The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley :: :: University of Virginia Library

I'm not a-workin' now!—
I'm jes' a-layin' round
A-lettin' other people plow.—
I'm cumberin' the ground! ...
I jes' don't keer!—I've done my sheer
O' sweatin'!—Anyhow,
In this dad-blasted weather here,
I'm not a-workin' now!

The corn and wheat and all
Is doin' well enough!—
They' got clean on from now tel Fall
To show what kind o' stuff
'At's in their own dad-burn backbone;
So, while the Scriptur's 'low
Man ort to reap as he have sown—
I'm not a-workin' now!

The grass en-nunder these-
Here ellums 'long “Old Blue,”
And shadders o' the sugar-trees,
Beats farmin' quite a few!
As feller says,—I ruther guess
I'll make my comp'ny bow
And snooze a few hours—more er less.—
I'm not a-workin' now!

2240

BUB SAYS

The moon in the sky is a custard-pie,
An' the clouds is the cream pour'd o'er it,
An' all o' the glittering stars in the sky
Is the powdered sugar for it.

Johnts—he's proudest boy in town—
'Cause his Mommy she cut down
His Pa's pants fer Johnts—an' there
Is 'nuff left fer 'nother pair!

One time, when her Ma was gone,
Little Elsie she put on
All her Ma's fine clothes—an' black
Grow-grain-silk, an' sealskin-sack;
Nen while she wuz flouncin' out
In the hall an' round about,
Some one knocked, an' Elsie she
Clean forgot an' run to see

2241

Who's there at the door—an' saw
Mighty quick at wuz her Ma.
But ef she ain't saw at all,
She'd a-knowed her parasol!

Gran'pas an' Gran'mas is funniest folks!—
Don't be jolly, ner tell no jokes,
Tell o' the weather an' frost an' snow
O' that cold New Year's o' long ago;
An' then they sigh at each other an' cough
An' talk about suddently droppin' off.

2242

THE POOR STUDENT

With song elate we celebrate
The struggling Student wight,
Who seeketh still to pack his pate
With treasures erudite;
Who keepeth guard and watch and ward
O'er every hour of day,
Nor less to slight the hours of night,
He watchful is alway.

Though poor in pence, a wealth of sense
He storeth in excess—
With poverty in opulence,
His needs wax never less.
His goods are few,—a shelf or two
Of classics, and a chair—
A banjo—with a bird's-eye view
Of back-lots everywhere.

In midnight gloom, shut in his room,
His vigils he protracts,
E'en to the morning's hectic bloom,
Accumulating facts:

2243

And yet, despite or wrong or right,
He nurtureth a ban,—
He hath the stanchless appetite
Of any hirèd man.

On Jason's fleece and storied Greece
He feeds his hungry mind;
Then stuffs himself like a valise
With “eats” of any kind:
With kings he feigns he feasts, and drains
The wines of ages gone—
Then husks a herring's cold remains
And turns the hydrant on.

In Trojan mail he fronts the gale
Of ancient battle-rout,
When, 'las the hour! his pipe must fail,
And his last “snipe” smush out—
Nor pauses he, unless it be
To quote some cryptic scroll
And poise a sardine pensively
O'er his immortal soul.

2244

UNCLE SIDNEY'S RHYMES

Little Rapacity Greed was a glutton:
He'd eat any meat, from goose-livers to mutton;
All fowl, flesh, or sausage with all savors through it—
You never saw sausage stuffed as he could do it!
His nice mamma owned, “O he eats as none other
Than animal kind”; and his bright little brother
Sighed, pained to admit a phrase non-eulogistic,
“Rap eats like a—pardon me—Cannibalistic.”
“He eats—like a boor,” said his sister—“a shameless
Plebeian, in sooth, of an ancestry nameless!”
“He eats,” moaned his father, despairingly placid
And hopeless,—“he eats like—he eats like an acid!”

2245

“BLUE-MONDAY” AT THE SHOE SHOP

IN THE EARLY SEVENTIES

Oh, if we had a rich boss
Who liked to have us rest,
With a dime's lift for a benchmate
Financially distressed,—
A boss that's been a “jour.” himself
And ain't forgot the pain
Of restin' one day in the week,
Then back to work againe!

Chorus

Ho, it's hard times together,
We've had 'em, you and I,
In all kinds of weather,
Let it be wet or dry;
But I'm bound to earn my livelihood
Or lay me down and die!

Poverty compels me
To face the snow and sleet,—
For pore wife and children
Must have a crust to eat.—

2246

The sad wail of hunger
It would drive me insane,
If it wasn't for Blue-Monday
When I git to work againe!

Chorus

Ho, it's hard times together,
We've had 'em, you and I,
In all kinds of weather,
Let it be wet or dry;
But I'm bound to earn my livelihood
Or lay me down and die!

Then it's stoke up the stove, Boss,
And drive off the damps:
Cut out me tops, Boss,
And lend me your clamps;—
Pass us your tobacky
Till I give me pipe a start. ...
Lor', Boss! how we love ye
For your warm kynd heart!

Chorus

Ho, it's hard times together,
We've had 'em, you and I,
In all kinds of weather,
Let it be wet or dry;
But I'm bound to earn my livelihood
Or lay me down and die!

2247

THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH

THE BOYS'

The lisping maid,
In shine and shade
Half elfin and half human,
We love as such—
Yet twice as much
Will she be loved as woman.

THE GIRLS'

The boy we see,
Of two or three—
Or even as a baby,
We love to kiss
For what he is,
Yet more for what he may be.

2248

O. HENRY

WRITTEN IN THE CHARACTER OF SHERRARD PLUMMER

O Henry, A frite-chef of all delight!—
Of all delectables conglomerate
That stay the starved brain and rejuvenate
The mental man. Th' esthetic appetite—
So long anhungered that its “in'ards” fight
And growl gutwise,—its pangs thou dost abate
And all so amiably alleviate,
Joy pats its belly as a hobo might
Who haply hath attained a cherry pie
With no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds—
Nothin' but crispest crust, and thickness fit,
And squshin'—juicy, and jes' mighty nigh
Too dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs,
But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.

2249

WILLIAM McKINLEY

CANTON, OHIO, SEPTEMBER 30, 1907

He said: “It is God's way:
His will, not ours be done.”
And o'er our land a shadow lay
That darkened all the sun.
The voice of jubilee
That gladdenéd all the air,
Fell sudden to a quavering key
Of suppliance and prayer.

He was our chief—our guide—
Sprung of our common Earth,
From youth's long struggle proved and tried
To manhood's highest worth:
Through toil, he knew all needs
Of all his toiling kind—
The favored striver who succeeds—
The one who falls behind.

The boy's young faith he still
Retained through years mature—
The faith to labor, hand and will,
Nor doubt the harvest sure—

2250

The harvest of man's love—
A nation's joy that swells
To heights of Song, or deeps whereof
But sacred silence tells.

To him his Country seemed
Even as a Mother, where
He rested—slept; and once he dreamed—
As on her bosom there—
And thrilled to hear, within
That dream of her, the call
Of bugles and the clang and din
Of war. ... And o'er it all

His rapt eyes caught the bright
Old Banner, winging wild
And beck'ning him, as to the fight ...
When—even as a child—
He wakened—And the dream
Was real! And he leapt
As led the proud Flag through a gleam
Of tears the Mother wept.

His was a tender hand—
Even as a woman's is—
And yet as fixed, in Right's command,
As this bronze hand of his:
This was the Soldier brave—
This was the Victor fair—
This is the Hero Heaven gave
To glory here—and There.

2251

“MOTHER”

I'm gittin' old—I know,—
It seems so long ago—
So long sence John was here!
He went so young!—our Jim
'S as old now 'most as him,—
Close on to thirty year'!

I know I'm gittin' old—
I know it by the cold,
From time 'at first frost flies.—
Seems like—sence John was here—
Winters is more severe;
And winter I de-spise!

And yet it seems, some days,
John's here, with his odd ways ...
Comes soon-like from the corn-
Field, callin' “Mother” at
Me—like he called me that
Even 'fore Jim was born!

2252

When Jim come—La! how good
Was all the neighborhood!—
And Doctor!—when I heerd
Him joke John, kind o' low,
And say: Yes, folks could go—
PA needn't be afeard!

When Jim come,—John says-'e—
A-bendin' over me
And baby in the bed—
And jes' us three,—says-'e
“Our little family!”
And that was all he said ...

And cried jes' like a child!—
Kissed me again, and smiled,—
'Cause I was cryin' too.
And here I am again
A-cryin', same as then—
Yet happy through and through!

The old home's most in mind
And joys long left behind ...
Jim's little h'istin' crawl
Acrost the floor to where
John set a-rockin' there ...
(I'm gittin' old—That's all!)

I'm gittin' old—no doubt—
(Healthy as all git-out!)—
But, strangest thing I do,—

2253

I cry so easy now—
I cry jes' anyhow
The fool-tears wants me to!

But Jim he won't be told
'At “Mother” 's gittin' old! ...
Hugged me, he did, and smiled
This morning, and bragged “shore”
He loved me even more
Than when he was a child!

That's his way; but ef John
Was here now, lookin' on,
He'd shorely know and see:
“But, ‘Mother,’” s'pect he'd say,
“S'pose you air gittin' gray,
You're younger yet than me!”

I'm gittin' old,—because
Our young days, like they was,
Keeps comin' back—so clear,
'At little Jim, once more,
Comes h'istin' crost the floor
Fer John's old rockin'-cheer!

[OMITTED]

O beautiful!—to be
A-gittin' old, like me! ...
Hey, Jim! Come in now, Jim!
Your supper's ready, dear!
(How more, every year,
He looks and acts like him!)

2254

THE BOYS OF THE OLD GLEE CLUB

You-folks rickollect, I know—
'Tain't so very long ago—
Th' Old Glee Club—was got up here
'Bout first term Grant tuk the Cheer
Fer President four year—and then
Riz—and tuk the thing again!
Politics was runnin' high,
And the Soldiers mighty nigh
Swep' the Country—'bout on par
With their rickord through the War.
Glee Club, mainly, Soldiers, too—
Most the Boys had wore the blue,—
So their singin' had the swing—
Kind o' sort o' Shiloh-ring,
Don't you know, 'at kind o' got
Clean inside a man and shot
Telegrams o' joy dee-vine
Up and down his mortal spine!

2255

They was jest boys then, all young—
And 'bout lively as they sung!
Now they hain't young any more—
('Less the ones 'at's gone before
'S got their youth back, glad and free
'N' keerless as they used to be!)
Burgess Brown's old friends all 'low
He is 'most as lively now,
And as full o' music, too,
As when Old Glee Club was new!
And John Blake, you mind, 'at had
The near-sightedness so bad,
When he sung by note, the rest
Read 'em fer him, er he guessed
How they run—and sung 'em, too,
Clair and sweet as honey-dew!
Harry Adams's here—and he's
Jollyin' ever' man he sees
'At complains o' gittin' gray
Er a-agein' anyway.
Harry he jest thrives on fun—
“Troubles?” he says,—“Nary one!—
Got gran'-children I can play
And keep young with, night and day!”
Then there's Ozzy Weaver—he's
Kickin', lively as you please,—
'N' Dearie Macy.—Called 'em then
“The Cherubs.” Sung “We are two Men
O' th' Olden Time.” Well! their duets
Was jest sweet as violets!
And Dan Ransdell—he's still here—

2256

Not jest in the town, but near
Enough, you bet, to allus come
Prompt' on time to vote at home!
Dan he's be'n in Washington
Sence he went with Harrison. ...
And John Slauson—(Boys called John
“Sloppy Weather.”)—he went on
Once to Washington; and Dan
Intertained him:—Ever' man,
From the President, to all
Other big-guns Dan could haul
In posish 'ud have to shake
Hands with John fer old times' sake.
And to hear John, when he got
Home again, w'y, you'd 'a' caught
His own sperit and dry fun
And mis-chieve-y-ousness 'at run
Through his talk of all he see:—
“Ruther pokey there, fer me,”
John says,—“though, of course, I met
Mostly jest the Cabinet
Members; and the President
He'd drop round: and then we went
Incogg fer a quiet walk—
Er sometimes jest set and talk
'Bout old times back here—and how
All you-boys was doin' now,
And Old Glee Club songs; and then
He'd say, 'f he could, once again,
Jest hear us—‘once more,’ says he,—

2257

‘I'd shed Washington, D. C.,
And jest fall in ranks with you
And march home, a-singin', too!’”
And Bob Geiger—Now lives down
At Atlanty,—but this town
'S got Bob's heart—a permanent
And time-honored resident.
Then there's Mahlon Butler—still
Lookin' like he allus will!
“How you feelin'?” s'I, last time
I see Mahlon: 'N' he says, “I'm
‘Feelin'?’” says, “so peert and gay
'F I's hitched up I'd run away!”
He says, “Course I'm bald a bit,
But not 'nough to brag on it
Like Dave Wallace does,” he says,
“With his two shamefacetedness!”
(Dave jest laughs and lifts his “dice”
At the joke, and blushes—twice.)
And Ed. Thompson, he's gone on—
They's a whole quartette 'at's gone—
Yes, a whole quartette, and more,
Has crossed on the Other Shore. ...
Sabold and Doc Wood'ard's gone—
'N' Ward; and—last,—Will Tarkington.—
Ward 'at made an Irish bull
Actchully jest beautiful!—
“‘Big-nose Ben,’” says Ward, “I s'pose,
Makes an eyesore of his nose!”
And Will Tarkington—Ef he

2258

Ever had an inemy,
The Good Bein's plans has be'n
Tampered with!—because all men,
Women and childern—ever' one—
Loved to love Will Tarkington!

The last time I heerd 'em all
Was at Tomilsonian Hall,
As I rickollect—and know,—
Must be'n fifteen year' ago!—
Big Mass Meetin'—thousands here. ...
Old Dick Thompson in the Cheer
On the stage—and three er four
Other “Silver-Tongues” er more! ...
Mind Ben Harrison?—Clean, rich,
Ringin' voice—“'bout concert-pitch,”
Tarkington he called it, and
Said its music 'clipsed the band
And Glee Club both rolled in one!—
('Course you all knowed Harrison!)
Yes, and Old Flag, streamin' clean
From the high arch 'bove the scene
And each side the Speaker's stand.—
And a Brass, and Sheepskin Band,
('Twixt the speeches 'at was made)
'At cut loose and banged and played—
S'pose, to have the noise all through
So's th' crowd could listen to
Some real music!—Then Th' Old Glee
Club marched out to victory!—

2259

And sich singin'!—Boys was jest
At their very level-best! ...
My! to hear 'em!—From old “Red-
White-and-Blue,” to “Uncle Ned”!—
From “The Sword of Bunker Hill,”
To “ Billy Magee-Magaw”!—And—still
The more they sung, the more, you know,
The crowd jest wouldn't let 'em go!—
Till they reached the final notch
O' glory with old “Larboard Watch”!
Well! that song's a song my soul
Jest swings off in, past control!—
Allus did and allus will
Lift me clair of earthly ill
And interrogance and doubt
O' what the good Lord's workin' out
Anyway er anyhow! ...
Shet my eyes and hear it now!—
Till, at night, that ship and sea
And wet waves jest wallers me
Into that same sad yet glad
Certainty the Sailor had
When waked to his watch and ward
By th' lone whisper of the Lord—
Heerd high 'bove the hoarsest roar
O' any storm on sea er shore!

Time's be'n clockin' on, you know!
Sabold, who was first to go,
Died back East, in ninety-three,
At his old home, Albany:

2260

Ward was next to leave us—Died
New York. ... How we've laughed and cried
Both together at them two
Friends and comards tried and true!—
Ner they wasn't, when they died,
Parted long—'most side-by-side
They went singin', you might say,
Till their voices died away
Kind o' into a duet
O' silence they're rehearsin' yet.

Old Glee Club's be'n meetin' less
And less frequenter, I guess,
Sence so many's had to go—
And the rest all miss 'em so!
Still they's calls they' got to make,
Fer old reputation's sake,
So to speak; but, 'course, they all
Can't jest answer ever' call—
'Ceptin' Christmas-times, er when
Charity calls on 'em then;
And—not chargin' anything—
W'y, the Boys's jest got to sing! ...
Campaign work, and jubilees
To wake up the primaries;
Loyal Legions—G. A. R.'s—
Big Reunions—Stripes-and-Stars
Fer Schoolhouses ever'where—
And Church-doin's, here and there—
And Me-morial Meetin's, when

2261

Our War-Gov'ner lives again!
Yes, and Decoration Days—
Martial music—prayers and praise
Fer the Boys 'at marched away
So's we'd have a place to stay! ...
Little childern, 'mongst the flowers,
Learnin' 'bout this Land of Ours,
And the price these Soldiers paid,
Gethered in their last parade. ...
O that sweetest, saddest sound!—
“Tenting on the old Campground.” ...
The Old Glee Club—singin' so
Quaverin'-like and soft and low,
Ever' listener in the crowd
Sings in whispers—but, out 'loud,
Sings as ef he didn't keer—
Not fer nothin'! ... Ketch me here
Whilse I'm honest, and I'll say
God's way is the only way! ...
So I' allus felt, i jing!
Ever' time the Boys 'ud sing
'Bout “A Thousand Years, my Own
Columbia!”—er “The Joys we've Known”—
“Hear dem Bells”—er “Hi-lo, Hail!”—
I have felt God must prevail—
Jest like ever boy 'at's gone
Of 'em all, whilse he was on
Deck here with us, seemed to be
Livin', laughin' proof, to me,
Of Eternal Life—No more
Will than them all, gone before! ...

2262

Can't I—many-a-time—jest see
Them all, like they used to be!—
Tarkington, fer instance, clean
Outside o' the man you seen,
Singin'—till not only you
Heerd his voice but felt it, too,
In back of the bench you set
In—And 'most can feel it yet!
Yes, and Will's the last o' five
Now that's dead—yet still alive,
True as Holy Writ's own word
Has be'n spoke and man has heerd!
Them was left when Will went on
Has met once sence he was gone—
Met jest once—but not to sing
Ner to practise anything.—
Facts is, they jest didn't know
Why they was a-meetin' so;—
But John Brush he had it done
And invited ever' one
Of 'em he could find, to call
At his office, “Music Hall,”
Four o'clock—one Saturd'y
Afternoon.—And this was three
Er four weeks, mind, sence the day
We had laid poor Will away.
Mahlon Butler he come past
My shop, and I dropped my last
And went with him, wonder'n', too,
What new joke Brush had in view;—

2263

But, when all got there, and one-
By-one was give' a seat, and none
O' Brush's twinkles seemed in sight,
'N' he looked biz all right, all right,—
We saw—when he'd locked the door—
What some of us, years before,
Had seen, and long sence fergot—
(Seen but not heerd, like as not.)—
How Brush, once when Admiral Brown
'S back here in his old home-town
And flags ever'wheres—and Old
Glee Club tellin' George to “Hold
The Fort!” and “We” would “make 'em flee
By land and sea,” et cetery,—
How Brush had got the Boys to sing
A song' in that-there very thing
Was on the table there to-day—
Some kind o' 'phone, you know.—But say!
When John touched it off, and we
Heerd it singin'—No-sir-ee!—
Not the machine a-singin'—No,—
Th' Old Glee Club o' long ago! ...
There was Sabold's voice again—
'N' Ward's;—and, sweet as summer-rain,
With glad boy-laughture's trills and runs,
Ed. Thompson's voice and Tarkington's! ...
And ah, to hear them, through the storm
Of joy that swayed each listener's form—
Seeming to call, with hail and cheer,
From Heaven's high seas down to us here:—

2264

“But who can speak the joy he feels
While o'er the foam his vessel reels,
And his tired eyelids slumbering fall,
He rouses at the welcome call
Of ‘Larboard Watch, Ahoy!’”
[OMITTED] And O
To hear them—same as long ago—
The listeners whispered, still as death,
With trembling lips and broken breath,
As with one voice—and eyes all wet,—
“God!—God!—Thank God, they're singing yet!”

2265

“MONA MACHREE”

Mona Machree, I'm the wanderin' creature now,
Over the sea;
Slave of no lass, but a lover of Nature now,
Careless and free.
—T. A. Daly

Mona Machree! och, the sootherin' flow of it,
Soft as the sea,
Yet, in under the mild, moves the wild undertow of it
Tuggin' at me,
Until both the head and the heart o' me's fightin'
For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin'
That—barrin' your own livin' yet—I'd delight in,
Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to you
Sung by a lover your beauty has banned,
Not alone from your love but his dear native land,
Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand,
And his song—all belong to you,
Mona Machree!

2266

SONG DISCORDANT

I want to say it, and I will:—
You are as sour as you are sweet,
And sweeter than the daffodil
That blossoms at your feet.—
You are as plain as you are fair;
And though I hate, I love you still,
And so—confound you, darling! There!—
I want to say it, and I will!

I want to ask it, and I do
Demand of you a perfect trust,—
But love me as I want you to—
You must, you minx!—you must!
You blight and bless me, till I swear
And pray—chaotic even as you.—
I curse—Nay, dear,—I kiss you. There!—
I want to, and I do!

2267

LARRY NOOLAN'S NEW YEAR

Be-Gorrie, aI wor sorry
When the Ould Year died:
An' aI says, “aI'll shtart to-morry,
Like aI've always thried—
aI'll give yez all fair warnin'
aI'll be shtartin' in the mornin'
From the wakeness aI was born in—
When the Ould Year died.”

The year forninsht the pasht wan,
When the Ould Year died,
Says aI, “This is the lasht wan
aI'll be filled—wid pride.”
So says aI til Miss McCarty
aI wor meetin' at the party,
“Lave us both be drinkin' hearty!”
When the Ould Year died.

So we dined an' wined together,
When the Ould Year died,
An' agreed on health an' weather,
An' the whule wurrld wide,
An' says aI,—“aI'm thinkin' very
Much it's you aI'd like to marry.”
“Then,” says she, “why don't you, Larry?”
When the Ould Year died.

2268

LISPING IN NUMBERS

We' got a' Uncle writes poetry-rhymes
Fer me an' Eddie to speak, sometimes,—
'Cause he's a poet—an' he gits paid
Fer poetry-writin',—'cause that's his trade.
An' Eddie says he's goin' to try
To be a poet, too, by an' by
When he's a man!—an' I 'spect he is,
'Cause on his slate wunst he print' this
An' call it

“The Squirl and the Funy Litel Girl”

“A litel girl
Whose name wuz Perl
Went to the woods to play.
The day wuz brite,
An' her hart wuz lite
As she galy skiped a way.

“A queer litel chatter,
A soft litel patter,
She herd in the top of a tree:
The surprizd litel Perl
Saw a qute litel squirl,
As cuning as cuning cud be.

2269

“She twisted her curl,
As she looked at the squirl,
An' playfully told it ‘good day!’
She calld it ‘Bunny’—
Wuzent that funy?
An' it noded an' bounded a way.”

Ma read it, an' says “she's awful proud,”—
An' Pa says “Splen'id!” an' laugh' out loud;
But Uncle says, “You can talk as you please,
It's a purty good little poetry-piece!”

2270

BENJAMIN HARRISON

ON THE UNVEILING OF HIS MONUMENT AT INDIANAPOLIS—OCTOBER 27, 1908

As tangible a form in History
The Spirit of this man stands forth as here
He towers in deathless sculpture, high and clear
Against the bright sky of his destiny.
Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry,
His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere,
Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear—
Such was his sacred faith in you and me.
Thus, natively, from youth his work was one
Unselfish service in behalf of all—
Home, friends and sharers of his toil and stress;
Ay, loving all men and despising none,
And swift to answer every righteous call,
His life was one long deed of worthiness.

The voice of Duty's faintest whisper found
Him as alert as at her battle-cry—
When awful War's battalions thundered by,
High o'er the havoc still he heard the sound

2271

Of mothers' prayers and pleadings all around;
And ever the despairing sob and sigh
Of stricken wives and orphan children's cry
Made all our Land thrice consecrated ground.
So rang his “Forward!” and so swept his sword—
On!—on!—till from the fire-and-cloud once more
Our proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlight
As though the very Ensign of the Lord
Unfurled in token that the strife was o'er,
And victory—as ever—with the right.

2272

LEE O. HARRIS

CHRISTMAS DAY—1909

O say not he is dead,
The friend we honored so;
Lift up a grateful voice instead
And say: He lives, we know—
We know it by the light
Of his enduring love
Of honor, valor, truth and right,
And man, and God above.

Remember how he drew
The child-heart to his own,
And taught the parable anew,
And reaped as he had sown;
Remember with what cheer
He filled the little lives,
And stayed the sob and dried the tear
With mirth that still survives.

All duties to his kind
It was his joy to fill;
With nature gentle and refined,
Yet dauntless soul and will,

2273

He met the trying need
Of every troublous call,
Yet high and clear and glad indeed
He sung above it all.

Ay, listen! Still we hear
The patriot song, the lay
Of love, the woodland note so dear—
These will not die away.
Then say not he is dead,
The friend we honor so,
But lift a grateful voice instead,
And say: He lives, we know.

2274

SOMETHING

Sitting by the glimmer
Of the fire to-night,
Though the glowing embers
Sparkle with delight—
There's a sense of something,
Vaguely understood,
Stealing o'er the spirit
As a shadow would.

Is it that the shutter
Shudders in the wind
As a lance of moonshine
Shivers through the blind?
Or the lamplight dancing
In pretended glee
As the keynote whistles
In a minor key?

Footsteps on the sidewalk,
Crunching through the snow,
Seem to whisper something
Of the long ago—
And the merry greetings
Of the passers-by
Seem like truant echoes
Coming home to die.

2275

I have coaxed my pencil
For a smiling face,
But the sketch is frowning
And devoid of grace;
And the airy waltzes
Of my violin
Die away in dirges
Ere I well begin.

Lay away the story—
Though the theme is sweet—
There's a lack of something
Makes it incomplete;
There's a nameless yearning—
Strangely undefined—
For a something better
Than the common kind.

Something! Oh, that something!
We may never know
Why the soul is haunted
Ever thus and so,
Till the longing spirit
Answers to the call
Of the trumpet sounding
Something after all.

2276

A CHRISTMAS-TIME JINGLE

My dears, do you know, one short Christmas ago,
There were two little children named Jimpsy and Jo,
Who were stolen away by their Uncle that day,
Who drove round and carted them off in a sleigh?

And the two little chaps, rolled in buffalo wraps,
With their eyes in the furs and their hands in their laps,
He whizzed down the street, through the snow and the sleet
At a gait old Kriss Kringle himself couldn't beat.

And their Uncle yelled “Ho!” all at once, and then “Whoa!
Mr. Horses, this store is where we must go.”
And as the sleigh stopped, up the heads popped,
And out on the sidewalk the old Uncle hopped.

And he took the boys in, with a wink and a grin,
And had 'em dressed clean up from toe-tip to chin,
Then he bundled 'em back in the sleigh, and currack!
Went the whip; and away they all went whizzin' back.

2277

And Jimpsy and Jo, when they marched in, you know,
There at home, with new suits, both their parents says “Oh,
What dee-lishamous rare little children you air,—
W'y you' got the best Uncle tha' is anywhere!”

But their Uncle just pats the boys' heads and says, “Rats!”
In a whisper to them—“Parents purr same as cats”;
Then he kissed 'em and rose and fished round in his clothes,
And lit his old pipe with the end of his nose.

2278

WHEN BABY PLAYED

When Baby played,
The very household tasks were stayed
To listen to her voice:—Secrete,
We heard her lisping, low and sweet,
Among her many dolls and pets;
Or, at her window's mignonettes,
Making some butterfly—arrayed
In tremulous gold—all unafraid—
When Baby played.

When Baby played
Amidst the reapers,—why, they laid
Their work aside, and with loud glee
Tossed her among them tenderly;
And they did single, from the blur
Of tousled grasses, blooms for her—
To wreathe about her throat and wrist,
While for the service each was kissed,
And on till evensong was made
So happier.—When Baby played.

2279

When Baby played,
The lilies down the everglade
Grew purer—where the waters leapt,
The willows laughed instead of wept;
And the glad winds went merrying
To sway the empty grapevine-swing
She needs must leave, in answer to
Our call from home at fall of dew—
And mimicking the call we made.—
When Baby played,—when Baby played.

2280

WHEN BABY SLEPT

When weenty-teenty Baby slept,—
With voices stilled we lightly stepped
And knelt beside the rug where she
Had fallen in sleep all wearily;
And when a dimpled hand would stir,
We breathlessly bent over her
And kissed the truant strands that swept
The tranc'd lids and the dreams that kept—
When Baby blinked her Court and slept.

When Baby waived her throne and slept,
It seemed the sunshine lightlier crept
Along the carpet and the wall,
Her playhouse, tea-set, pets and all:—
A loud fly hushed its hum and made
The faintest Fairy-serenade,
That lulled all waking things except
The goldfish as he flashed and leapt—
When Baby doffed her crown and slept.

2281

When sunset veiled her as she slept,
No other sight might intercept
Our love-looks, meant for her alone
The fairest blossom ever blown
In all God's garden-lands below!
Our Spirits whispered, Even so,
And made high mirth in undertone,
In stress of joy all sudden grown
A laugh of tears:—for thus we wept,
When Baby donned her dreams, and slept.

2282

WHEN BABY WOKE

When weenty-teenty Baby woke,
It seemed all summer blossoms broke
In fragrant laughter—that the birds,
Instead of warbles, sang in words!—
Oh, it did seem to us (who, in
Our rapture, dappled cheek and chin
With our warm kisses) to invoke
Our love to break as morning broke!—
When wondrous Baby woke.

When our enraptured Baby woke,—
As when on violets sink and soak
The dewdrops of some glorious dawn,—
So seemed the eyes we gazed upon;
And when they smiled, we, bending lower,
Knew never sunlight any more
Would be as bright to us—and thus
Forever must they shine for us!
When Baby dewed her eyes and woke.

When Baby danced her eyes and woke—
The hearts within us, stroke on stroke,
Went throbbing like the pulse of some
High harmony harp-strings might thrum

2283

In halls enchanted of the lore
Of Arthur's court in days of yore,—
To us she was “a princess fair”—
An “Elfin Queen”—“A ladye rare”—
And we but simple-minded folk—
When Baby woke,—when Baby woke.

2284

A HOBO VOLUNTARY

Oh , the hobo's life is a roving life;
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight—
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn
For the life of a hobo, never to return.

The hobo's heart it is light and free,
Though it's Sweethearts all, farewell to thee!—
Farewell to thee, for it's far away
The homeless hobo's footsteps stray.

In the morning bright, or the dusk so dim,
It's any path is the one for him!
He'll take his chances, long or short,
For to meet his fate with a valiant heart.

Oh, it's beauty mops out the sidetracked-car,
And it's beauty-beaut' at the pigs-feet bar;
But when his drinks and his eats is made
Then the hobo shunts off down the grade.

He camps near town, on the old crick-bank,
And he cuts his name on the water-tank—
He cuts his name and the hobo sign,—
“Bound for the land of corn and wine!”

2285

He's lonesome-like, so he gits run in,
To git the hang o' the world again;
But the laundry circles he moves in there
Makes him sigh for the country air,—

So it's Good-by gals! and he takes his chance
And wads hisself through the workhouse-fence;
He sheds the town and the railroad, too,
And strikes mud roads for a change of view.

The jay drives by on his way to town,
And looks on the hobo in high scorn,
And so likewise does the farmhands stare—
But what the haids does the hobo care!

He hits the pike, in the summer's heat
Or the winter's cold, with its snow and sleet—
With a boot on one foot, and one shoe—
Or he goes barefoot, if he chooses to.

But he likes the best when the day is warm,
With his bum prince-albert on his arm—
He likes to size up a farmhouse where
They haint no man nor bulldog there.

Oh, he gits his meals wherever he can,
So natchurly he's a handy man—
He's a handy man both day and night,
And he's always blest with an appetite!

2286

(Oh, it's I like friends that he'ps me through,
And the friends also that he'ps you, too,—
Oh, I like all friends, 'most every kind
But I don't like friends that don't like mine.)

There's friends of mine when they gits the hunch
Comes a swarmin' in, the blasted bunch,—
“Clog-step Jonny” and “Flat-wheel Bill”
And “Brockey Ike” from Circleville.

With “Cooney Ward” and “Sikes the Kid”
And old “Pop Lawson”—the best we had—
The rankest mug and the worst for lush
And the dandiest of the whole blame push.

Oh, them's the times I remembers best
When I took my chance with all the rest,
And hogged fried chicken and roastin' ears, too,
And sucked cheroots when the feed was through.

Oh, the hobo's way is the railroad line,
And it's little he cares for schedule time;
Whatever town he's a-striken for
Will wait for him till he gits there.

And whatever burg that he lands in
There's beauties there just thick for him—
There's beauty at “The Queen's Taste Lunchstand,” sure,
Or “The Last Chance Boardin' House” back door.

2287

A tin o' black coffee, and a rhuburb pie—
Be they old and cold as charity—
They're hot-stuff enough for the pore hobo,
And it's “Thanks, kind lady, for to treat me so!”

Then he fills his pipe with a stub cigar
And swipes a coal from the kitchen-fire,
And the hired girl says, in a smilin' tone,—
“It's good-by, John, if you call that goin'!”

Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life,
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight—
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn
For the life of a hobo, never to return.

2288

TO BENJ. S. PARKER

You sang the song of rare delight
“'Tis morning and the days are long”—
A morning fresh and fair and bright
As ever dawned in happy song;
A radiant air, and here and there
Were singing birds on sprays of bloom,
And dewy splendors everywhere,
And heavenly breaths of rose perfume—
All rapturous things were in the song
“'Tis morning and the days are long.”

O singer of the song divine,
Though now you turn your face away
With never word for me or mine
Nor smile forever and a day,
We guess your meaning, and rejoice
In what has come to you—the meed
Beyond the search of mortal voice
And only in the song indeed—
With you forever, as the song,
“'Tis morning and the days are long.”

2289

MY CONSCIENCE

Sometimes my Conscience says, says he,
“Don't you know me?”
And I, says I, skeered through and through,
“Of course I do.
You air a nice chap ever' way,
I'm here to say!
You make me cry—you make me pray,
And all them good things thataway—
That is, at night. Where do you stay
Durin' the day?”

And then my Conscience says, onc't more,
“You know me—shore?”
“Oh, yes,” says I, a-trimblin' faint,
“You're jes' a saint!
Your ways is all so holy-right,
I love you better ever' night
You come around,—tel' plum daylight,
When you air out o' sight!”

2290

And then my Conscience sort o' grits
His teeth, and spits
On his two hands and grabs, of course,
Some old remorse,
And beats me with the big butt-end
O' that thing—tel my clostest friend
'Ud hardly know me. “Now,” says he,
“Be keerful as you'd orto be
And allus think o' me!”