice to you.

Phinn to the drink put forth his hand;
Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland,
“I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn――
Jest drap that whiskey skin.”

No man hlgh-toneder could be found
Than old Jedge Phinn the country round.
Says he, “Young man, the tribe of Phinns
Knows their own whisky-skins!”

He went for his ’leven-inch bowie knife:――
“I tries to foller a Christian life;
But I’ll drap a slice of liver or two
My bloomin’ shrub with you.”

They carved in a way that all admired,――
Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired.
It took Seth Bludso ’twixt the eyes,
Which caused him great surprise.

Then coats went off, and all went in;
Shots and bad language swelled the din;
The short, sharp bark of Derringers,
Like bull-pups, cheered the furse.

They piled the stiffs outside the door,
They made, I reckon, a cord or more.
Girls went that winter, as a rule,
Alone to spellin’ school.

I’ve sarched in vain, from Dan to Beer-
Sheba, to make this mystery clear;
But I end with _hit_ as I did begin,――
WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN?

JOHN HAY.

――――

BIG BILL.

There’s them that eats till they’re bustin’,
And them that drinks till they’re blind,
And them that snuffin’ and spooney,
But the best of all to my mind,
(And I’ve been around in my time, boys,
And cavorted with any you like),
Was Big Bill, that lived in the slashes,
We called him Big Bill o’ Pike.

If he put his hand to his bowie
Or scratched the scruff of his neck,
You could only tell by waitin’
To see if you bled a peck:
And the way he fired ’twas lovely!
Nobody knowed which was dead,
Till Big Bill grinned, and the stiff’un
Tumbled over onto his head!

At school he killed his master;
Courtin’, he killed seven more:
And the hearse was alway a-waitin’
A little ways from his door.
There wasn’t much growth in the country,
As the census returns will show,
But we had Big Bill we was proud of,
And that was enough to grow.

And now Big Bill is an angel,――
Damn me, it makes me cry!
Jist when he was rampin’ the roughest,
The poor fellow had to die.
A thievin’ and sneakin’ Yankee
Got the start on our blessed Bill,
And there’s no one to do our killin’
And nobody left to kill!

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor.

James Russell Lowell.

In the great American Civil War Mr. J. S. Lowell was a warm partisan of the Northern cause, and his most popular poems, _The Biglow Papers_, were written in favour of the emancipation of the slaves, and the suppression of the Southern, or Confederate States. _The Biglow Papers_ have been principally parodied, in this country, by the Liberal newspapers, and of these only a few examples are sufficiently good to bear quoting.

THE PIOUS EDITOR’S CREED.

I du believe in Freedom’s cause,
Ez fur away ez Paris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Pharisees,
It’s wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an’ triggers,――
But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing
That don’t agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want
A tax on teas an’ coffees,
Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt――
Purvidin’ I’m in office;
Fer I hev loved my country sence
My eye-teeth filled their sockets
An’ Uncle Sam[128] I reverence,
Partic’larly his pockets.

I du believe in _any_ plan
O’ levyin’ the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jest what I axes;
I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin,
Because it kind o’ rouses
The folks to vote――an’ keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses,

I du believe it’s wise an’ good
To sen’ out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An’ orthydox conditions;――
I mean nine thousan’ dolls. per ann.
Nine thousan’ more fer outfit,
An’ me to recommend a man
The place ’ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways
O’ prayin’ an’ convartin’;
The bread comes back in many days
An’ buttered, tu, fer sartin;――
I mean in preyin’ till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An’ in convartin’ public trusts
To very privit uses.

I du believe hard coin the stuff
For ’lectioneers to spout on;
The people’s ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An gives a good-sized junk to all――
I don’t care _how_ hard money is,
Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press’s Freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An’ in the traces lead ’em;
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin’,
An’ withered be the nose thet pokes
Inter the gov’ment printin’!

I du believe thet I should give
Wut’s his’n unto Cæsar,
For its by him I move an’ live,
Frum him my bread an’ cheese air;
I du believe thet all o’ me
Doth bear his souperscription――
Will, conscience, honor, honesty,
An’ things o’ thet description.

I du believe in prayer an’ praise
To him thet hez the grantin’
O’ jobs――in every thin’ thet pays.
This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o’ sin to rest――
I _don’t_ believe in princerple,
But, O, I _du_ in interest.

I du believe in bein’ this
Or thet, ez it may happen
One way or t’other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin’;
It aint by princerples nor men
My preudunt course is steadied――
I scent wich pays the best, an’ then
Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin’ slaves
Comes nat’ral tu a Presidunt,
Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a wal-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I could’t ax with no face,
Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet,
Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.

I du believe wutever trash
’ll keep the people in blindness――
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness,
Thet bombshells, grape, an’ powder ’n’ ball
Air good-will’s strongest magnets
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,
In pasturs sweet heth led me,
An’ this’ll keep the people green
To feed ez they hev fed me.

From _The Biglow Papers_.

――――

THE PIOUS CHANCELLOR’S CREED.
(_Formulated by Prince Von Bismarck._)

I do believe in Providence,
On grounds most firm and valid;
Its rulings have shown strength and sense,
And with my views have tallied.
’Tis ever on the stronger side,
And while my side’s the stronger,
I shall acknowledge it with pride
(But not a moment longer).

I hold to faith robust and stout,
And, Heaven and I agreeing,
All duffers who presume to doubt,
Deserve eternal d――ing.
I’m sole exponent of the truth,
Of genuine Christianity,
Cleared from all cant of love and ruth,
And humbug of humanity.

I do believe in days and dates,
As I’m a (sort of) sinner;
I hold those fools defy the fates
Who sit thirteen at dinner,
That Friday ventures badly fare,
For reasons past explaining;
That he’s an ass who has his hair
Cut when the moon is waning.

I do believe most men are fools,
And need despotic ruling
By one past-master in the schools
Of force and clever fooling;
That dangers which beset the State,
And risk that Kings environ,
Demand a will as stern as fate,
A rule of blood and iron.

* * * * *

I do believe free Parliament
Means dawdling, drivelling, doting,
Save only when it is content
With silent money-voting.
I hold, of all pretenders crass
Who ever claimed dominion,
The worst is that gregarious ass
Nicknamed “Public opinion.”

In fine, I do believe in Force
(Of fight, or faith, or feeding)
Uncramped by conscience, ruth, remorse,
Good-nature, or good-breeding,
That strength should sway in council, fray,
Love, piety, or potting,
Is Providence’s special way
And Heaven’s own allotting.

_Punch._ December 7, 1878.

――――

THE JINGO’S CREED.

I do believe that Gladstone likes
The triumph of our enemies.
Look how his tongue at “Interests” strikes
It simply full of venom is.
Now this belief, I’ll freely own,
Is what some folks would term “hot;”
But when has Gladstone ever shown
The _spirit_ of Macdermott?

I do believe the Russian Czar’s
A tyrant scarcely human;
I do believe that each Pasha’s
A gentle and a true man.
I shouldn’t really like to try
And have one as a neighbour;
But, cutting Russian windpipes――why
They’ve saved us lots of labour.

I do believe, as Elcho says,
Ketchwayo’s a _gorilla_――
A brute who in his wars displays
The fury of a Scylla.
So just for _peace_, it’s evident
(The thing is gospel _per se_)
Our missionary troops are sent
To slay him without mercy.

I do believe in Beaconsfield,
In Bartle Frere, and Lytton;
I do believe all men should yield
T’ the half-almighty Briton.
We’re born to rule the human race,
And futurity shall see, oh,
’Mid the world’s heroes take their place
That half-immortal Trio.

_Funny Folks._ September 27, 1879.

――――

THE UNIONIST EDITOR’S CREED.

We du believe in freedom’s cause,
Except when it in Dublin is;
We do detest Coercion laws,
But not when Erin troublin’ is.
It’s wal enough for men to spout
Of justice――in elections――
But when you’re snuffin’ Home Rule out――
You’re bound to make corrections!

We du believe the Irish want
To do away with juries――
And, for our methods, now we can’t
See what on airth more pure is.
When we bring men to common sense
We coax ’em――yes――with fetters.
But other things we reverence――
Partic’larly forged letters.

We du believe with all our hearts
In the great Press’s freedom;
We hit out straight――but poisoned darts
Reserve for such as need’ em.
Palsied the arm that forges lies!
Cussed be calumniators!
[N.B.――This rule nohow applies
When you fight agitators.]

We du believe whatever trash
’ll keep the people in blindness;
Thet we the Irishmen can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness;
Thet Balfour’s bill, an’ powder an’ ball,
Air goodwill’s strongest magnets;
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets!

G. W.

_Pall Mall Gazette._ April 28, 1887.

――――

“J. C.” TO HIMSELF.
_From his favourite Poet._

“I du believe it’s wise an’ good
To sen’ out furrin missions;
Thet is, on sartin understood
An’ orthydox conditions;
I mean ‘£3,900’ per ann.,
‘_Two thousan’_’ more for _outfit_,
An’ me to recommend the man
The place ’ould jest about fit.”

THE RIGHT HON.
PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN,
G.C.B., M.P., ETC., ETC.,
Returns to town after a short voyage.
――――
PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN
Undertakes any Fishy Business for the
NOBILITY, CLERGY, OR GENTRY,
In the most distant
Foreign or Colonial Terri-_tories_.

_Terms_:――
First Mission £3,900, G.C.B., and Baronetcy.
Second “ £10,900, _Dukedom_, and all the
_Orders_.
Third “ £100,900, and the Reversion of
the _Crown_.

N.B.――The American language spoken.

_The Liberal and Radical._ March 10, 1888.

――――:o:――――

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE, &C.

A number of doctors, with zeal hyperbolic,
Have gravely consulted, and grandly decreed――
The _improper_ prescription of things alcoholic
Is really very improper indeed:――
But Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
This pompous announcement is fiddledee!

For you cannot prescribe――here he deals in ironics――
To skilful practitioners what they should give;
And the question must frequently turn upon topics
Of whether the patient’s to die, or to live.
And Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
An empiric’s a quack though you write him M.D.

Let the _Saturday_ shriek about drawing-room topers,
And tell us our wives ne’er go sober to bed;
I’ll laugh at such medical fumblers and gropers,
And list to what skill and experience have said.
And Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
With that manifesto he cannot agree.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

ON RECRUITING.

Thrash away, you’ll _hev_ to rattle
On them kittle drums o’ yourn――
’Taint a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
Let folks see how spry you be――
Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller
’Fore you git ahold o’ me!

Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten,
Hope it aint your Sunday’s best;――
Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton
To stuff out a soger’s chest:
Since we farmers hev to pay fer’t,
Ef you must wear humps like these
Sposin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,
It would du ez slick ez grease.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,
Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth,
(Helped by Yankee renegaders[129])
Thru the vartu o’ the North!
We begin to think it’s nater
To take sarse an’ not be riled;――
Who’d expect to see a tater
All on eend at bein’ biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder――
There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer thet;
God hez sed so plump an’ fairly,
It’s ez long ez it is broad,
An’ you’ve gut to git up airly
Ef you want to take in God.

Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’
Every Sabbath, wet or dry,
Ef it’s right to go amowin’
Feller-men like oats an’ rye?
I dunno but wut it’s pooty
Trainin’ round in bobtail coats――
But it’s curus Christian dooty
This ere cuttin’ folks’s throats.

* * * * *

From _The Biglow Papers_.

――――

RENEGADERS.

Thrash away, you’ll have to rattle
On that “_Union_” drum o’ “yourn”;
“’Tain’t” a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
That gets ketched with mouldy corn.
Put it stiff you turn-coat fellows,
You’re a darned nice _liberal_ (?) set,――
Gone to blow the tory bellows
Now they want their irons “_het_,”

While their trusty chief’s been trying
To keep “the old state ship” afloat,
These backsliders ’ave been hieing
Into Joseph’s scuttled boat,
“Aint” they a prime set o’ fellows,
When they think on’t won’t they sprout,
Like a peach that’s got the “yellows”
With the meanness “bustin” out.

Tell you just the end I’ve come to
After ciphering pretty smart,――
And it makes a handy sum too,
Any “gump” may learn by heart.
Labouring man and labouring woman
Have one glory and one shame,
Every thing that’s done inhuman
Injures all of them the same,

“’Tain’t” by letting landlords loot folks,――
Nor the people being brained,――
Nor police being set to shoot folks,
That your own rights are maintained.
Those who Ireland hold in fetters,
Sure as one and one make two,
When they’ve _used you_ (their abettors),
They’ll try hard to fetter you.

“_The People’s Tribune_,” God forgive him!――
He’s a kneeling with the rest,
He that ought to ha’ clung while livin’
In his grand old eagle-nest,
He that ought to stand so fearless
While the wrecks around are hurled,――
Holding up a beacon peerless
To the oppressed of all the world――

Gone, to help the stealer stealing
Bigger pens to cram with slaves,――
Help the men who’re always dealing
Insults on their father’s graves,――
Help the strong to grind the feeble,――
Wrong the many for the few,――
Helping those who’d not be able,
_Renegaders_, but for you!

Let our staunch old leader proudly
Still plead on with trumpet tongue,
And proclaim for justice loudly
For the weak against the strong.
Clang the bells in every steeple,
Call all true men to disown
The traducers of the people,――
The _deserters_ of their own.

WM. GUISE.

_The Liberal and Radical._ January 14, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE OFFICIAL EXPLANATION.

Anent the account of the interview with James Russell Lowell published by Julian Hawthorne, the _Chicago News_ had the following clever verses in imitation of Hosea Biglow:――

One night aside the fire at hum,
Ez I wus settin’ nappin’,
Deown from the lower hall there come
The seound of some one rappin’.
The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he――
Julian, I think his name wuz――
Uv course he feound a friend in me,
Not knowin’ what his game wuz.

And ez we visited a spell.
Our talk ranged wide an’ wider.
And ef we struck dry subjects――well,
We washed ’em deown with cider.
Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru
My system an’ a playin’
Upon my tongue, I hardly knew
Just what I was a sayin’.

I kin remember that I spun
A hifalutin’ story
Abeout the Prince of Wales, an’ one
About old Queen Victory.
But sakes alive! I never dreamed
The cuss would get it printed――
(By that old gal I’m much esteemed,
Ez she hez often hinted).

Oh, if I had that critter neow,
You bet your boots I’d larn him
In mighty lively fashion heow
To walk the chalk, gol darn him!
Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine
The breach grows wide an’ wider,
And, by the way, it’s my design
To give up drinkin’ cider.

Received from the Milwaukee Public Library. December 24, 1886.

――――:o:――――

TENNYSON’S LATEST.
(_After Mr. Russell Lowell’s “The Rose.”_)

In his chamber sat the poet,
Striving to make verses free.
“I’ve a poem,” said he; “I’ll show it――
They’ll stand anything from me!
Public praise I know is hollow,
But to publish I’m opprest;
Cash will publication follow,
And I’ve had too long a rest.”