Some folks hint, and I make no doubt, That that's what wore his old wife out— Toilin' away from day to day And year to year, through heat and cold, Uncomplainin'—the same old way The martyrs died in the days of old; And a-clingin', too, as the martyrs done, To one fixed faith, and her ONLY one,— Little Patience, the sweetest child That ever wept unrickonciled, Er felt the pain and the ache and sting That only a mother's death can bring.

Patience Thompson!—I think that name Must 'a' come from a power above, Fer it seemed to fit her jest the same As a GAITER would, er a fine kid glove! And to see that girl, with all the care Of the household on her—I de-clare It was OUDACIOUS, the work she'd do, And the thousand plans that she'd putt through;

And sing like a medder-lark all day long, And drowned her cares in the joys o' song; And LAUGH sometimes tel the farmer's "hand," Away fur off in the fields, would stand A-listenin', with the plow half drawn, Tel the coaxin' echoes called him on; And the furries seemed, in his dreamy eyes, Like foot-paths a-leadin' to Paradise, As off through the hazy atmosphere The call fer dinner reached his ear.

Now LOVE'S as cunnin'a little thing As a hummin'-bird upon the wing, And as liable to poke his nose Jest where folks would least suppose,— And more'n likely build his nest Right in the heart you'd leave unguessed, And live and thrive at your expense— At least, that's MY experience. And old Jeff Thompson often thought, In his se'fish way, that the quiet John Was a stiddy chap, as a farm-hand OUGHT To always be,—fer the airliest dawn Found John busy—and "EASY," too, Whenever his wages would fall due!— To sum him up with a final touch, He EAT so little and WORKED so much, That old Jeff laughed to hisse'f and said, "He makes ME money and airns his bread!—

But John, fer all of his quietude, Would sometimes drap a word er so That none but PATIENCE understood, And none but her was MEANT to know!— Maybe at meal-times John would say, As the sugar-bowl come down his way, "Thanky, no; MY coffee's sweet Enough fer ME!" with sich conceit, SHE'D know at once, without no doubt, HE meant because she poured it out; And smile and blush, and all sich stuff, And ast ef it was "STRONG enough?" And git the answer, neat and trim, "It COULDN'T be too 'strong' fer HIM!"

And so things went fer 'bout a year, Tel John, at last, found pluck to go And pour his tale in the old man's ear— And ef it had been HOT LEAD, I know It couldn't 'a' raised a louder fuss, Ner 'a' riled the old man's temper wuss! He jest LIT in, and cussed and swore, And lunged and rared, and ripped and tore, And told John jest to leave his door, And not to darken it no more! But Patience cried, with eyes all wet, "Remember, John, and don't ferget, WHATEVER comes, I love you yet!" But the old man thought, in his se'fish way, "I'll see her married rich some day; And THAT," thinks he, "is money fer ME— And my will's LAW, as it ought to be!"

So when, in the course of a month er so, A WIDOWER, with a farm er two, Comes to Jeff's, w'y, the folks, you know, Had to TALK—as the folks'll do: It was the talk of the neighberhood— PATIENCE and JOHN, and THEIR affairs;— And this old chap with a few gray hairs Had "cut John out," it was understood. And some folks reckoned "Patience, too, Knowed what SHE was a-goin' to do— It was LIKE her—la! indeed!— All she loved was DOLLARS and CENTS— Like old JEFF—and they saw no need Fer JOHN to pine at HER negligence!"

But others said, in a KINDER way, They missed the songs she used to sing— They missed the smiles that used to play Over her face, and the laughin' ring Of her glad voice—that EVERYthing Of her OLD se'f seemed dead and gone, And this was the ghost that they gazed on!

Tel finally it was noised about There was a WEDDIN' soon to be Down at Jeff's; and the "cat was out" Shore enough!—'Ll the JEE-MUN-NEE! It RILED me when John told me so,— Fer I WAS A FRIEND O' JOHN'S, you know; And his trimblin' voice jest broke in two— As a feller's voice'll sometimes do.— And I says, says I, "Ef I know my biz— And I think I know what JESTICE is,— I've read SOME law—and I'd advise A man like you to wipe his eyes And square his jaws and start AGIN, FER JESTICE IS A-GOIN' TO WIN!" And it wasn't long tel his eyes had cleared As blue as the skies, and the sun appeared In the shape of a good old-fashioned smile That I hadn't seen fer a long, long while.

So we talked on fer a' hour er more, And sunned ourselves in the open door,— Tel a hoss-and-buggy down the road Come a-drivin' up, that I guess John KNOWED,— Fer he winked and says, "I'll dessappear— THEY'D smell a mice ef they saw ME here!" And he thumbed his nose at the old gray mare, And hid hisse'f in the house somewhere.

Well.—The rig drove up: and I raised my head As old Jeff hollered to me and said That "him and his old friend there had come To see ef the squire was at home." . . . I told 'em "I was; and I AIMED to be At every chance of a weddin'-fee!" And then I laughed—and they laughed, too,— Fer that was the object they had in view. "Would I be on hands at eight that night?" They ast; and 's-I, "You're mighty right, I'LL be on hand!" And then I BU'ST Out a-laughin' my very wu'st,— And so did they, as they wheeled away And drove to'rds town in a cloud o' dust. Then I shet the door, and me and John Laughed and LAUGHED, and jest LAUGHED on, Tel Mother drapped her specs, and BY JEEWHILLIKERS! I thought she'd DIE!— And she couldn't 'a' told, I'll bet my hat, What on earth she was laughin' at!

But all o' the fun o' the tale hain't done!— Fer a drizzlin' rain had jest begun, And a-havin' 'bout four mile' to ride, I jest concluded I'd better light Out fer Jeff's and save my hide,— Fer IT WAS A-GOIN' TO STORM, THAT NIGHT! So we went down to the barn, and John Saddled my beast, and I got on; And he told me somepin' to not ferget, And when I left, he was LAUGHIN' yet.

And, 'proachin' on to my journey's end, The great big draps o' the rain come down, And the thunder growled in a way to lend An awful look to the lowerin' frown The dull sky wore; and the lightnin' glanced Tel my old mare jest MORE'N pranced, And tossed her head, and bugged her eyes To about four times their natchurl size, As the big black lips of the clouds 'ud drap Out some oath of a thunderclap, And threaten on in an undertone That chilled a feller clean to the bone!

But I struck shelter soon enough To save myse'f. And the house was jammed With the women-folks, and the weddin'stuff:— A great, long table, fairly CRAMMED With big pound-cakes—and chops and steaks— And roasts and stews—and stumick-aches Of every fashion, form, and size, From twisters up to punkin-pies! And candies, oranges, and figs, And reezins,—all the "whilligigs" And "jim-cracks" that the law allows On sich occasions!—Bobs and bows Of gigglin' girls, with corkscrew curls, And fancy ribbons, reds and blues, And "beau-ketchers" and "curliques" To beat the world! And seven o'clock Brought old Jeff;-and brought—THE GROOM,— With a sideboard-collar on, and stock That choked him so, he hadn't room To SWALLER in, er even sneeze, Er clear his th'oat with any case Er comfort—and a good square cough Would saw his Adam's apple off!

But as fer PATIENCE—MY! Oomh-OOMH!— I never saw her look so sweet!— Her face was cream and roses, too; And then them eyes o' heavenly blue Jest made an angel all complete! And when she split 'em up in smiles And splintered 'em around the room, And danced acrost and met the groom, And LAUGHED OUT LOUD—It kind o' spiles My language when I come to that— Fer, as she laid away his hat, Thinks I, "THE PAPERS HID INSIDE OF THAT SAID HAT MUST MAKE A BRIDE A HAPPY ONE FER ALL HER LIFE, Er else a WRECKED AND WRETCHED WIFE!" And, someway, then, I thought of JOHN,— Then looked towards PATIENCE. . . . She was GONE!— The door stood open, and the rain Was dashin' in; and sharp and plain Above the storm we heerd a cry— A ringin', laughin', loud "Good-by!" That died away, as fleet and fast A hoss's hoofs went splashin' past! And that was all. 'Twas done that quick! . . . You've heerd o' fellers "lookin' sick"? I wisht you'd seen THE GROOM jest then— I wisht you'd seen them two old men, With starin' eyes that fairly GLARED At one another, and the scared And empty faces of the crowd,— I wisht you could 'a' been allowed To jest look on and see it all,— And heerd the girls and women bawl And wring their hands; and heerd old Jeff A-cussin' as he swung hisse'f Upon his hoss, who champed his bit As though old Nick had holt of it: And cheek by jowl the two old wrecks Rode off as though they'd break their necks.

And as we all stood starin' out Into the night, I felt the brush Of some one's hand, and turned about, And heerd a voice that whispered, "HUSH!— THEY'RE WAITIN' IN THE KITCHEN, AND YOU'RE WANTED. DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" Well, ef my MEMORY serves me now, I think I winked.—Well, anyhow, I left the crowd a-gawkin' there, And jest slipped off around to where The back door opened, and went in, And turned and shet the door ag'in, And maybe LOCKED it—couldn't swear,— A woman's arms around me makes Me liable to make mistakes.— I read a marriage license nex', But as I didn't have my specs I jest INFERRED it was all right, And tied the knot so mortal-tight That Patience and my old friend John Was safe enough from that time on!

Well, now, I might go on and tell How all the joke at last leaked out, And how the youngsters raised the yell And rode the happy groom about Upon their shoulders; how the bride Was kissed a hunderd times beside The one I give her,—tel she cried And laughed untel she like to died! I might go on and tell you all About the supper—and the BALL.— You'd ought to see me twist my heel Through jest one old Furginny reel Afore you die! er tromp the strings Of some old fiddle tel she sings Some old cowtillion, don't you know, That putts the devil in yer toe!

We kep' the dancin' up tel FOUR O'clock, I reckon—maybe more.— We hardly heerd the thunders roar, ER THOUGHT about the STORM that blowed— AND THEM TWO FELLERS ON THE ROAD! Tel all at onc't we heerd the door Bu'st open, and a voice that SWORE,— And old Jeff Thompson tuck the floor. He shuck hisse'f and looked around Like some old dog about half-drowned— HIS HAT, I reckon, WEIGHED TEN POUND To say the least, and I'll say, SHORE, HIS OVERCOAT WEIGHED FIFTY more— THE WETTEST MAN YOU EVER SAW, TO HAVE SO DRY A SON-IN-LAW!

He sized it all; and Patience laid Her hand in John's, and looked afraid, And waited. And a stiller set O' folks, I KNOW, you never met In any court room, where with dread They wait to hear a verdick read.

The old man turned his eyes on me: "And have you married 'em?" says he. I nodded "Yes." "Well, that'll do," He says, "and now we're th'ough with YOU,— YOU jest clear out, and I decide And promise to be satisfied!" He hadn't nothin' more to say. I saw, of course, how matters lay, And left. But as I rode away I heerd the roosters crow fer day.

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

I come upon it suddenly, alone— A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, I take the path that leads me as it may— Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare— A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and—is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips—dwindles—broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian file, Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night O years of nights as vain!—Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes!

So—on, with quickened breaths, I follow still— My avant-courier must be obeyed! Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there a while.

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said— "You dog our country walks

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick!— We will not suffer tamely what you do, And warn you at your peril,—for we'll sick Our bumblebees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,— The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast—

Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth— Erratic wanderings through dead'ning lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands:

Or the path climbs a boulder—wades a slough— Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook— The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed— Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge, And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my somber way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows—till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, Where, like a gem in costly setting held, The old log cabin gleams.

. . . . . . .

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on Adown your valley-way, and run before Among the roses crowding up the lawn And thronging at the door,—

And carry up the echo there that shall Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay The household out to greet the prodigal That wanders home to-day.

THE OLD GUITAR

Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver star In its silent lips to-day.

The keys hold only nerveless strings— The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears.

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony.

Music sweeter than words confess, Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument.

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them— Alas for the heart's regrets!—

Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar!

"FRIDAY AFTERNOON"

TO WILLIAM MORRIS PIERSON

[1868-1870]

Of the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, The old school-day romances Are the dearest, after all!—. When some sweet thought revises The half-forgotten tune That opened "Exercises" On "Friday Afternoon."

We seem to hear the clicking Of the pencil and the pen, And the solemn, ceaseless ticking Of the timepiece ticking then; And we note the watchful master, As he waves the warning rod, With our own heart beating faster Than the boy's who threw the wad.

Some little hand uplifted, And the creaking of a shoe:— A problem left unsifted For the teacher's hand to do: The murmured hum of learning— And the flutter of a book; The smell of something burning, And the school's inquiring look.

The bashful boy in blushes; And the girl, with glancing eyes, Who hides her smiles, and hushes The laugh about to rise,— Then, with a quick invention, Assumes a serious face, To meet the words, "Attention! Every scholar in his place!"

The opening song, page 20.— Ah! dear old "Golden Wreath," You willed your sweets in plenty; And some who look beneath The leaves of Time will linger, And loving tears will start, As Fancy trails her finger O'er the index of the heart.

"Good News from Home"—We hear it Welling tremulous, yet clear And holy as the spirit Of the song we used to hear— "Good news for me" (A throbbing And an aching melody)— "Has come across the"—(sobbing, Yea, and salty) "dark blue sea!"

Or the paean "Scotland's burning!" With its mighty surge and swell Of chorus, still returning To its universal yell— Till we're almost glad to drop to Something sad and full of pain— And "Skip verse three," and stop, too, Ere our hearts are broke again.

Then "the big girls'" compositions, With their doubt, and hope, and glow Of heart and face,—conditions Of "the big boys"—even so,— When themes of "Spring," and "Summer" And of "Fall," and "Winter-time" Droop our heads and hold us dumber Than the sleigh-bell's fancied chime.

Elocutionary science— (Still in changeless infancy!)— With its "Cataline's Defiance," And "The Banner of the Free": Or, lured from Grandma's attic, A ramshackle "rocker" there, Adds a skreek of the dramatic To the poet's "Old Arm-Chair."

Or the "Speech of Logan" shifts us From the pathos, to the fire; And Tell (with Gessler) lifts us Many noble notches higher.— Till a youngster, far from sunny, With sad eyes of watery blue, Winds up with something "funny," Like "Cock-a-doodle-do!"

Then a dialogue—selected For its realistic worth:— The Cruel Boy detected With a turtle turned to earth Back downward; and, in pleading, The Good Boy—strangely gay At such a sad proceeding— Says, "Turn him over, pray!"

So the exercises taper Through gradations of delight To the reading of "The Paper," Which is entertaining—quite! For it goes ahead and mentions "If a certain Mr. O. Has serious intentions That he ought to tell her so."

It also "Asks permission To intimate to 'John' The dubious condition Of the ground he's standing on"; And, dropping the suggestion To "mind what he's about," It stuns him with the question: "Does his mother know he's out?"

And among the contributions To this "Academic Press" Are "Versified Effusions" By—"Our lady editress"— Which fact is proudly stated By the CHIEF of the concern,— "Though the verse communicated Bears the pen-name 'Fanny Fern.' "

. . . . . . When all has been recited, And the teacher's bell is heard, And visitors, invited, Have dropped a kindly word, A hush of holy feeling Falls down upon us there, As though the day were kneeling, With the twilight for the prayer.

. . . . . . Midst the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, Thus the old school-day romances Are the dearest, after all!— When some sweet thought revises The half-forgotten tune That opened "Exercises," On "Friday Afternoon."

"JOHNSON'S BOY"

The world is turned ag'in' me, And people says, "They guess That nothin' else is in me But pure maliciousness!" I git the blame for doin' What other chaps destroy, And I'm a-goin' to ruin Because I'm "Johnson's boy."

THAT ain't my name—I'd ruther They'd call me IKE or PAT— But they've forgot the other— And so have I, for that! I reckon it's as handy, When Nibsy breaks his toy, Or some one steals his candy, To say 'twas "JOHNSON'S BOY!"

You can't git any water At the pump, and find the spout So durn chuck-full o' mortar That you have to bore it out; You tackle any scholar In Wisdom's wise employ, And I'll bet you half a dollar He'll say it's "Johnson's boy!"

Folks don't know how I suffer In my uncomplainin' way— They think I'm gittin' tougher And tougher every day. Last Sunday night, when Flinder Was a-shoutin' out for joy, And some one shook the winder, He prayed for "Johnson's boy."

I'm tired of bein' follered By farmers every day, And then o' bein' collared For coaxin' hounds away; Hounds always plays me double— It's a trick they all enjoy— To git me into trouble, Because I'm "Johnson's boy."

But if I git to Heaven, I hope the Lord'll see SOME boy has been perfect, And lay it on to me; I'll swell the song sonorous, And clap my wings for joy, And sail off on the chorus— "Hurrah for 'Johnson's boy!'"

HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS

Your hands—they are strangely fair! O Fair—for the jewels that sparkle there,— Fair—for the witchery of the spell That ivory keys alone can tell; But when their delicate touches rest Here in my own do I love them best, As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous—wonderful—beautiful hands! They can coax roses to bloom in the strands Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine, Under mysterious touches of thine, Into such knots as entangle the soul And fetter the heart under such a control As only the strength of my love understands— My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, Kissing the glove that I found unfilled— When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow, As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!" . . . And dazed and alone in a dream I stand, Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago, And held your hand as I told you so— Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss And said "I could die for a hand like this!" Little I dreamed love's fullness yet Had to ripen when eyes were wet And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

. . . . . . . . . Beautiful Hands!—O Beautiful Hands! Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, Only a touch—were it ever so light— My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again; For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

I am not prone to moralize In scientific doubt On certain facts that Nature tries To puzzle us about,— For I am no philosopher Of wise elucidation, But speak of things as they occur, From simple observation.

I notice LITTLE things—to wit:— I never missed a train Because I didn't RUN for it; I never knew it rain That my umbrella wasn't lent,— Or, when in my possession, The sun but wore, to all intent, A jocular expression.

I never knew a creditor To dun me for a debt But I was "cramped" or "bu'sted"; or I never knew one yet, When I had plenty in my purse, To make the least invasion,— As I, accordingly perverse, Have courted no occasion.

Nor do I claim to comprehend What Nature has in view In giving us the very friend To trust we oughtn't to.— But so it is: The trusty gun Disastrously exploded Is always sure to be the one We didn't think was loaded.

Our moaning is another's mirth,— And what is worse by half, We say the funniest thing on earth And never raise a laugh: 'Mid friends that love us over well, And sparkling jests and liquor, Our hearts somehow are liable To melt in tears the quicker.

We reach the wrong when most we seek The right; in like effect, We stay the strong and not the weak— Do most when we neglect.— Neglected genius—truth be said— As wild and quick as tinder, The more you seek to help ahead The more you seem to hinder.

I've known the least the greatest, too— And, on the selfsame plan, The biggest fool I ever knew Was quite a little man: We find we ought, and then we won't— We prove a thing, then doubt it,— Know EVERYTHING but when we don't Know ANYTHING about it.

THE SILENT VICTORS

MAY 30, 1878,

Dying for victory, cheer on cheer Thundered on his eager ear. —CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN.

I

Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, Who in grim Battle's drama played their part, And slumber here to-day.—

Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine Of Freedom, while our country held its breath As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line And marched upon their death:

When Freedom's Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed, Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again To shudder in the storm of battle-field— The elements of men,—

When every star that glittered was a mark For Treason's ball, and every rippling bar Of red and white was sullied with the dark And purple stain of war:

When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, Were howling o'er their gory feast of lives, And sending dismal echoes far away To mothers, maids, and wives:—

The mother, kneeling in the empty night, With pleading hands uplifted for the son Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight— The victory had won:

The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say The babe was waiting for the sire's caress— The letter meeting that upon the way,— The babe was fatherless:

The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed Against the brow once dewy with her breath, Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed Save by the dews of death.

II

What meed of tribute can the poet pay The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day In epitaph design?—

Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows That ache no longer with a dream of fame, But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, Renowned beyond the name.

The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall, And tender morning with her shining hand May brush them from the grasses green and tall That undulate the land.—

Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, Can yield us hope the Hero's head to lift Out of its dreamless sleep:

The dear old Flag, whose faintest flutter flies A stirring echo through each patriot breast, Can never coax to life the folded eyes That saw its wrongs redressed—

That watched it waver when the fight was hot, And blazed with newer courage to its aid, Regardless of the shower of shell and shot Through which the charge was made;—

And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, Like some proud bird in stormy element, And soar untrammeled on its wanderings, They closed in death, content.

III

O Mother, you who miss the smiling face Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, And left you weeping o'er the vacant place He used to fill at night,—

Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns That drowned the farewell words you tried to say To incoherent ones;—

Be glad and proud you had the life to give— Be comforted through all the years to come,— Your country has a longer life to live, Your son a better home.

O Widow, weeping o'er the orphaned child, Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send A keener pang to grief unreconciled,— Teach him to comprehend

He had a father brave enough to stand Before the fire of Treason's blazing gun, That, dying, he might will the rich old land Of Freedom to his son.

And, Maiden, living on through lonely years In fealty to love's enduring ties,— With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears That gather in your eyes,

Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, Submission to the will of Heaven's High Host:— I see your Angel-soldier pacing there, Expectant at his post.—

I see the rank and file of armies vast, That muster under one supreme control; I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast— The calling of the roll—

The grand divisions falling into line And forming, under voice of One alone Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine The hymn that shakes the Throne.

IV

And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, In silence o'er the tomb.

With reverent hands we twine the Hero's wreath And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone That stands the sentinel for each beneath Whose glory is our own.

While in the violet that greets the sun, We see the azure eye of some lost boy; And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one We kissed in childish joy,—

Recalling, haply, when he marched away, He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet.— The kiss he gave his mother's brow that day Is there and burning yet:

And through the storm of grief around her tossed, One ray of saddest comfort she may see,— Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost To weeping Liberty.

. . . . . . . . But draw aside the drapery of gloom, And let the sunshine chase the clouds away And gild with brighter glory every tomb We decorate to-day:

And in the holy silence reigning round, While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, Thank God that Peace is here!

And let each angry impulse that may start, Be smothered out of every loyal breast; And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, Let every sorrow rest.

SCRAPS

There's a habit I have nurtured, From the sentimental time When my life was like a story, And my heart a happy rhyme,— Of clipping from the paper, Or magazine, perhaps, The idle songs of dreamers, Which I treasure as my scraps.

They hide among my letters, And they find a cozy nest In the bosom of my wrapper, And the pockets of my vest; They clamber in my fingers Till my dreams of wealth relapse In fairer dreams than Fortune's Though I find them only scraps.

Sometimes I find, in tatters Like a beggar, form as fair As ever gave to Heaven The treasure of a prayer; And words all dim and faded, And obliterate in part, Grow into fadeless meanings That are printed on the heart.

Sometimes a childish jingle Flings an echo, sweet and clear, And thrills me as I listen To the laughs I used to hear; And I catch the gleam of faces, And the glimmer of glad eyes That peep at me expectant O'er the walls of Paradise.

O syllables of measure! Though you wheel yourselves in line, And await the further order Of this eager voice of mine; You are powerless to follow O'er the field my fancy maps, So I lead you back to silence Feeling you are only scraps.

AUGUST

A day of torpor in the sullen heat Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, With drowsy eyes, and dream.

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; The sun glares ever like an evil eye, And withers flower and leaf.

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote The thresher lies deserted, like some old Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat Upon a sea of gold.

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird Above an empty nest, and truant boys Along the river's shady margin heard— A harmony of noise—

A melody of wrangling voices blent With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent To mimic waterfalls.

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, The sifted glances of the sun appear In splinterings of spray.

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on His journey to the sky.

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade.

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes:

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases—reaches—passes fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night.

DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME

DIED—Early morning of September 5, 1876, and in the gleaming dawn of "name and fame," Hamilton J. Dunbar.

Dead! Dead! Dead! We thought him ours alone; And were so proud to see him tread The rounds of fame, and lift his head Where sunlight ever shone; But now our aching eyes are dim, And look through tears in vain for him.

Name! Name! Name! It was his diadem; Nor ever tarnish-taint of shame Could dim its luster—like a flame Reflected in a gem, He wears it blazing on his brow Within the courts of Heaven now.

Tears! Tears! Tears! Like dews upon the leaf That bursts at last—from out the years The blossom of a trust appears That blooms above the grief; And mother, brother, wife and child Will see it and be reconciled.

IN THE DARK

O In the depths of midnight What fancies haunt the brain! When even the sigh of the sleeper Sounds like a sob of pain.

A sense of awe and of wonder I may never well define,— For the thoughts that come in the shadows Never come in the shine.

The old clock down in the parlor Like a sleepless mourner grieves, And the seconds drip in the silence As the rain drips from the eaves.

And I think of the hands that signal The hours there in the gloom, And wonder what angel watchers Wait in the darkened room.

And I think of the smiling faces That used to watch and wait, Till the click of the clock was answered By the click of the opening gate.—

They are not there now in the evening— Morning or noon—not there; Yet I know that they keep their vigil, And wait for me Somewhere.

THE IRON HORSE

No song is mine of Arab steed— My courser is of nobler blood, And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, And greater strength and hardihood Than ever cantered wild and free Across the plains of Araby.

Go search the level desert land From Sana on to Samarcand— Wherever Persian prince has been, Or Dervish, Sheik, or Bedouin, And I defy you there to point Me out a steed the half so fine— From tip of ear to pastern-joint— As this old iron horse of mine.

You do not know what beauty is— You do not know what gentleness His answer is to my caress!— Why, look upon this gait of his,— A touch upon his iron rein— He moves with such a stately grace The sunlight on his burnished mane Is barely shaken in its place; And at a touch he changes pace, And, gliding backward, stops again.

And talk of mettle—Ah! my friend, Such passion smolders in his breast That when awakened it will send A thrill of rapture wilder than E'er palpitated heart of man When flaming at its mightiest. And there's a fierceness in his ire— A maddened majesty that leaps Along his veins in blood of fire, Until the path his vision sweeps Spins out behind him like a thread Unraveled from the reel of time, As, wheeling on his course sublime, The earth revolves beneath his tread.

Then stretch away, my gallant steed! Thy mission is a noble one: Thou bear'st the father to the son, And sweet relief to bitter need; Thou bear'st the stranger to his friends; Thou bear'st the pilgrim to the shrine, And back again the prayer he sends That God will prosper me and mine,— The star that on thy forehead gleams Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.

Then speed thee on thy glorious race! The mother waits thy ringing pace; The father leans an anxious ear The thunder of thy hooves to hear; The lover listens, far away, To catch thy keen exultant neigh; And, where thy breathings roll and rise, The husband strains his eager eyes, And laugh of wife and baby-glee Ring out to greet and welcome thee. Then stretch away! and when at last The master's hand shall gently check Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, The world will pat thee on the neck.

DEAD LEAVES

DAWN

As though a gipsy maiden with dim look, Sat crooning by the roadside of the year, So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here To read dark fortunes for us from the book Of fate; thou flingest in the crinkled brook The trembling maple's gold, and frosty-clear Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere, And drifting on its current calls the rook To other lands. As one who wades, alone, Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk Of distant melody, and finds the tone, In some wierd way compelling him to stalk The paths of childhood over,—so I moan, And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk.

DUSK

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day Into the dusky forest-lands of gray And somber twilight. Far, and faint, and high The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry Sad as the wail of some poor castaway Who sees a vessel drifting far astray Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. The children, riotous from school, grow bold And quarrel with the wind, whose angry gust Plucks off the summer hat, and flaps the fold Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

NIGHT

Funereal Darkness, drear and desolate, Muffles the world. The moaning of the wind Is piteous with sobs of saddest kind; And laughter is a phantom at the gate Of memory. The long-neglected grate Within sprouts into flame and lights the mind With hopes and wishes long ago refined To ashes,—long departed friends await Our words of welcome: and our lips are dumb And powerless to greet the ones that press Old kisses there. The baby beats its drum, And fancy marches to the dear caress Of mother-arms, and all the gleeful hum Of home intrudes upon our loneliness.

OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS

"The voice of One hath spoken, And the bended reed is bruised— The golden bowl is broken, And the silver cord is loosed."

Over the eyes of gladness The lids of sorrow fall, And the light of mirth is darkened Under the funeral pall.

The hearts that throbbed with rapture In dreams of the future years, Are wakened from their slumbers, And their visions drowned in tears.

. . . . . . . Two buds on the bough in the morning— Twin buds in the smiling sun, But the frost of death has fallen And blighted the bloom of one.

One leaf of life still folded Has fallen from the stem, Leaving the symbol teaching There still are two of them,—

For though—through Time's gradations, The LIVING bud may burst,— The WITHERED one is gathered, And blooms in Heaven first.

ONLY A DREAM

Only a dream! Her head is bent Over the keys of the instrument, While her trembling fingers go astray In the foolish tune she tries to play. He smiles in his heart, though his deep, sad eyes Never change to a glad surprise As he finds the answer he seeks confessed In glowing features, and heaving breast.

Only a dream! Though the fete is grand, And a hundred hearts at her command, She takes no part, for her soul is sick Of the Coquette's art and the Serpent's trick,— She someway feels she would like to fling Her sins away as a robe, and spring Up like a lily pure and white, And bloom alone for HIM to-night.

Only a dream That the fancy weaves. The lids unfold like the rose's leaves, And the upraised eyes are moist and mild As the prayerful eyes of a drowsy child. Does she remember the spell they once Wrought in the past a few short months? Haply not—yet her lover's eyes Never change to the glad surprise.

Only a dream! He winds her form Close in the coil of his curving arm, And whirls her away in a gust of sound As wild and sweet as the poets found In the paradise where the silken tent Of the Persian blooms in the Orient,— While ever the chords of the music seem Whispering sadly,—"Only a dream!"

OUR LITTLE GIRL

Her heart knew naught of sorrow, Nor the vaguest taint of sin— 'Twas an ever-blooming blossom Of the purity within: And her hands knew only touches Of the mother's gentle care, And the kisses and caresses Through the interludes of prayer.

Her baby-feet had journeyed Such a little distance here, They could have found no briers In the path to interfere; The little cross she carried Could not weary her, we know, For it lay as lightly on her As a shadow on the snow.

And yet the way before us— O how empty now and drear!— How ev'n the dews of roses Seem as dripping tears for her! And the song-birds all seem crying, As the winds cry and the rain, All sobbingly,—"We want—we want Our little girl again!"

THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW

'Twas a Funny Little Fellow Of the very purest type, For he had a heart as mellow As an apple over ripe; And the brightest little twinkle When a funny thing occurred, And the lightest little tinkle Of a laugh you ever heard!

His smile was like the glitter Of the sun in tropic lands, And his talk a sweeter twitter Than the swallow understands; Hear him sing—and tell a story— Snap a joke—ignite a pun,— 'Twas a capture—rapture—glory, An explosion—all in one!

Though he hadn't any money— That condiment which tends To make a fellow "honey" For the palate of his friends;— Sweet simples he compounded— Sovereign antidotes for sin Or taint,—a faith unbounded That his friends were genuine.

He wasn't honored, maybe— For his songs of praise were slim,— Yet I never knew a baby That wouldn't crow for him; I never knew a mother But urged a kindly claim Upon him as a brother, At the mention of his name.

The sick have ceased their sighing, And have even found the grace Of a smile when they were dying As they looked upon his face; And I've seen his eyes of laughter Melt in tears that only ran As though, swift-dancing after, Came the Funny Little Man.

He laughed away the sorrow And he laughed away the gloom We are all so prone to borrow From the darkness of the tomb; And he laughed across the ocean Of a happy life, and passed, With a laugh of glad emotion, Into Paradise at last.

And I think the Angels knew him, And had gathered to await His coming, and run to him Through the widely opened Gate, With their faces gleaming sunny For his laughter-loving sake, And thinking, "What a funny Little Angel he will make!"

SONG OF THE NEW YEAR

I heard the bells at midnight Ring in the dawning year; And above the clanging chorus Of the song, I seemed to hear A choir of mystic voices Flinging echoes, ringing clear, From a band of angels winging Through the haunted atmosphere: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

And I thought of all the trials The departed years had cost, And the blooming hopes and pleasures That are withered now and lost; And with joy I drank the music Stealing o'er the feeling there As the spirit song came pealing On the silence everywhere: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

And I listened as a lover To an utterance that flows In syllables like dewdrops From the red lips of a rose, Till the anthem, fainter growing, Climbing higher, chiming on Up the rounds of happy rhyming, Slowly vanished in the dawn: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

Then I raised my eyes to Heaven, And with trembling lips I pled For a blessing for the living And a pardon for the dead; And like a ghost of music Slowly whispered—lowly sung— Came the echo pure and holy In the happy angel tongue: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, And the dawn of every morrow Will in peace be ushered in."

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The past is like a story I have listened to in dreams That vanished in the glory Of the Morning's early gleams; And—at my shadow glancing— I feel a loss of strength, As the Day of Life advancing Leaves it shorn of half its length.

But it's all in vain to worry At the rapid race of Time— And he flies in such a flurry When I trip him with a rhyme, I'll bother him no longer Than to thank you for the thought That "my fame is growing stronger As you really think it ought."

And though I fall below it, I might know as much of mirth To live and die a poet Of unacknowledged worth; For Fame is but a vagrant— Though a loyal one and brave, And his laurels ne'er so fragrant As when scattered o'er the grave.

LINES FOR AN ALBUM

I would not trace the hackneyed phrase Of shallow words and empty praise, And prate of "peace" till one might think My foolish pen was drunk with ink. Nor will I here the wish express Of "lasting love and happiness," And "cloudless skies"—for after all "Into each life some rain must fall." —No. Keep the empty page below, In my remembrance, white as snow— Nor sigh to know the secret prayer My spirit hand has written there.

TO ANNIE

When the lids of dusk are falling O'er the dreamy eyes of day, And the whippoorwills are calling, And the lesson laid away,— May Mem'ry soft and tender As the prelude of the night, Bend over you and render As tranquil a delight.

FAME

I

Once, in a dream, I saw a man With haggard face and tangled hair, And eyes that nursed as wild a care As gaunt Starvation ever can; And in his hand he held a wand Whose magic touch gave life and thought Unto a form his fancy wrought And robed with coloring so grand, It seemed the reflex of some child Of Heaven, fair and undefiled— A face of purity and love— To woo him into worlds above: And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, A gleaming smile lit up his lips As his bright soul from its eclipse Went flashing into Paradise. Then tardy Fame came through the door And found a picture—nothing more.

II

And once I saw a man, alone, In abject poverty, with hand Uplifted o'er a block of stone That took a shape at his command And smiled upon him, fair and good— A perfect work of womanhood, Save that the eyes might never weep, Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. And as in awe I gazed on her, I saw the sculptor's chisel fall— I saw him sink, without a moan, Sink lifeless at the feet of stone, And lie there like a worshiper. Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, And found a statue—that was all.

III

And once I saw a man who drew A gloom about him like a cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The few Who spoke of him at all, but spoke Disparagingly of a mind The Fates had faultily designed: Too indolent for modern times— Too fanciful, and full of whims— For, talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clung Was worthless as the songs he sung! I saw him, in my vision, filled With rapture o'er a spray of bloom The wind threw in his lonely room; And of the sweet perfume it spilled He drank to drunkenness, and flung His long hair back, and laughed and sung And clapped his hands as children do At fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there dripped Such music on his manuscript That he who listens to the words May close his eyes and dream the birds Are twittering on every hand A language he can understand. He journeyed on through life, unknown, Without one friend to call his own; He tired. No kindly hand to press The cooling touch of tenderness Upon his burning brow, nor lift To his parched lips God's freest gift— No sympathetic sob or sigh Of trembling lips—no sorrowing eye Looked out through tears to see him die. And Fame her greenest laurels brought To crown a head that heeded not.

And this is Fame! A thing, indeed, That only comes when least the need: The wisest minds of every age The book of life from page to page Have searched in vain; each lesson conned Will promise it the page beyond— Until the last, when dusk of night Falls over it, and reason's light Is smothered by that unknown friend Who signs his nom de plume, The End

AN EMPTY NEST

I find an old deserted nest, Half-hidden in the underbrush: A withered leaf, in phantom jest, Has nestled in it like a thrush With weary, palpitating breast.

I muse as one in sad surprise Who seeks his childhood's home once more, And finds it in a strange disguise Of vacant rooms and naked floor, With sudden tear-drops in his eyes.

An empty nest! It used to bear A happy burden, when the breeze Of summer rocked it, and a pair Of merry tattlers told the trees What treasures they had hidden there.

But Fancy, flitting through the gleams Of youth's sunshiny atmosphere, Has fallen in the past, and seems, Like this poor leaflet nestled here,— A phantom guest of empty dreams.

MY FATHER'S HALLS

My father's halls, so rich and rare, Are desolate and bleak and bare; My father's heart and halls are one, Since I, their life and light, am gone.

O, valiant knight, with hand of steel And heart of gold, hear my appeal: Release me from the spoiler's charms, And bear me to my father's arms.

THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL

The harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, For the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright; But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart A sorrow to one in an alien clime, Let the light of the melody fall on the heart, And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.

The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim That once were his passionate love and his pride; And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him Have fallen away as the flowers have died. The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago, Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath The grass and the stubble—the frost and the snow.

Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear, And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings, And jewel the song with the gem of a tear. For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom tonight, And the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting Upon the dead sea of the Past!—A view— Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lifting A far-off "OOH! OOH-OOH!"

And suddenly we find ourselves astray In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago— Or idly dream again upon a day Of rest we used to know.

I bit an apple but a moment since— A wilted apple that the worm had spurned,— Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints Of good old days returned.—

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, God's blessing must be resting on the fruit— So bitter, yet so sweet!

JOHN WALSH

A strange life—strangely passed! We may not read the soul When God has folded up the scroll In death at last. We may not—dare not say of one Whose task of life as well was done As he could do it,—"This is lost, And prayers may never pay the cost."

Who listens to the song That sings within the breast, Should ever hear the good expressed Above the wrong. And he who leans an eager ear To catch the discord, he will hear The echoes of his own weak heart Beat out the most discordant part.

Whose tender heart could build Affection's bower above A heart where baby nests of love Were ever filled,— With upward growth may reach and twine About the children, grown divine, That once were his a time so brief His very joy was more than grief.

O Sorrow—"Peace, be still!" God reads the riddle right; And we who grope in constant night But serve His will; And when sometime the doubt is gone, And darkness blossoms into dawn,— "God keeps the good," we then will say: " 'Tis but the dross He throws away."

ORLIE WILDE

A goddess, with a siren's grace,— A sun-haired girl on a craggy place Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting about like birds of prey.

Wrought was she of a painter's dream,— Wise only as are artists wise, My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem, With deep sad eyes of oversize, And face of melancholy guise.

I pressed him that he tell to me This masterpiece's history. He turned—REturned—and thus beguiled Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde:—

"We artists live ideally: We breed our firmest facts of air; We make our own reality— We dream a thing and it is so. The fairest scenes we ever see Are mirages of memory; The sweetest thoughts we ever know We plagiarize from Long Ago: And as the girl on canvas there Is marvelously rare and fair, 'Tis only inasmuch as she Is dumb and may not speak to me!" He tapped me with his mahlstick—then The picture,—and went on again:

"Orlie Wilde, the fisher's child— I see her yet, as fair and mild As ever nursling summer day Dreamed on the bosom of the bay: For I was twenty then, and went Alone and long-haired—all content With promises of sounding name And fantasies of future fame, And thoughts that now my mind discards As editor a fledgling bard's.

"At evening once I chanced to go, With pencil and portfolio, Adown the street of silver sand That winds beneath this craggy land, To make a sketch of some old scurf Of driftage, nosing through the surf A splintered mast, with knarl and strand Of rigging-rope and tattered threads Of flag and streamer and of sail That fluttered idly in the gale Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds. The while I wrought, half listlessly, On my dismantled subject, came A sea-bird, settling on the same With plaintive moan, as though that he Had lost his mate upon the sea; And—with my melancholy trend— It brought dim dreams half understood— It wrought upon my morbid mood,— I thought of my own voyagings That had no end—that have no end.— And, like the sea-bird, I made moan That I was loveless and alone. And when at last with weary wings It went upon its wanderings, With upturned face I watched its flight Until this picture met my sight: A goddess, with a siren's grace,— A sun-haired girl on a craggy place Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting about like birds of prey.

"In airy poise she, gazing, stood A machless form of womanhood, That brought a thought that if for me Such eyes had sought across the sea, I could have swum the widest tide That ever mariner defied, And, at the shore, could on have gone To that high crag she stood upon, To there entreat and say, 'My Sweet, Behold thy servant at thy feet.' And to my soul I said: 'Above, There stands the idol of thy love!'

"In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state I gazed—till lo! I was aware A fisherman had joined her there— A weary man, with halting gait, Who toiled beneath a basket's weight: Her father, as I guessed, for she Had run to meet him gleefully And ta'en his burden to herself, That perched upon her shoulder's shelf So lightly that she, tripping, neared A jutting crag and disappeared; But she left the echo of a song That thrills me yet, and will as long As I have being! . . .

. . . "Evenings came And went,—but each the same—the same: She watched above, and even so I stood there watching from below; Till, grown so bold at last, I sung,— (What matter now the theme thereof!)— It brought an answer from her tongue— Faint as the murmur of a dove, Yet all the more the song of love. . . .

"I turned and looked upon the bay, With palm to forehead—eyes a-blur In the sea's smile—meant but for her!— I saw the fish-boats far away In misty distance, lightly drawn In chalk-dots on the horizon— Looked back at her, long, wistfully;— And, pushing off an empty skiff, I beckoned her to quit the cliff And yield me her rare company Upon a little pleasure-cruise.— She stood, as loathful to refuse, To muse for full a moment's time,— Then answered back in pantomime 'She feared some danger from the sea Were she discovered thus with me.' I motioned then to ask her if I might not join her on the cliff And back again, with graceful wave Of lifted arm, she anwer gave 'She feared some danger from the sea.'

"Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I Sprang in the boat, and flung 'Good-by' From pouted mouth with angry hand, And madly pulled away from land With lusty stroke, despite that she Held out her hands entreatingly: And when far out, with covert eye I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly In reckless haste adown the crag, Her hair a-flutter like a flag Of gold that danced across the strand In little mists of silver sand. All curious I, pausing, tried To fancy what it all implied,— When suddenly I found my feet Were wet; and, underneath the seat On which I sat, I heard the sound Of gurgling waters, and I found The boat aleak alarmingly. . . . I turned and looked upon the sea, Whose every wave seemed mocking me; I saw the fishers' sails once more— In dimmer distance than before; I saw the sea-bird wheeling by, With foolish wish that I could fly: I thought of firm earth, home and friends— I thought of everything that tends To drive a man to frenzy and To wholly lose his own command; I thought of all my waywardness— Thought of a mother's deep distress; Of youthful follies yet unpurged— Sins, as the seas, about me surged— Thought of the printer's ready pen To-morrow drowning me again;— A million things without a name— I thought of everything but—Fame. . . .

"A memory yet is in my mind, So keenly clear and sharp-defined, I picture every phase and line Of life and death, and neither mine,— While some fair seraph, golden-haired, Bends over me,—with white arms bared, That strongly plait themselves about My drowning weight and lift me out— With joy too great for words to state Or tongue to dare articulate!

"And this seraphic ocean-child And heroine was Orlie Wilde: And thus it was I came to hear Her voice's music in my ear— Ay, thus it was Fate paved the way That I walk desolate to-day!" . . .

The artist paused and bowed his face Within his palms a little space, While reverently on his form I bent my gaze and marked a storm That shook his frame as wrathfully As some typhoon of agony, And fraught with sobs—the more profound For that peculiar laughing sound We hear when strong men weep. . . . I leant With warmest sympathy—I bent To stroke with soothing hand his brow, He murmuring—"Tis over now!—

And shall I tie the silken thread Of my frail romance?" "Yes," I said.— He faintly smiled; and then, with brow In kneading palm, as one in dread— His tasseled cap pushed from his head " 'Her voice's music,' I repeat," He said,—" 'twas sweet—O passing sweet!— Though she herself, in uttering Its melody, proved not the thing Of loveliness my dreams made meet For me—there, yearning, at her feet— Prone at her feet—a worshiper,— For lo! she spake a tongue," moaned he, "Unknown to me;—unknown to me As mine to her—as mine to her."

THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER

Maud Muller 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 "Barbara 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 Marveled 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 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.

A MAN OF MANY PARTS

It was a man of many parts, Who in his coffer mind Had stored the Classics and the Arts And Sciences combined; The purest gems of poesy Came flashing from his pen— The wholesome truths of History He gave his fellow men.

He knew the stars from "Dog" to Mars; And he could tell you, too, Their distances—as though the cars Had often checked him through— And time 'twould take to reach the sun, Or by the "Milky Way," Drop in upon the moon, or run The homeward trip, or stay.

With Logic at his fingers' ends, Theology in mind, He often entertained his friends Until they died resigned; And with inquiring mind intent Upon Alchemic arts A dynamite experiment— . . . . . . . A man of many parts!

THE FROG

Who am I but the Frog—the Frog! My realm is the dark bayou, And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log That the poison-vine clings to— And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.

What am I but a King—a King!— For the royal robes I wear— A scepter, too, and a signet-ring, As vassals and serfs declare: And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not In the wide world anywhere!

I can talk to the Night—the Night!— Under her big black wing She tells me the tale of the world outright, And the secret of everything; For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, To the doom that death will bring.

The Storm swoops down, and he blows—and blows,— While I drum on his swollen cheek, And croak in his angered eye that glows With the lurid lightning's streak; While the rushes drown in the watery frown That his bursting passions leak.

And I can see through the sky—the sky— As clear as a piece of glass; And I can tell you the how and why Of the things that come to pass— And whether the dead are there instead, Or under the graveyard grass.

To your Sovereign lord all hail—all hail!— To your Prince on his throne so grim! Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail Their heads in the dust to him; And the wide world sing: Long live the King, And grace to his royal whim!

DEAD SELVES

How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago; And so I ask, with shaking head, How many of my selves are dead?

A little face with drowsy eyes And lisping lips comes mistily From out the faded past, and tries The prayers a mother breathed with sighs Of anxious care in teaching me; But face and form and prayers have fled— How many of my selves are dead?

The little naked feet that slipped In truant paths, and led the way Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped In streams forbidden—where are they? In vain I listen for their tread— How many of my selves are dead?

The awkward boy the teacher caught Inditing letters filled with love, Who was compelled, for all he fought, To read aloud each tender thought Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." I wonder where he hides his head— How many of my selves are dead?

The earnest features of a youth With manly fringe on lip and chin, With eager tongue to tell the truth, To offer love and life, forsooth, So brave was he to woo and win; A prouder man was never wed— How many of my selves are dead?

The great, strong hands so all-inclined To welcome toil, or smooth the care From mother-brows, or quick to find A leisure-scrap of any kind, To toss the baby in the air, Or clap at babbling things it said— How many of my selves are dead?

The pact of brawn and scheming brain— Conspiring in the plots of wealth, Still delving, till the lengthened chain, Unwindlassed in the mines of gain, Recoils with dregs of ruined health And pain and poverty instead— How many of my selves are dead?

The faltering step, the faded hair— Head, heart and soul, all echoing With maundering fancies that declare That life and love were never there, Nor ever joy in anything, Nor wounded heart that ever bled— How many of my selves are dead?

So many of my selves are dead, That, bending here above the brink Of my last grave, with dizzy head, I find my spirit comforted, For all the idle things I think: It can but be a peaceful bed, Since all my other selves are dead.

A DREAM OF LONG AGO

Lying listless in the mosses Underneath a tree that tosses Flakes of sunshine, and embosses Its green shadow with the snow— Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber Born of fancies without number— Tangled fancies that encumber Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing; And the water-lilies swinging Bells of Parian, and ringing Peals of perfume faint and fine, While old forms and fairy faces Leap from out their hiding-places In the past, with glad embraces Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers O'er the little fisher's stringers, While he baits his hook and lingers Till the shadows gather dim; And afar off comes a calling Like the sounds of water falling, With the lazy echoes drawling Messages of haste to him.

Little naked feet that tinkle Through the stubble-fields, and twinkle Down the winding road, and sprinkle Little mists of dusty rain, While in pasture-lands the cattle Cease their grazing with a rattle Of the bells whose clappers tattle To their masters down the lane.

Trees that hold their tempting treasures O'er the orchard's hedge embrasures, Furnish their forbidden pleasures As in Eden lands of old; And the coming of the master Indicates a like disaster To the frightened heart that faster Beats pulsations manifold.

Puckered lips whose pipings tingle In staccato notes that mingle Musically with the jingle- Haunted winds that lightly fan Mellow twilights, crimson-tinted By the sun, and picture-printed Like a book that sweetly hinted Of the Nights Arabian.

Porticoes with columns plaited And entwined with vines and freighted With a bloom all radiated With the light of moon and star; Where some tender voice is winging In sad flights of song, and singing To the dancing fingers flinging Dripping from the sweet guitar.

Would my dreams were never taken From me: that with faith unshaken I might sleep and never waken On a weary world of woe! Links of love would never sever As I dreamed them, never, never! I would glide along forever Through the dreams of long ago.

CRAQUEODOOM

The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star.

The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wing On the opposite side of his head, And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies, And plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes.

The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance, And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub—dub-a-dub—dub! And the Crankadox cried, as he lay down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail," While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail.

JUNE

Queenly month of indolent repose! I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:— All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!

WASH LOWRY'S REMINISCENCE

And you're the poet of this concern? I've seed your name in print A dozen times, but I'll be dern I'd 'a' never 'a' took the hint O' the size you are—fer I'd pictured you A kind of a tallish man— Dark-complected and sallor too, And on the consumpted plan.

'Stid o' that you're little and small, With a milk-and-water face— 'Thout no snap in your eyes at all, Er nothin' to suit the case! Kind o'look like a—I don't know— One o' these fair-ground chaps That runs a thingamajig to blow, Er a candy-stand perhaps.

'Ll I've allus thought that poetry Was a sort of a—some disease— Fer I knowed a poet once, and he Was techy and hard to please, And moody-like, and kindo' sad And didn't seem to mix With other folks—like his health was bad, Er his liver out o' fix.

Used to teach fer a livelihood— There's folks in Pipe Crick yit Remembers him—and he was good At cipherin' I'll admit— And posted up in G'ography But when it comes to tact, And gittin' along with the school, you see, He fizzled, and that's a fact!

Boarded with us fer fourteen months And in all that time I'll say We never catched him a-sleepin' once Er idle a single day. But shucks! It made him worse and worse A-writin' rhymes and stuff, And the school committee used to furse 'At the school warn't good enough.

He warn't as strict as he ought to been, And never was known to whip, Or even to keep a scholard in At work at his penmanship; 'Stid o' that he'd learn 'em notes, And have 'em every day, Spilin' hymns and a-splittin' th'oats With his "Do-sol-fa-me-ra!"

Tel finally it was jest agreed We'd have to let him go, And we all felt bad—we did indeed, When we come to tell him so; Fer I remember, he turned so white, And smiled so sad, somehow, I someway felt it wasn't right, And I'm shore it wasn't now!

He hadn't no complaints at all— He bid the school adieu, And all o' the scholards great and small Was mighty sorry too! And when he closed that afternoon They sung some lines that he Had writ a purpose, to some old tune That suited the case, you see.

And then he lingered and delayed And wouldn't go away— And shet himself in his room and stayed A-writin' from day to day; And kep' a-gittin' stranger still, And thinner all the time, You know, as any feller will On nothin' else but rhyme.

He didn't seem adzactly right, Er like he was crossed in love, He'd work away night after night, And walk the floor above; We'd hear him read and talk, and sing So lonesome-like and low, My woman's cried like ever'thing— 'Way in the night, you know.

And when at last he tuck to bed He'd have his ink and pen; "So's he could coat the muse" he said, "He'd die contented then"; And jest before he past away He read with dyin' gaze The epitaph that stands to-day To show you where he lays.

And ever sence then I've allus thought That poetry's some disease, And them like you that's got it ought To watch their q's and p's ; And leave the sweets of rhyme, to sup On the wholesome draughts of toil, And git your health recruited up By plowin' in rougher soil.

THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN

"O Printerman of sallow face, And look of absent guile, Is it the 'copy' on your 'case' That causes you to smile? Or is it some old treasure scrap You cull from Memory's file?

"I fain would guess its mystery— For often I can trace A fellow dreamer's history Whene'er it haunts the face; Your fancy's running riot In a retrospective race!

"Ah, Printerman, you're straying Afar from 'stick' and type— Your heart has 'gone a-maying,' And you taste old kisses, ripe Again on lips that pucker At your old asthmatic pipe!

"You are dreaming of old pleasures That have faded from your view; And the music-burdened measures Of the laughs you listen to Are now but angel-echoes— O, have I spoken true?"

The ancient Printer hinted With a motion full of grace To where the words were printed On a card above his "case,"— "I am deaf and dumb!" I left him With a smile upon his face.

PRIOR TO MISS BELLE'S APPEARANCE

What makes you come HERE fer, Mister, So much to our house?—SAY? Come to see our big sister!— An' Charley he says 'at you kissed her An' he ketched you, th'uther day!— Didn' you, Charley?—But we p'omised Belle An' crossed our heart to never to tell— 'Cause SHE gived us some o' them-er Chawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!

Charley he's my little b'uther— An' we has a-mostest fun, Don't we, Charley?—Our Muther, Whenever we whips one anuther, Tries to whip US—an' we RUN— Don't we, Charley?—An' nen, bime-by, Nen she gives us cake—an' pie— Don't she, Charley?—when we come in An' pomise never to do it ag'in!

HE'S named Charley.—I'm WILLIE— An' I'm got the purtiest name! But Uncle Bob HE calls me "Billy"— Don't he, Charley?—'N' our filly We named "Billy," the same Ist like me! An' our Ma said 'At "Bob puts foolishnuss into our head!"— Didn' she, Charley?—An' SHE don't know Much about BOYS!—'Cause Bob said so!

Baby's a funniest feller! Nain't no hair on his head— IS they, Charley?—It's meller Wite up there! An' ef Belle er Us ask wuz WE that way, Ma said,— "Yes; an' yer PA'S head wuz soft as that, An' it's that way yet!"—An' Pa grabs his hat An' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa— 'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"

An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn' Ketch nothin' at all but ist 'BOWS!"— An' PA says 'at "you're soft as puddun!"— An' UNCLE BOB says "you're a good-un— 'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"- Didn' he, Charley?—An' when Belle'll play In the poller on th' pianer, some day, Bob makes up funny songs about you, Till she gits mad-like he wants her to!

Our sister FANNY she's 'LEVEN Years old! 'At's mucher 'an I— Ain't it, Charley? . . . I'm seven!— But our sister Fanny's in HEAVEN! Nere's where you go ef you die!— Don't you, Charley?—Nen you has WINGS— IST LIKE FANNY!—an' PURTIEST THINGS!— Don't you, Charley?—An' nen you can FLY— Ist fly-an' EVER'thing! . . . I Wisht I'D die!

WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR

When Memory, with gentle hand, Has led me to that foreign land Of childhood days, I long to be Again the boy on bended knee, With head a-bow, and drowsy smile Hid in a mother's lap the while, With tender touch and kindly care, She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares Had paled it to the hue it wears, Its tangled threads of amber light Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white, That only knew the light caress Of loving hands, or sudden press Of kisses that were sifted there The times when mother combed my hair.

But its last gleams of gold have slipped Away; and Sorrow's manuscript Is fashioned of the snowy brow— So lined and underscored now That you, to see it, scarce would guess It e'er had felt the fond caress Of loving lips, or known the care Of those dear hands that combed my hair.

. . . . . . . .

I am so tired! Let me be A moment at my mother's knee; One moment—that I may forget The trials waiting for me yet: One moment free from every pain— O! Mother! Comb my hair again! And I will, oh, so humbly bow, For I've a wife that combs it now.



A WRANGDILLION

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike, Under the ooze and the slime, Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke, Blubbering bubbles of rhyme: Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth— Though the Graigroll and the Cheest Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath, Nothing affects him the least.

He sinks to the dregs in the dead o' the night, And he shuffles the shadows about As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight And sets there and hatches them out: The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine In scorn with the Will-o'-the-wisp, As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine That ends in a luminous lisp.

The Morning is born like a baby of gold, And it lies in a spasm of pink, And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold He has dragged to the willowy brink, The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his grief, And growls at the wary Graigroll As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf And hums like a telegraph pole.

GEORGE MULLEN'S CONFESSION

For the sake of guilty conscience, and the heart that ticks the time Of the clockworks of my nature, I desire to say that I'm A weak and sinful creature, as regards my daily walk The last five years and better. It ain't worth while to talk—

I've been too mean to tell it! I've been so hard, you see, And full of pride, and—onry—now there's the word for me— Just onry—and to show you, I'll give my history With vital points in question, and I think you'll all agree.

I was always stiff and stubborn since I could recollect, And had an awful temper, and never would reflect; And always into trouble—I remember once at school The teacher tried to flog me, and I reversed that rule.

O I was bad I tell you! And it's a funny move That a fellow wild as I was could ever fall in love; And it's a funny notion that an animal like me, Under a girl's weak fingers was as tame as tame could be!

But it's so, and sets me thinking of the easy way she had Of cooling down my temper—though I'd be fighting mad. "My Lion Queen" I called her—when a spell of mine occurred She'd come in a den of feelings and quell them with a word.

I'll tell you how she loved me—and what her people thought: When I asked to marry Annie they said "they reckoned not— That I cut too many didoes and monkey-shines to suit Their idea of a son-in-law, and I could go, to boot!"

I tell you that thing riled me! Why, I felt my face turn white, And my teeth shut like a steel trap, and the fingers of my right Hand pained me with their pressure—all the rest's a mystery Till I heard my Annie saying—"I'm going, too, you see."

We were coming through the gateway, and she wavered for a spell When she heard her mother crying and her raving father yell That she wa'n't no child of his'n—like an actor in a play We saw at Independence, coming through the other day.

Well! that's the way we started. And for days and weeks and months And even years we journeyed on, regretting never once Of starting out together upon the path of life— Akind o' sort o' husband, but a mighty loving wife,—

And the cutest little baby—little Grace—I see her now A-standin' on the pig-pen as her mother milked the cow— And I can hear her shouting—as I stood unloading straw,— "I'm ain't as big as papa, but I'm biggerest'n ma."

Now folks that never married don't seem to understand That a little baby's language is the sweetest ever planned— Why, I tell you it's pure music, and I'll just go on to say That I sometimes have a notion that the angels talk that way!

There's a chapter in this story I'd be happy to destroy; I could burn it up before you with a mighty sight of joy; But I'll go ahead and give it—not in detail, no, my friend, For it takes five years of reading before you find the end.

My Annie's folks relented—at least, in some degree; They sent one time for Annie, but they didn't send for me. The old man wrote the message with a heart as hot and dry As a furnace—"Annie Mullen, come and see your mother die."

I saw the slur intended—why I fancied I could see The old man shoot the insult like a poison dart at me; And in that heat of passion I swore an inward oath That if Annie pleased her father she could never please us both.

I watched her—dark and sullen—as she hurried on her shawl; I watched her—calm and cruel, though I saw her tear-drops fall; I watched her—cold and heartless, though I heard her moaning, call For mercy from high Heaven—and I smiled throughout it all.

Why even when she kissed me, and her tears were on my brow, As she murmured, "George, forgive me—I must go to mother now!" Such hate there was within me that I answered not at all, But calm, and cold and cruel, I smiled throughout it all.

But a shadow in the doorway caught my eye, and then the face Full of innocence and sunshine of little baby Grace. And I snatched her up and kissed her, and I softened through and through For a minute when she told me "I must kiss her muvver too."

I remember, at the starting, how I tried to freeze again As I watched them slowly driving down the little crooked lane— When Annie shouted something that ended in a cry, And how I tried to whistle and it fizzled in a sigh.

I remember running after, with a glimmer in my sight— Pretending I'd discovered that the traces wasn't right; And the last that I remember, as they disappeared from view, Was little Grace a-calling, "I see papa! Howdy-do!"

And left alone to ponder, I again took up my hate For the old man who would chuckle that I was desolate; And I mouthed my wrongs in mutters till my pride called up the pain His last insult had given me—until I smiled again

Till the wild beast in my nature was raging in the den— With no one now to quell it, and I wrote a letter then Full of hissing things, and heated with so hot a heat of hate That my pen flashed out black lightning at a most terrific rate.

I wrote that "she had wronged me when she went away from me— Though to see her dying mother 'twas her father's victory, And a woman that could waver when her husband's pride was rent Was no longer worthy of it." And I shut the house and went.

To tell of my long exile would be of little good— Though I couldn't half-way tell it, and I wouldn't if I could! I could tell of California—of a wild and vicious life; Of trackless plains, and mountains, and the Indian's scalping-knife.

I could tell of gloomy forests howling wild with threats of death; I could tell of fiery deserts that have scorched me with their breath; I could tell of wretched outcasts by the hundreds, great and small, And could claim the nasty honor of the greatest of them all.

I could tell of toil and hardship; and of sickness and disease, And hollow-eyed starvation, but I tell you, friend, that these Are trifles in comparison with what a fellow feels With that bloodhound, Remorsefulness, forever at his heels.

I remember—worn and weary of the long, long years of care, When the frost of time was making early harvest of my hair— I remember, wrecked and hopeless of a rest beneath the sky, My resolve to quit the country, and to seek the East, and die.

I remember my long journey, like a dull, oppressive dream, Across the empty prairies till I caught the distant gleam Of a city in the beauty of its broad and shining stream On whose bosom, flocked together, float the mighty swans of steam.

I remember drifting with them till I found myself again In the rush and roar and rattle of the engine and the train; And when from my surroundings something spoke of child and wife, It seemed the train was rumbling through a tunnel in my life.

Then I remember something—like a sudden burst of light— That don't exactly tell it, but I couldn't tell it right— A something clinging to me with its arms around my neck— A little girl, for instance—or an angel, I expect—

For she kissed me, cried and called me "her dear papa," and I felt My heart was pure virgin gold, and just about to melt— And so it did—it melted in a mist of gleaming rain When she took my hand and whispered, "My mama's on the train."

There's some things I can dwell on, and get off pretty well, But the balance of this story I know I couldn't tell; So I ain't going to try it, for to tell the reason why— I'm so chicken-hearted lately I'd be certain 'most to cry.

"TIRED OUT"

"tired out!" Yet face and brow Do not look aweary now, And the eyelids lie like two Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew. Was her life so hard a task?— Strange that we forget to ask What the lips now dumb for aye Could have told us yesterday!

"Tired out!" A faded scrawl Pinned upon the ragged shawl— Nothing else to leave a clue Even of a friend or two, Who might come to fold the hands, Or smooth back the dripping strands Of her tresses, or to wet Them anew with fond regret.

"Tired out!" We can but guess Of her little happiness— Long ago, in some fair land, When a lover held her hand In the dream that frees us all, Soon or later, from its thrall— Be it either false or true, We, at last, must tire, too.

HARLIE

Fold the little waxen hands Lightly. Let your warmest tears Speak regrets, but never fears,— Heaven understands! Let the sad heart, o'er the tomb, Lift again and burst in bloom Fragrant with a prayer as sweet As the lily at your feet.

Bend and kiss the folded eyes— They are only feigning sleep While their truant glances peep Into Paradise. See, the face, though cold and white, Holds a hint of some delight E'en with Death, whose finger-tips Rest upon the frozen lips.

When, within the years to come, Vanished echoes live once more— Pattering footsteps on the floor, And the sounds of home,— Let your arms in fancy fold Little Harlie as of old— As of old and as he waits At the City's golden gates.

SAY SOMETHING TO ME

Say something to me! I've waited so long— Waited and wondered in vain; Only a sentence would fall like a song Over this listening pain— Over a silence that glowers and frowns,— Even my pencil to-night Slips in the dews of my sorrow and wounds Each tender word that I write.

Say something to me—if only to tell Me you remember the past; Let the sweet words, like the notes of a bell, Ring out my vigil at last. O it were better, far better than this Doubt and distrust in the breast,— For in the wine of a fanciful kiss I could taste Heaven, and—rest.

Say something to me! I kneel and I plead, In my wild need, for a word; If my poor heart from this silence were freed, I could soar up like a bird In the glad morning, and twitter and sing, Carol and warble and cry Blithe as the lark as he cruises awing Over the deeps of the sky.

LEONAINIE

Leonainie—Angels named her; And they took the light Of the laughing stars and framed her In a smile of white; And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In the solemn night.—

In a solemn night of summer, When my heart of gloom Blossomed up to greet the comer Like a rose in bloom; All forebodings that distressed me I forgot as Joy caressed me— (LYING Joy! that caught and pressed me In the arms of doom!)

Only spake the little lisper In the Angel-tongue; Yet I, listening, heard her whisper,— "Songs are only sung Here below that they may grieve you— Tales but told you to deceive you,— So must Leonainie leave you While her love is young."

Then God smiled and it was morning. Matchless and supreme Heaven's glory seemed adorning Earth with its esteem: Every heart but mine seemed gifted With the voice of prayer, and lifted Where my Leonainie drifted From me like a dream.

A TEST OF LOVE

"Now who shall say he loves me not."

He wooed her first in an atmosphere Of tender and low-breathed sighs; But the pang of her laugh went cutting clear To the soul of the enterprise; "You beg so pert for the kiss you seek It reminds me, John," she said, "Of a poodle pet that jumps to 'speak' For a crumb or a crust of bread."

And flashing up, with the blush that flushed His face like a tableau-light, Came a bitter threat that his white lips hushed To a chill, hoarse-voiced "Good night!" And again her laugh, like a knell that tolled, And a wide-eyed mock surprise,— "Why, John," she said, "you have taken cold In the chill air of your sighs!"

And then he turned, and with teeth tight clenched, He told her he hated her,— That his love for her from his heart he wrenched Like a corpse from a sepulcher. And then she called him "a ghoul all red With the quintessence of crimes"— "But I know you love me now," she said, And kissed him a hundred times.

FATHER WILLIAM

A NEW VERSION BY LEE O. HARRIS AND JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

"You are old, Father William, and though one would think All the veins in your body were dry, Yet the end of your nose is red as a pink; I beg your indulgence, but why?"

"You see," Father William replied, "in my youth— 'Tis a thing I must ever regret— It worried me so to keep up with the truth That my nose has a flush on it yet."

"You are old," said the youth, "and I grieve to detect A feverish gleam in your eye; Yet I'm willing to give you full time to reflect. Now, pray, can you answer me why?"

"Alas," said the sage, "I was tempted to choose Me a wife in my earlier years, And the grief, when I think that she didn't refuse, Has reddened my eyelids with tears."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And you never touch wine, you declare, Yet you sleep with your feet at the head of the bed; Now answer me that if you dare."

"In my youth," said the sage, "I was told it was true, That the world turned around in the night; I cherished the lesson, my boy, and I knew That at morning my feet would be right."

"You are old," said the youth, "and it grieved me to note, As you recently fell through the door, That 'full as a goose' had been chalked on your coat; Now answer me that I implore."

"My boy," said the sage, "I have answered you fair, While you stuck to the point in dispute, But this is a personal matter, and there Is my answer—the toe of my boot."

WHAT THE WIND SAID

'I muse to-day, in a listless way, In the gleam of a summer land; I close my eyes as a lover may At the touch of his sweetheart's hand, And I hear these things in the whisperings Of the zephyrs round me fanned':—

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

I was born on a stormy morn In a kingdom walled with snow, Whose crystal cities laugh to scorn The proudest the world can show; And the daylight's glare is frozen there In the breath of the blasts that blow.

Life to me was a jubilee From the first of my youthful days: Clinking my icy toys with glee— Playing my childish plays; Filling my hands with the silver sands To scatter a thousand ways:

Chasing the flakes that the Polar shakes From his shaggy coat of white, Or hunting the trace of the track he makes And sweeping it from sight, As he turned to glare from the slippery stair Of the iceberg's farthest height.

Till I grew so strong that I strayed ere long From my home of ice and chill; With an eager heart and a merry song I traveled the snows until I heard the thaws in the ice-crag's jaws Crunched with a hungry will;

And the angry crash of the waves that dash Themselves on the jagged shore Where the splintered masts of the ice-wrecks flash, And the frightened breakers roar In wild unrest on the ocean's breast For a thousand leagues or more.

And the grand old sea invited me With a million beckoning hands, And I spread my wings for a flight as free As ever a sailor plans When his thoughts are wild and his heart beguiled With the dreams of foreign lands.

I passed a ship on its homeward trip, With a weary and toil-worn crew; And I kissed their flag with a welcome lip, And so glad a gale I blew That the sailors quaffed their grog and laughed At the work I made them do.

I drifted by where sea-groves lie Like brides in the fond caress Of the warm sunshine and the tender sky— Where the ocean, passionless And tranquil, lies like a child whose eyes Are blurred with drowsiness.

I drank the air and the perfume there, And bathed in a fountain's spray; And I smoothed the wings and the plumage rare Of a bird for his roundelay, And fluttered a rag from a signal-crag For a wretched castaway.

With a sea-gull resting on my breast, I launched on a madder flight: And I lashed the waves to a wild unrest, And howled with a fierce delight Till the daylight slept; and I wailed and wept Like a fretful babe all night.

For I heard the boom of a gun strike doom; And the gleam of a blood-red star Glared at me through the mirk and gloom From the lighthouse tower afar; And I held my breath at the shriek of death That came from the harbor bar.

For I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

I journeyed on, when the night was gone, O'er a coast of oak and pine; And I followed a path that a stream had drawn Through a land of vale and vine, And here and there was a village fair In a nest of shade and shine.

I passed o'er lakes where the sunshine shakes And shivers his golden lance On the glittering shield of the wave that breaks Where the fish-boats dip and dance, And the trader sails where the mist unveils The glory of old romance.

I joyed to stand where the jeweled hand Of the maiden-morning lies On the tawny brow of the mountain-land. Where the eagle shrieks and cries, And holds his throne to himself alone From the light of human eyes.

Adown deep glades where the forest shades Are dim as the dusk of day— Where only the foot of the wild beast wades, Or the Indian dares to stray, As the blacksnakes glide through the reeds and hide In the swamp-depths grim and gray.

And I turned and fled from the place of dread To the far-off haunts of men. "In the city's heart is rest," I said,— But I found it not, and when I saw but care and vice reign there I was filled with wrath again:

And I blew a spark in the midnight dark Till it flashed to an angry flame And scarred the sky with a lurid mark As red as the blush of shame: And a hint of hell was the dying yell That up from the ruins came.

The bells went wild, and the black smoke piled Its pillars against the night, Till I gathered them, like flocks defiled, And scattered them left and right, While the holocaust's red tresses tossed As a maddened Fury's might.

"Ye overthrown!" did I jeer and groan— "Ho! who is your master?—say!— Ye shapes that writhe in the slag and moan Your slow-charred souls away— Ye worse than worst of things accurst— Ye dead leaves of a day!"

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

. . . . . . .

'I wake, as one from a dream half done, And gaze with a dazzled eye On an autumn leaf like a scrap of sun That the wind goes whirling by, While afar I hear, with a chill of fear, The winter storm-king sigh.'

MORTON

The warm pulse of the nation has grown chill; The muffled heart of Freedom, like a knell, Throbs solemnly for one whose earthly will Wrought every mission well.

Whose glowing reason towered above the sea Of dark disaster like a beacon light, And led the Ship of State, unscathed and free, Out of the gulfs of night.

When Treason, rabid-mouthed, and fanged with steel, Lay growling o'er the bones of fallen braves, And when beneath the tyrant's iron heel Were ground the hearts of slaves,

And War, with all his train of horrors, leapt Across the fortress-walls of Liberty With havoc e'en the marble goddess wept With tears of blood to see.

Throughout it all his brave and kingly mind Kept loyal vigil o'er the patriot's vow, And yet the flag he lifted to the wind Is drooping o'er him now.

And Peace—all pallid from the battle-field When first again it hovered o'er the land And found his voice above it like a shield, Had nestled in his hand.

. . . . . . . .

O throne of State and gilded Senate halls— Though thousands throng your aisles and galleries— How empty are ye! and what silence falls On your hilarities!

And yet, though great the loss to us appears, The consolation sweetens all our pain— Though hushed the voice, through all the coming years Its echoes will remain.

AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA

With a sweeter voice than birds Dare to twitter in their sleep, Pipe for me a tune of words, Till my dancing fancies leap Into freedom vaster far Than the realms of Reason are! Sing for me with wilder fire Than the lover ever sung, From the time he twanged the lyre When the world was baby-young.

O my maiden Autumn, you— You have filled me through and through With a passion so intense, All of earthly eloquence Fails, and falls, and swoons away In your presence. Like as one Who essays to look the sun Fairly in the face, I say, Though my eyes you dazzle blind Greater dazzled is my mind. So, my Autumn, let me kneel At your feet and worship you! Be my sweetheart; let me feel Your caress; and tell me too Why your smiles bewilder me— Glancing into laughter, then Trancing into calm again, Till your meaning drowning lies In the dim depths of your eyes. Let me see the things you see Down the depths of mystery! Blow aside the hazy veil From the daylight of your face With the fragrance-ladened gale Of your spicy breath and chase Every dimple to its place. Lift your gipsy finger-tips To the roses of your lips, And fling down to me a bud— But an unblown kiss—but one— It shall blossom in my blood, Even after life is done— When I dare to touch the brow Your rare hair is veiling now— When the rich, red-golden strands Of the treasure in my hands Shall be all of worldly worth Heaven lifted from the earth, Like a banner to have set On its highest minaret.