* * * * *

"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S"

Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin, With the grasses wet and shinin', and the air so clear and thin, When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go"; When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out, And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about, And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels, Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.

There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe; There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine, And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine; And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves, Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves; And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place, And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.

Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass, Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass, Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat, Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that; And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane, Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,— For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew When he went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too.

Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul, And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time; And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here; That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn, But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.

* * * * *



NOVEMBER'S COME

Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller! Struttin' round so big and proud. Pretty quick I guess your beller Won't be goin' quite so loud. Say, I'd run and hide, I bet you, And I'd leave off eatin' some, Else the choppin'-block'll get you,— Don't you know November's come?

Don't you know that Grandma's makin' Loads of mince and pun'kin pies? Don't you smell those goodies cookin'? Can't you see 'em? Where's your eyes? Tell that rooster there that's crowin', Cute folks now are keepin' mum; They don't show how fat they 're growin' When they know November's come.

'Member when you tried ter lick me? Yes, you did, and hurt me, too! Thought't was big ter chase and pick me,— Well, I'll soon be pickin' you. Oh, I know you 're big and hearty, So you needn't strut and drum,— Better make your will out, smarty, 'Cause, you know, November's come.

"Gobble! gobble!" oh, no matter! Pretty quick you'll change your tune; You'll be dead and in a platter, And I'll gobble pretty soon. 'F I was you I'd stop my puffin', And I'd look most awful glum;— Hope they give you lots of stuffin'! Ain't you glad November's come?

* * * * *

THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME

A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white, The buildings blots of blackness, the windows gems of light, A moon, now clear, now hidden, as in its headlong race The north wind drags the cloud-wrack in tatters o'er its face; Mailed twigs that click and clatter upon the tossing tree, And, like a giant's chanting, the deep voice of the sea, As 'mid the stranded ice-cakes the bursting breakers foam,— The old familiar picture—a winter night at home.

The old familiar picture—the firelight rich and red, The lamplight soft and mellow, the shadowed beams o'erhead; And father with his paper, and mother, calm and sweet, Mending the red yarn stockings stubbed through by careless feet. The little attic bedroom, the window 'neath the eaves, Decked by the Frost King's brushes with silvered sprays and leaves; The rattling sash which gossips with idle gusts that roam About the ice-fringed gables—the winter nights at home.

What would I give to climb them—those narrow stairs so steep,— And reach that little chamber, and sleep a boy's sweet sleep! What would I give to view it—that old house by the sea— Filled with the dear lost faces which made it home for me! The sobbing wind sings softly the song of long ago, And in that country churchyard the graves are draped in snow; But there, beyond the arches of Heaven's star-jeweled dome, Perhaps they know I'm dreaming of winter nights at home.

* * * * *

"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'"

O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill, And the frosty Christmas holly shines and sparkles on the hill, And the Christmas sleigh-bells jingle and the Christmas laughter rings, As the last stray shoppers hurry, takin' home the Christmas things; And up yonder in the attic there's a little trundle bed Where there's Christmas dreams a-dancin' through a sleepy, curly head; And it's "Merry Christmas," Mary, once agin fer me and you, With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

'Tisn't silk, that little stockin', and it isn't much fer show, And the darns are pretty plenty 'round about the heel and toe, And the color's kind er faded, and it's sort er worn and old, But it really is surprisin' what a lot of love 'twill hold; And the little hand that hung it by the chimney there along Has a grip upon our heartstrings that is mighty firm and strong; So old Santy won't fergit it, though it isn't fine and new,— That plain little worsted stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

And the crops may fail and leave us with our plans all knocked ter smash, And the mortgage may hang heavy, and the bills use up the cash, But whenever comes the season, jest so long's we've got a dime, There'll be somethin' in that stockin'—won't there, Mary?—every time. And if in amongst our sunshine there's a shower or two of rain, Why, we'll face it bravely smilin', and we'll try not ter complain, Long as Christmas comes and finds us here together, me and you, With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

* * * * *



THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER

You know the story—it's centuries old— How the Ant and the Grasshopper met, we're told, On a blustering day, when the wind was cold And the trees were bare and brown; And the Grasshopper, being a careless blade, Who all the summer had danced and played, Now came to the rich old Ant for aid, And the latter "turned him down."

It's only fancy, but I suppose That the Grasshopper wore his summer clothes, And stood there kicking his frozen toes And shaking his bones apart; And the Ant, with a sealskin coat and hat, Commanded the Grasshopper, brusque and flat, To "Dance through the winter," and things like that, Which he thought were "cute" and "smart."

But, mind you, the Ant, all summer long, Had heard the Grasshopper's merry song, And had laughed with the rest of the happy throng At the bubbling notes of glee; And he said to himself, as his cash he lent, Or started out to collect his rent, "The shif'less fool do'n't charge a cent,— I'm getting the whole show free."

I've never been told how the pair came out— The Grasshopper starved to death, no doubt, And the Ant grew richer, and had the gout, As most of his brethren do; I know that it's better to save one's pelf, And the Ant is considered a wise old elf, But I like the Grasshopper more myself,— Though that is between we two.

* * * * *

THE CROAKER

Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool, Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool, Where bushes over the water hung, And grasses nodded and rushes swung— Just where the brook flowed out of the bog— There lived a gouty and mean old Frog, Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak, And do just nothing but croak and croak.

'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know, What is the trouble down there below? Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?" The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot! Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime, For me to look at the livelong time. 'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke, And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.

"But you're looking down!" the Blackbird said. "Look at the blossoms overhead; Look at the lovely summer skies; Look at the bees and butterflies— Look up, old fellow! Why, bless your soul, You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!" But still, with his gurgling sob and choke, The Frog continued to croak and croak.

And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near, Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here: Don't shed your tears over him, for he Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be! He's one of the kind who won't be glad; It makes him happy to think he's sad. I'll tell you something—and it's no joke— Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"

* * * * *

THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy, In the sunny little garden where I wandered when a boy! Oh, the morning-glories twining 'mongst the shining sunflowers tall, And the clematis a-tangle in the angle of the wall! How the mignonette's sweet blooming was perfuming all the walks, Where the hollyhocks stood proudly with their blossom-dotted stalks; While the old-maids' pinks were nodding groups of gossips, here and there, And the bluebells swung so lightly in the lazy, hazy air!

Then the sleepy poppies, stooping low their drooping, drowsy heads, And the modest young sweet-williams hiding in their shady beds! By the edges of the hedges, where the spiders' webs were spun, How the marigolds lay, yellow as the mellow summer sun That made all the grass a-dapple 'neath the leafy apple tree, Whence you heard the locust drumming and the humming of the bee; While the soft breeze in the trellis, where the roses used to grow, Sent the silken petals flying like a scented shower of snow!

Oh, the quaint old-fashioned garden, and the pathways cool and sweet, With the dewy branches splashing flashing jewels o'er my feet! And the dear old-fashioned blossoms, and the old home where they grew, And the mother-hands that plucked them, and the mother-love I knew! Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast, Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best; And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know, Like the sweet old-fashioned posies mother tended long ago.

* * * * *

THE LIGHT-KEEPER

For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore; For years the surge has tossed its kelp and wrack about my door; I've heard the sea-wind sing its song in whispers 'round the place, And fought it when it flung the sand, like needles, in my face. I've seen the sun-rays turn the roof ter blist'rin', tarry coal; I've seen the ice-drift clog the bay from foamin' shoal ter shoal; I've faced the winter's snow and sleet, I've felt the summer's shower, But every night I've lit the lamp up yonder in the tower.

I've seen the sunset flood the earth with streams of rosy light, And every foot of sea-line specked with twinklin' sails of white; I've woke ter find the sky a mess of scud and smoky wreath, A blind wind-devil overhead and hell let loose beneath. And then ter watch the rollers pound on ledges, bars and rips, And pray fer them that go, O Lord, down ter the sea in ships! Ter see the lamp, when darkness comes, throw out its shinin' track, And think of that one gleamin' speck in all the world of black.



And often, through a night like that, I've waited fer the day That broke and showed a lonesome sea, a sky all cold and gray; And, may be, on the spit below, where sea-gulls whirl and screech, I've seen a somethin' stretched among the fresh weed on the beach; A draggled, frozen somethin', in the ocean's tangled scum, That meant a woman waitin' fer a man who'd never come; And all the drop of comfort in my sorrer I could git Was this: "I done my best ter save; thank God, the lamp was lit."

And there's lots of comfort, really, to a strugglin' mortal's breast In the sayin', if it's truthful, of "I done my level best"; It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right, No matter if yer rule a land or if yer tend a light. My lot is humble, but I've kept that lamp a-burnin' clear, And so, I reckon, when I die I'll know which course ter steer; The waves may roar around me and the darkness hide the view, But the lights'll mark the channel and the Lord'll tow me through.

* * * * *

THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE

It stands at the bend where the road has its end, And the blackberries nod on the vine; And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown, Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine. The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked, And the grasses grow high at the door, But hid in my heart is an altar, apart, To the little old house by the shore.

For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare, With the blossoms that clustered above, When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place As she sang at her labor of love. And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays With the dust and the leaves on the floor, Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet In the little old house by the shore.

And again in my ears, through the dream of the years, They whisper, the playmates of old, The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies, The sister with ringlets of gold; And Father comes late to the path at the gate, As he did when the fishing was o'er, And the echoes ring out, at our welcoming shout, From the little old house by the shore.

But the night-wind has blown and the vision has flown, And the sound of the children is still, And the shadowy mist, like a spirit, has kissed The graves by the church on the hill; But softly, afar, sing the waves on the bar, A song of the sunshine of yore: A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep Near the little old house by the shore.

* * * * *

WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT

When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance Through the wiry sedge-grass near the shore; How the ripples spark in the sunbeam's glance, As they madly tumble the pebbles o'er! The barnacled rocks emerging seem, As their beards of seaweed are tossed about, Like giants who wake from a troubled dream And laugh for joy when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how the shining sands, Like silver, glisten, and gleam, and glow; How the sea-gulls whirl, in their joyous bands, O'er the shoals where the breakers come and go! The coal-black driftwood, gleaming wet, Relic of by-gone vessel stout, With its clinging shells, seems a bar of jet, Studded with pearls, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how the breezes blow The nodding plumes of the pine-trees through; How the far-off ships, like flakes of snow, Are lightly sprinkled upon the blue! The Sea, as he moves in his slow retreat, Like a warrior struggling for each redoubt, But with flashing lances the sand-bars meet And drive him back, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how each limpid pool Reflects the sky and the fleecy cloud; How the rills, like children set free from school, Prattle and plash and sing aloud! The shore-birds cheerily call, the while They dart and circle in merry rout,— The face of the ocean seems to smile And the earth to laugh, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, as the years roll by, And Life sweeps on to the outer bar, And I feel the chill of the depths that lie Beyond the shoals where the breakers are, I will not rail at a kindly Fate, Or welcome Age with a peevish pout, But still, with a heart of Youth, await The final wave, when the tide goes out.

* * * * *

THE WATCHERS

When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore, And the tossing waves grow dim, and the white sails flash no more, Then, over the shrouded sea, where the winding mist-wreaths creep, The deep-voiced Watchers call, the Watchers who guard the Deep.

* * * * *

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to the word I bring! Toilers upon the sea, list to the Bell-buoy's ring! List, as I clash and clang! list, as I toss and toll! Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew, And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the ship it slew. Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear! Toilers upon the sea, here is the shoal! Beware!"

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to me, one and all! Toilers upon the sea, list to the Fog-horn's call! List to my buzzing cry! list, as I growl and groan: Here is the sullen shore where the white-toothed breakers moan; Where the silky ripples run with the wolf-like wave behind, To leap on the struggling wreck and worry and gnaw and grind, To toss on the cruel crag the dead with his streaming hair! Toilers upon the sea, here are the rocks! Beware!"

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to my stormy shriek! Toilers upon the sea, the Whistling-buoy would speak! List to my sobbing shout! list, for my word is brief: Death is beneath me here! death on the sunken reef Where the jagged ledge is hid and the slimy seaweeds grow, And the long kelp streamers wave in the dark green depths below, Where, under the shell-clad hulk, the gaunt shark makes his lair,— Toilers upon the sea, here is the reef! Beware!"

* * * * *

And then, o'er the silent sea, an answer from unseen lips, Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound ships,— A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,— "Thanks, O Guard of the Deep! Watchers, we hear! we hear!"

* * * * *

"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN"

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," Ter sparkle in the sun; He do'n't parade with gay cockade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty soldier boy," So lovely, spick and span,— He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Reg'lar Army man; The marchin', parchin', Pipe-clay starchin', Reg'lar Army man.

He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea, And on the day he gets his pay He's apt to spend it free; He ain't no temp'rance advocate, He likes ter fill the "can," He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough, The Reg'lar Army man; The r'arin', tearin', Sometimes swearin', Reg'lar Army man.

No State'll call him "noble son," He ain't no ladies' pet, But, let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet! He "do'n't cut any ice" at all In Fash'n's social plan,— He gits the job ter face a mob, The Reg'lar Army man; The millin', drilling Made fer killin', Reg'lar Army man.



They ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off ter war, He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach" From mayor or governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, Ter start the fight and start it right, The Reg'lar Army man; The rattlin', battlin', Colt or Gatlin', Reg'lar Army man.

He makes no fuss about the job, He do'n't talk big or brave,— He knows he's in ter fight and win, Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the scrap, The Reg'lar Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Reg'lar Army man.

* * * * *

FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell, Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell; A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread, With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red; Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose, The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk, Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.

Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown, And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down; And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare, And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air; Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet, He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street; Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade, But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid.

Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane; Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway, And barely leaps to safety as the crashing roof gives way; Sometimes, penned in and stifling fast, he waits, with courage grim, And hears the willing axes ply that strive to rescue him; But sometime, somewhere, somehow, help may come a bit too late For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight.

And then the morning paper may have half a column filled With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed"; And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead, And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball; But, maybe, on the other side, on God's great roll of fame, Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same.

* * * * *

LITTLE BARE FEET

Little bare feet, sunburned and brown, Patterin', patterin' up and down, Dancin' over the kitchen floor, Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,— Right on the go from morn till late, From the garden path ter the old front gate,— There hain't no music ter me so sweet As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet.

When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea, Them little bare feet trot there with me, And a shrill little voice I love'll say: "Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day." And I know when my dory comes ter land, There's a spry little form somewheres on hand; And the very fust sound my ears'll meet Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet.

Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed Yer prints of love in my worn old breast! And I sometimes think, when I come ter die, 'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by; That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear That little child's voice, so sweet and clear; That even there, on the golden street, I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.

* * * * *

A RAINY DAY

Kind er like a stormy day, take it all together,— Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin', And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.

Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water dashin' From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splashin', With the leaves and twigs around, shinin' wet and drippin', Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'.



Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder, Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder, Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges, Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges.

Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over, Like ter see the di'mon's shine on the bendin' clover, Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin' And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'.

But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin', And myself, with chores all done, settin' round and dreaming With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin', And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'.

Kind er like a stormy day, take it all together, Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.

* * * * *

THE HAND-ORGAN BALL

When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down. And hushed is the roar and the din, When Evening is cooling the sweltering town, 'Tis then that the frolics begin; And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement, Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall, 'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night, They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball.

'Tis not a society function, you see, But quite an informal affair; The costumes are varied, yet simple and free, And gems are exceedingly rare; The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching, And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all. In a jacket, they say, one's not rated au fait By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball.

There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "shines"; There's Beppo who peddles "banan'"; There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines— His skin has a very deep tan; There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles, And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall; She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand," She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball.

Professor Spaghetti the music supplies, From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime; His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies, Is merrily thumping the rollicking time; The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper, The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall, And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball.

The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street, The mothers lean out from the windows to see, While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet, And tenement babies crow loud in their glee; And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,— Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;— There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light, In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball.

* * * * *



"JIM"

Want to see me, hey, old chap? Want to curl up in my lap, Do yer, Jim? See him sit and purr and blink— Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him?

Little kitten, nothin' more, When we found him at the door. In the cold, And the baby, half undressed, Picked him up, and he was jest All she'd hold.

Put him up fer me to see, And she says, so 'cute, says she, "Baby's cat." And we never had the heart Fer to keep them two apart After that.

Seem's if I must hear the beat Of her toddlin' little feet 'Round about; Seem to see her tucked in bed, With the kitten's furry head Peekin' out.

Seem's if I could hear her say, In the cunnin' baby way That she had: "Say 'dood-night' to Jimmie, do, 'Coz if 'oo fordetted to He'd feel bad."

Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy? Day do'n't seem to bring no joy With the dawn; Look's if night was everywhere,— But there's glory over there Where she's gone.

Seems as if my heart would break, But I love yer for her sake, Don't I, Jim? See him sit and purr and blink, Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him?

* * * * *

IN MOTHER'S ROOM

In Mother's room still stands the chair Beside the sunny window, where The flowers she loved now lightly stir In April's breeze, as though they were Forlorn without her loving care.

Her books, her work-box, all are there, And still the snowy curtains bear The soft, sweet scent of lavender In Mother's room.

Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair, Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare, On me your fragrant peace confer, Make my life sweet with thoughts of her, As lavender makes sweet the air In Mother's room.

* * * * *

SUNSET-LAND

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,— If you look, as the sun sinks low, Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies, Each one with its crest aglow, O'er the rosy sea, where the purple isles Have beaches of golden sand, To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white, You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light At the harbor of Sunset-land.

It's a wonderful place, little boy, little boy, And its city is Sugarplum Town, Where the slightest breeze through the candy trees Will tumble the bon-bons down; Where the fountains sprinkle their lemonade In syrupy, cooling streams; And they pave each street with a goody, sweet, And mark them off in a manner neat, With borders of chocolate creams.

It's a children's town, little boy, little boy, With a great big jail, you know, Where "grown-ups" stay who are heard to say, "Now don't!" or "You mustn't do so." And half of the time it is Fourth of July, And 'tis Christmas all the rest, With plenty of toys that will make a noise, For Santa is king of this realm of joys, And knows what a lad likes best.

Shall I tell you the way, little boy, little boy, To get to this country, bright? When you're snug in bed, and your prayers are said, You must shut up your eyelids tight; And wait till the sleepy old Sandman comes And gives you his kindly hand, And then you'll float in a drowsy boat, O'er the sea of rose to the cloud, remote, And the wonderful Sunset-land.

* * * * *

THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE

Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks, Your valleys forest laden, your cliffs where Echo speaks; And ye, who by the prairies your childhood's joys have seen, Sing of your waving grasses, your velvet miles of green: But when my memory wanders down to the dear old home I hear, amid my dreaming, the seething of the foam, The wet wind through the pine trees, the sobbing crash and roar, The mighty surge and thunder of the surf along the shore.

I see upon the sand-dunes the beach-grass sway and swing, I see the whirling sea-birds sweep by on graceful wing, I see the silver breakers leap high on shoal and bar, And hear the bell-buoy tolling his lonely note afar. The green salt-meadows fling me their salty, sweet perfume, I hear, through miles of dimness, the watchful fog-horn boom; Once more, beneath the blackness of night's great roof-tree high, The wild geese chant their marches athwart the arching sky.

The dear old Cape! I love it! I love its hills of sand, The sea-wind singing o'er it, the seaweed on its strand; The bright blue ocean 'round it, the clear blue sky o'erhead; The fishing boats, the dripping nets, the white sails filled and spread;— For each heart has its picture, and each its own home song, The sights and sounds which move it when Youth's fair memories throng; And when, down dreamland pathways, a boy, I stroll once more, I hear the mighty music of the surf along the shore.

* * * * *

AT EVENTIDE

The tired breezes are tucked to rest In the cloud-beds far away; The waves are pressed to the placid breast Of the dreaming, gleaming bay; The shore line swims in a hazy heat, Asleep in the sea and sky, And the muffled beat where the breakers meet Is a soft, sweet lullaby.

The pine-clad hill has a crimson crown Of glittering sunset glows; The roofs of brown in the distant town Are bathed in a blush of rose; The radiant ripples shine and shift In shimmering shreds of gold; The seaweeds lift and drowse and drift, And the jellies fill and fold.

The great sun sinks, and the gray fog heaps His cloak on the silent sea; The night-wind creeps where the ocean sleeps, And the wavelets wake in glee; Across the bay, like a silver star, There twinkles the harbor-light, And faint and far from the outer bar The sea-birds call "Good-night."

* * * * *

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

* * * * *

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell

A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes

A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white

Almost every other evenin', jest as reg'lar as the clock

"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,—

For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore

From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere"

Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!

Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair

I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,—the kind

I never was naturally vicious;

I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent

I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me

I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty

I'm pretty nearly certain that 't was 'bout two weeks ago,—

I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap

In Mother's room still stands the chair

In the gleam and gloom of the April weather

It's a wonderful world we're in, my dear

It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed

It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill

It stands at the bend where the road has its end

Jason White has come ter town

Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road

Kind er like a stormy day, take it all together,—

Little bare feet, sunburned and brown,

Little foot, whose lightest pat

Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run out-doors and play;

My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold

My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three

My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at;

Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation

O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill

O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me

Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they 're with us once agin

Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago

Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town

Oh, the song of the Sea—

Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth

Oh, the wild November wind

Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair

Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy

Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town

On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm

Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool

Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys

Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer;

Pavements a-frying in street and in square

Say, I've got a little brother

She's little and modest and purty

Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late

South Pokus is religious,—that's the honest, livin' truth;

Summer nights at Grandpa's—ain't they soft and still!

Sun like a furnace hung up overhead

Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone

The fog was so thick yer could cut it

The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust

The tired breezes are tucked to rest

To my office window, gray

Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest

Want to see me, hey, old chap?

We'd never thought of takin' 'em,—'twas Mary Ann's idee,—

When Ezry, that's my sister's son, came home from furrin parts

When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes!

When the farm work's done, at the set of sun

When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore

When the hot summer daylight is dyin'

When the Lord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters

When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance

When the toil of day is over

When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down

Where leap the long Atlantic swells

Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming

Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks

You know the story—it's centuries old—

THE END