FARMER WHIPPLE.—BACHELOR. FARMER WHIPPLE.—BACHELOR. It's a mystery to see me—a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more— A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day! I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate A little in beginning so's to set the matter straight As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife— Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life! I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five— Three brothers and a sister—I'm the only one alive,— Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise. The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat— We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! But someway we sort o' suited -like! and Mother she'd declare She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair Than we was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!— W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve! I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride In thinkin' all depended on me now to pervide Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place With sleeves rolled up—and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.— Fer sompin' else was workin'! but not a word I said Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,— "Someday I'd mayby marry, and a brother's love was one Thing—a lover's was another!" was the way the notion run! I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done— When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one— I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day— A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way! And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane: I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain Well—when she turned and kissed me, with her arm around me—law ! I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw! I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fac', They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a almanack— Er somers —'bout "puore happiness"—perhaps some folks'll laugh At the idy—"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."— But its jest as true as preachin'!—fer that was a sister's kiss, And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:— " She was happy, bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown ."— And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down! I don't know how I acted—I don't know what I said, Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; And the hosses kind o' glimmered before me in the road, And the lines fell from my fingers—and that was all I knowed— Fer—well, I don't know how long—They's a dim rememberence Of a sound o' snortin' bosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where I was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round! And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague Sort o' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg. Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, And wonder what was left me worth livin' fer below, When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know! And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind When Brown and Mary married—Railly must a-been my mind Was kindo' out o' kilter!—fer I hated Brown, you see, Worse'n pizen —and the feller whittled crutches out fer me — And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respec'— And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one. Then I went to work in airnest—I had nothin' much in view But to drownd out rickollections—and it kep' me busy, too! But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. Then I'd think how little money was, compared to happiness— And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near! Well!—A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand Astin' how I 'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land— "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"— And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."— I'd never been West, anyhow—a most too wild fer me, I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town Said I'd find myself mistakend when I come to look around. So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again— And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, I think it's more 'n likely she'd a-went along with me! Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! But finally they called out my stopping-place at last: And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train O' cars, and skeered at sumpin', runnin' down a country lane! Well, in the mornin' airly—after huntin' up the man— The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land— We started fer the country;' and I ast the history Of the farm—its former owner—and so-forth, etcetery! And—well—it was interestin' —I su'prised him, I suppose, By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!— But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder more, When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!— It was Mary : They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here— Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.— It was with us in that meeting I don't want you to fergit! And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit! I bought that farm, and deeded it, afore I left the town, With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! And fu'thermore, I took her and the childern —fer you see, They'd never seed their Grandma—and I fetched 'em home with me. So now you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more, Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!—And I've jest come into town To git a pair o' license fer to marry Mary Brown. DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL. I. Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'! Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin' I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fishin'! II. On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover: Fish all out a visitin'—'cept some dratted minnor! Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner. III. Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin' In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':— Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me! And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me! NESSMUK. I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry! True forester thou art, and still to be, Even in happier fields than thou hast known. Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown Of groves delectable—"preserves" for thee— Ranged but by friends of thine—I name thee three:— First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should. AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY. I've thought a power on men and things, As my uncle ust to say,— And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings! W'y, they ain't no use to pray! Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, And tears won't bring it, w'y, you try sweat , As my uncle ust to say. They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, As my uncle ust to say, And yit don't waste no candle-grease, Ner whistle their lives away! But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme No ringin' song fer to last all time, They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, As my uncle ust to say. Whoever's Foreman of all things here, As my uncle ust to say, He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, And our round-up, night and day: And a-sizin' His work, east and west, And north and south, and worst and best I ain't got nothin' to suggest, As my uncle ust to say. THE SINGER. While with Ambition's hectic flame He wastes the midnight oil, And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, To rest him from his toil,— Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, Above him spreads her wings, And fans the embers of his lips To ashes as he sings. A FULL HARVEST. Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway Afore this season!—Folks is keerless tho', And too fergitful—'caze we'd ort 'o show More thankfulness!—Jes' looky hyonder, hey?— And watch that little reaper wadin' thue That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground— Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around The field—like it had nothin' else to do On'y jes' waste it all on me and you! BLIND. You think it is a sorry thing That I am blind. Your pitying Is welcome to me; yet indeed, I think I have but little need Of it. Though you may marvel much That we , who see by sense of touch And taste and hearing, see things you May never look upon; and true Is it that even in the scent Of blossoms we find something meant No eyes have in their faces read, Or wept to see interpreted. And you might think it strange if now I told you you were smiling. How Do I know that? I hold your hand— Its language I can understand— Give both to me, and I will show You many other things I know. Listen: We never met before Till now?—Well, you are something lower Than five-feet-eight in height; and you Are slender; and your eyes are blue— Your mother's eyes—your mother's hair— Your mother's likeness everywhere Save in your walk—and that is quite Your father's; nervous.—Am I right? I thought so. And you used to sing, But have neglected everything Of vocalism—though you may Still thrum on the guitar, and play A little on the violin,— I know that by the callous in The finger-tips of your left hand— And, by-the-bye, though nature planned You as most men, you are, I see, " Left -handed," too,—the mystery Is clear, though,—your right arm has been Broken, to "break" the left one in. And so, you see, though blind of sight, I still have ways of seeing quite Too well for you to sympathize Excessively, with your good eyes.— Though once , perhaps, to be sincere, Within the whole asylum here, From cupola to basement hall, I was the blindest of them all! Let us move further down the walk— The man here waiting hears my talk, And is disturbed; besides, he may Not be quite friendly anyway. In fact—(this will be far enough; Sit down)—the man just spoken of Was once a friend of mine. He came For treatment here from Burlingame— A rich though brilliant student there, Who read his eyes out of repair, And groped his way up here, where we Became acquainted, and where he Met one of our girl-teachers, and, If you 'll believe me, asked her hand In marriage, though the girl was blind As I am—and the girl declined . Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he? And handsome, eloquently wide And high of brow, and dignified With every outward grace, his sight Restored to him, clear and bright As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still For the blind girl that never will Be wife of his. How do I know? You will recall a while ago I told you he and I were friends. In all that friendship comprehends, I was his friend, I swear! why now, Remembering his love, and how His confidence was all my own, I hear, in fancy, the low tone Of his deep voice, so full of pride And passion, yet so pacified With his affliction, that it seems An utterance sent out of dreams Of saddest melody, withal So sorrowfully musical It was, and is, must ever be— But I'm digressing, pardon me. I knew not anything of love In those days, but of that above All worldly passion,—for my art— Music,—and that, with all my heart And soul, blent in a love too great For words of mine to estimate. And though among my pupils she Whose love my friend sought came to me I only knew her fingers' touch Because they loitered overmuch In simple scales, and needs must be Untangled almost constantly. But she was bright in other ways, And quick of thought, with ready plays Of wit, and with a voice as sweet To listen to as one might meet In any oratorio— And once I gravely told her so,— And, at my words, her limpid tone Of laughter faltered to a moan, And fell from that into a sigh That quavered all so wearily, That I, without the tear that crept Between the keys, had known she wept; And yet the hand I reached for then She caught away, and laughed again. And when that evening I strolled With my old friend, I, smiling, told Him I believed the girl and he Were matched and mated perfectly: He was so noble; she, so fair Of speech, and womanly of air; He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild And artless even as a child; And with a nature, I was sure, As worshipful as it was pure And sweet, and brimmed with tender things Beyond his rarest fancyings. He stopped me solemnly. He knew, He said, how good, and just, and true Was all I said of her; but as For his own virtues, let them pass, Since they were nothing to the one That he had set his heart upon; For but that morning she had turned Forever from him. Then I learned That for a month he had delayed His going from us, with no aid Of hope to hold him,—meeting still Her ever firm denial, till Not even in his new-found sight He found one comfort or delight. And as his voice broke there, I felt The brother-heart within me melt In warm compassion for his own That throbbed so utterly alone. And then a sudden fancy hit Along my brain; and coupling it With a belief that I, indeed, Might help my friend in his great need, I warmly said that I would go Myself, if he decided so, And see her for him—that I knew My pleadings would be listened to Most seriously, and that she Should love him, listening to me. Go; bless me! And that was the last— The last time his warm hand shut fast Within my own—so empty since, That the remembered finger-prints I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet Them with the tears of all regret! I know not how to rightly tell How fared my quest, and what befell Me, coming in the presence of That blind girl, and her blinder love. I know but little else than that Above the chair in which she sat I leant—reached for, and found her hand, And held it for a moment, and Took up the other—held them both— As might a friend, I will take oath: Spoke leisurely, as might a man Praying for no thing other than He thinks Heaven's justice;—She was blind, I said, and yet a noble mind Most truly loved her; one whose fond Clear-sighted vision looked beyond The bounds of her infirmity, And saw the woman, perfectly Modeled, and wrought out pure and true And lovable. She quailed, and drew Her hands away, but closer still I caught them. "Rack me as you will!" She cried out sharply—"Call me 'blind'— Love ever is—I am resigned! Blind is your friend; as blind as he Am I—but blindest of the three— Yea, blind as death—you will not see My love for you is killing me!" There is a memory that may Not ever wholly fade away From out my heart, so bright and fair The light of it still glimmers there. Why, it did seem as though my sight Flamed back upon me, dazzling white And godlike. Not one other word Of hers I listened for or heard, But I saw songs sung in her eyes Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, As my mad lips did strike her own And we flashed one and one alone! Ah! was it treachery for me To kneel there, drinking eagerly That torrent-flow of words that swept Out laughingly the tears she wept?— Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe, Than light of day to those that see,— God knows, who did the rapture send To me, and hold it from my friend. And we were married half a year Ago,—and he is—waiting here, Heedless of that—or anything, But just that he is lingering To say good-bye to her, and bow— As you may see him doing now,— For there's her footstep in the hall; God bless her!—help him!—save us all! RIGHT HERE AT HOME. Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom, Where strangers allus joke us when they come, And brag o' their old States and interprize— Yit settle here; and 'fore they realize, They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive! Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, Fer me and you and plain old happiness: We hear the World's lots grander—likely so,— We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.— We know its ways aint our ways—so we'll stay Right here at home, boys, where we know the way. Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do Man's plenty rich enough—and knows it, too, And's got a' extry dollar, any time, To boost a feller up 'at wants to climb And 's got the git-up in him to go in And git there , like he purt'-nigh allus kin! Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!— Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; And where a common feller's jes as good As ary other in the neighborhood: The World at large don't worry you and me Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be! Right here at home, boys—jes right where we air!— Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere: Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,— All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, Right here at home, boys, ef we size 'em right. Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled And kissed us—dyin' so and rickonciled, Seein' us all at home here—none astray— Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day. THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR. He seemed so strange to me, every way— In manner, and form, and size, From the boy I knew but yesterday,— I could hardly believe my eyes! To hear his name called over there, My memory thrilled with glee And leaped to picture him young and fair In youth, as he used to be. But looking, only as glad eyes can, For the boy I knew of yore, I smiled on a portly little man I had never seen before!— Grave as a judge in courtliness— Professor-like and bland— A little fat doctor and nothing less, With his hat in his kimboed hand. But how we talked old times, and "chaffed" Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"—- And how the little fat doctor laughed, And how I laughed with him! "And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see The face of the youth that was, To know no boy could smile on me As the little fat doctor does!" THE SHOEMAKER. Thou Poet, who, like any lark, Dost whet thy beak and trill From misty morn till murky dark, Nor ever pipe thy fill: Hast thou not, in thy cheery note, One poor chirp to confer— One verseful twitter to devote Unto the Shoe-ma-ker? At early dawn he doth peg in His noble work and brave; And eke from cark and wordly sin He seeketh soles to save; And all day long, with quip and song, Thus stitcheth he the way Our feet may know the right from wrong, Nor ever go a stray. Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker, Nor slight his lasting fame: Alway he waxeth tenderer In warmth of our acclaim;— Aye, more than any artisan We glory in his art Who ne'er, to help the under man, Neglects the upper part. But toe the mark for him, and heel Respond to thee in kine— Or kid—or calf, shouldst thou reveal A taste so superfine: Thus let him jest—join in his laugh— Draw on his stock, and be A shoer'd there's no rival half Sole liberal as he. Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker For all his goodly deeds,— Yea, bless him free for booting thee— The first of all thy needs! And when at last his eyes grow dim, And nerveless drops his clamp, In golden shoon pray think of him Upon his latest tramp. THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN. The old sea captain has sailed the seas So long, that the waves at mirth, Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, Were as near playmates from birth: He has loved both the storm and the calm, because They seemed as his brothers twain,— The flapping sail was his soul's applause, And his rapture, the roaring main. But now—like a battered hulk seems he, Cast high on a foreign strand, Though he feels "in port," as it need must be, And the stay of a daughter's hand— Yet ever the round of the listless hours,— His pipe, in the languid air— The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers, And the strange earth everywhere! And so betimes he is restless here In this little inland town, With never a wing in the atmosphere But the wind-mill's, up and down; His daughter's home in this peaceful vale, And his grandchild 'twixt his knees— But never the hail of a passing sail, Nor the surge of the angry seas! He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck— Would speak, though he coughs instead, Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck With a reeling mast o'erhead! Ho! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm, And his eyes gleam grim and weird, As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm, In the cloud of his beetling beard. ROBERT BURNS WILSON. What intuition named thee?—Through what thrill Of the awed soul came the command divine Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine Should palpitate with his whose raptures will Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill Their undulating ways up through the fine Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised His voice therein, and, quit of every stress Of earthly ache and longing and despair, Knew certainly each simple thing he praised Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, Than any joy of all the glory There. TO THE SERENADER. Tinkle on, O sweet guitar, Let the dancing fingers Loiter where the low notes are Blended with the singer's: Let the midnight pour the moon's Mellow wine of glory Down upon him through the tune's Old romantic story! I am listening, my love, Through the cautious lattice, Wondering why the stars above All are blinking at us; Wondering if his eyes from there Catch the moonbeam's shimmer As it lights the robe I wear With a ghostly glimmer. Lilt thy song, and lute away In the wildest fashion:— Pour thy rippling roundelay O'er the heights of passion!— Flash it down the fretted strings Till thy mad lips, missing All but smothered whisperings, Press this rose I'm kissing. THE WIFE-BLESSED. I. In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, Lorn-faced and long of hair— In youth—in youth he painted her A sister of the air— Could clasp her not, but felt the stir Of pinions everywhere. II. She lured his gaze, in braver days, And tranced him sirenwise; And he did paint her, through a haze Of sullen paradise, With scars of kisses on her face And embers in her eyes. III. And now—nor dream nor wild conceit— Though faltering, as before— Through tears he paints her, as is meet, Tracing the dear face o'er With lilied patience meek and sweet As Mother Mary wore. SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION. I thought the deacon liked me, yit I warn't adzackly shore of it— Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, When jiners 'ud be comin' in, I'd seed him shakin' hands as free With all the sistern as with me! But jurin' last Revival, where He called on me to lead in prayer, An' kneeled there with me, side by side, A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"— That settled things as fur as them- Thare other wimmin was concerned!— And—well!—I know I must a-turned A dozen colors!— Flurried ?— la !— No mortal sinner never saw A gladder widder than the one A-kneelin' there and wonderun' Who'd pray'—So glad, upon my word, I railly could n't thank the Lord! THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT. All hope of rest withdrawn me?— What dread command hath put This awful curse upon me— The curse of the wandering foot! Forward and backward and thither, And hither and yon again— Wandering ever! And whither? Answer them, God! Amen. The blue skies are far o'er me—- The bleak fields near below: Where the mother that bore me?— Where her grave in the snow?— Glad in her trough of a coffin— The sad eyes frozen shut That wept so often, often, The curse of the wandering foot! Here in your marts I care not Whatsoever ye think. Good folk many who dare not Give me to eat and drink: Give me to sup of your pity— Feast me on prayers!—O ye, Met I your Christ in the city He would fare forth with me— Forward and onward and thither, And hither again and yon, With milk for our drink together And honey to feed upon— Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, Since the one Father put The blessed curse upon us— The curse of the wandering foot. A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. A monument for the Soldiers! And what will ye build it of? Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, Outlasting the Soldiers' love? Can ye glorify it with legends As grand as their blood hath writ From the inmost shrine of this land of thine To the outermost verge of it? And the answer came: We would build it Out of our hopes made sure, And out of our purest prayers and tears, And out of our faith secure: We would build it out of the great white truths Their death hath sanctified, And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, And their faces ere they died. And what heroic figures Can the sculptor carve in stone? Can the marble breast be made to bleed, And the marble lips to moan? Can the marble brow be fevered? And the marble eyes be graved To look their last, as the flag floats past, On the country they have saved? And the answer came: The figures Shall all be fair and brave, And, as befitting, as pure and white As the stars above their grave! The marble lips, and breast and brow Whereon the laurel lies, Bequeath us right to guard the flight Of the old flag in the skies! A monument for the Soldiers! Built of a people's love, And blazoned and decked and panoplied With the hearts ye build it oft And see that ye build it stately, In pillar and niche and gate, And high in pose as the souls of those It would commemorate! THE RIVAL. I so loved once, when Death came by I hid Away my face, And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid To make my hiding-place. The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and I turned me then To calm my love—kiss down her shielding hand And comfort her again. And lo! she answered not: And she did sit All fixedly, With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, In love with Death, not me. IRY AND BILLY AND JO. Iry an' Billy an' Jo!— Iry an' Billy's the boys , An' Jo's their dog , you know,— Their pictures took all in a row. Bet they kin kick up a noise— Iry and Billy, the boys, And that-air little dog Jo! Iry's the one 'at stands Up there a-lookin' so mild An' meek—with his hat in his hands, Like such a 'bediant child— ( Sakes-alive !)—An' Billy he sets In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' sweats Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good! Ho-ho! Iry an' Billy an' Jo! Yit the way them boys, you know, Usen to jes turn in An' fight over that dog Jo Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin !— Iry he'd argy 'at, by gee-whizz! That-air little Jo-dog wuz his !— An' Billy he'd claim it wuzn't so— 'Cause the dog wuz his'n !—An' at it they'd go, Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know— Iry an' Billy an' Jo! But their Pa—(He wuz the marshal then) He 'tended-like 'at he jerked 'em up ; An' got a jury o' Brickyard men An' helt a trial about the pup: An' he says he jes like to a-died When the rest o' us town-boys testified — Regardin', you know, Iry an' Billy an' Jo.— 'Cause we all knowed, when the Gypsies they Camped down here by the crick last Fall, They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all!— So the jury fetched in the verdick so Jo he ain't neether o' theirn fer shore — He's both their dog, an' jes no more! An' so They've quit quarrelin' long ago, Iry an' Billy an' Jo. A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME. In its color, shade and shine, 'T was a summer warm as wine, With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine, And a fragrance and a taste Of ripe roses gone to waste, And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced. 'Twas a summer such as broods O'er enchanted solitudes, Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods, And with lavish love out-pours All the wealth of out-of-doors, And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors. 'Twas a summertime long dead,— And its roses, white and red, And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed,— O they all are ghostly things— For the ripple never sings, And the rocking lily never even rustles as it rings! HER BEAUTIFUL EYES. O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run: As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies— So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes. And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me, When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies— So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne; And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise— So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes. DOT LEEDLE BOY. Ot's a leedle Christmas story Dot I told der leedle folks— Und I vant you stop dot laughin' Und grackin' funny jokes'— So-help me Peter-Moses! Ot's no time for monkeyshine', Ober I vas told you somedings Of dot leedle boy of mine! Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder, Ven der snow vas all about— Dot you have to chop der hatchet Eef you got der saur kraut! Und der cheekens on der hind-leg Vas standin' in der shine Der sun shmile out dot morning On dot leedle boy of mine. He vas yoost a leedle baby Not bigger as a doll Dot time I got acquaintet— Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!— I grackys! dot's der moosic Ot make me feel so fine Ven first I vas been marriet— Oh, dot leedle boy of mine! He look' yoost like his fader!— So, ven der vimmen said "Vot a purty leedle baby!" Katrina shake der head. I dink she must a-notice Dot der baby vas a-gryin', Und she cover up der blankets Of dot leedle boy of mine. Vel, ven he vas got bigger, Dot he grawl und bump his nose, Und make der table over, Und molasses on his glothes— Dot make 'im all der sveeter,— So I say to my Katrine "Better you vas quit a-shpankin' Dot leedle boy of mine!" I vish you could a-seen id— Ven he glimb up on der chair Und shmash der lookin' glasses Ven he try to comb his hair Mit a hammer!—Und Katrina Say "Dot's an ugly sign!" But I laugh und vink my fingers At dot leedle boy of mine. But vonce, dot Vinter morning, He shlip out in der snow Mitout no stockin's on 'im.— He say he "vant to go Und fly some mit der birdies!" Und ve give 'im medi-cine Ven he catch der "parrygoric"— Dot leedle boy of mine! Und so I set und nurse 'im, Vile der Christmas vas come roun', Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle," How he come der chimbly down: Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im Eef he bring 'im someding fine? " Nicht besser as mein fader ," Say dot leedle boy of mine.— Und he put his arms aroun' me Und hug so close und tight, I hear der gclock a-tickin' All der balance of der night! . . . Someding make me feel so funny Ven I say to my Katrine "Let us go und fill der stockin's Of dot leedle boy of mine." Veil.—Ve buyed a leedle horses Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, Und a leedle fancy jay-bird— Eef you vant to hear 'im sing You took 'im by der top-knot Und yoost blow in behine— Und dot make much spectakel — For dot leedle boy of mine! Und gandles, nuts and raizens— Unt I buy a leedle drum Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle Ven der Gristmas morning come! Und a leedle shmall tin rooster Dot vould crow so loud und fine Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning, Dot leedle boy of mine! Und—vile ve vas a-fixin'— Dot leedle boy vake out! I fought he been a-dreamin' "Kriss Kringle" vas about,— For he say—" Dot's him!—I see 'im Mit der shtars dot make der shine !" Und he yoost keep on a-gryin'— Dot leedle boy of mine,— Und gottin' vorse und vorser— Und tumble on der bed! So—ven der doctor seen id, He kindo' shake his head, Und feel his pulse—und visper "Der boy is a-dyin'." You dink I could believe id?— Dot leedle boy of mine ? I told you, friends—dot's someding, Der last time dot he speak Und say " Goot-bye, Kriss Kringle !" —Dot make me feel so veak I yoost kneel down und drimble, Und bur-sed out a-gryin' " Mein Goit, mein Gott im Himmel !— Dot leedle boy, of mine !" * * * * * Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas! . . . Eef dot leedle boy vould liff'd — No deefer-en'! for Heaven vas His leedle Gristmas-gift! . . . Und der rooster, und der gandy , Und me—und my Katrine— Und der jay-bird—is a-vaiting For dot leedle boy of mine. DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE. Donn Piatt—of Mac-o-chee,— Not the one of History, Who, with flaming tongue and pen, Scathes the vanities of men; Not the one whose biting wit Cuts pretense and etches it On the brazen brow that dares Filch the laurel that it wears: Not the Donn Piatt whose praise Echoes in the noisy ways Of the faction, onward led By the statesman!—But, instead, Give the simple man to me,— Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! II. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! Branches of the old oak tree, Drape him royally in fine Purple shade and golden shine! Emerald plush of sloping lawn Be the throne he sits upon! And, O Summer sunset, thou Be his crown, and gild a brow Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed By the breezes, mellow-palmed As Erata's white hand agleam On the forehead of a dream.— So forever rule o'er me, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! III. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee: Through a lilied memory Plays the wayward little creek Round thy home at hide-and-seek— As I see and hear it, still Romping round the wooded hill, Till its laugh-and-babble blends With the silence while it sends Glances back to kiss the sight, In its babyish delight, Ere it strays amid the gloom Of the glens that burst in bloom Of the rarest rhyme for thee, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! IV. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! What a darling destiny Has been mine—to meet him there— Lolling in an easy chair On the terrace, while he told Reminiscences of old— Letting my cigar die out, Hearing poems talked about; And entranced to hear him say Gentle things of Thackeray, Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, Known to him as host and guest— Known to him as he to me— Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! THEM FLOWERS. Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf, All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore— Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself With a stiff upper-lip any more; Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room As dark as the tomb, and as grim, And then take and send him some roses in bloom, And you can have fun out o' him! You've ketched him 'fore now—when his liver was sound And his appetite notched like a saw— A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round With a big posy-bunch in yer paw; But you ketch him, say, when his health is away, And he's flat on his back in distress, And then you kin trot out yer little bokay And not be insulted, I guess! You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is,— Them flowers makes him think of the days Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his, And the roses that she us't to raise:— So here, all alone with the roses you send— Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint,— My eyes is—my eyes is—my eyes is—old friend— Is a-leakin'—I'm blamed ef they ain't! THE QUIET LODGER. The man that rooms next door to me: Two weeks ago, this very night, He took possession quietly, As any other lodger might— But why the room next mine should so Attract him I was vexed to know,— Because his quietude, in fine, Was far superior to mine. "Now, I like quiet, truth to tell, A tranquil life is sweet to me— But this ," I sneered, "suits me too well.— He shuts his door so noiselessly, And glides about so very mute, In each mysterious pursuit, His silence is oppressive, and Too deep for me to understand." Sometimes, forgetting book or pen, I've found my head in breathless poise Lifted, and dropped in shame again, Hearing some alien ghost of noise— Some smothered sound that seemed to be A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly, Or the crisp writhings of some quire Of manuscript thrust in the fire. Then I have climbed, and closed in vain My transom, opening in the hall; Or close against the window-pane Have pressed my fevered face,—but all The day or night without held not A sight or sound or counter-thought To set my mind one instant free Of this man's silent mastery. And often I have paced the floor With muttering anger, far at night, Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er, The muffled noises, and the light And tireless movements of this guest Whose silence raged above my rest Hoarser than howling storms at sea— The man that rooms next door to me. But twice or thrice, upon the stair, I've seen his face—most strangely wan,— Each time upon me unaware He came—smooth'd past me, and was gone. So like a whisper he went by, I listened after, ear and eye, Nor could my chafing fancy tell The meaning of one syllable. Last night I caught him, face to face,— He entering his room, and I Glaring from mine: He paused a space And met my scowl all shrinkingly, But with full gentleness: The key Turned in his door—and I could see It tremblingly withdrawn and put Inside, and then—the door was shut. Then silence. Silence !—why, last night The silence was tumultuous, And thundered on till broad daylight;— O never has it stunned me thus!— It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet.— Ah, God! how loud may silence get When man mocks at a brother man Who answers but as silence can! The silence grew, and grew, and grew, Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard Throughout the house; and men flocked through The echoing halls, with faces blurred With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe, And shuddering at what they saw— The quiet lodger, as he lay Stark of the life he cast away. * * * * * So strange to-night—those voices there, Where all so quiet was before; They say the face has not a care Nor sorrow in it any more— His latest scrawl:—"Forgive me—You Who prayed, 'they know not what they do!'" My tears wilt never let me see This man that rooms next door to me! THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. O the waiting in the watches of the night! In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright; The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight: The ever weary memory that ever weary goes Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows— The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose— In the dreary, weary watches of the night! Dark—stifling dark—the watches of the night! With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight!— What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought that may not be redressed— Of tears we did not brush away—of lips we left unpressed, And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed! Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night! What solace in the watches of the night?— What frailest staff of hope to stay—what faintest shaft of light? Do we dream and dare believe it, that by never weight of right Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last— Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past, In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom that flees aghast— Shall we survive the watches of the night? One leads us through the watches of the night— By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might;— With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears, Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears, And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears In the waning of the watches of the night. HIS VIGIL. Close the book and dim the light, I shall read no more to-night. No—I am not sleepy, dear— Do not go: sit by me here In the darkness and the deep Silence of the watch I keep. Something in your presence so Soothes me—as in long ago I first felt your hand—as now— In the darkness touch my brow; I've no other wish than you Thus should fold mine eyelids to, Saying nought of sigh or tear— Just as God were sitting here. THE PLAINT HUMAN Season of snows, and season of flowers, Seasons of loss and gain!— Since grief and joy must alike be ours, Why do we still complain? Ever our failing, from sun to sun, O my intolerent brother:— We want just a little too little of one, And much too much of the other. BY ANY OTHER NAME. First the teacher called the roll, Clos't to the beginnin', "Addeliney Bowersox!" Set the school a-grinnin'. Wintertime, and stingin'-cold When the session took up— Cold as we all looked at her , Though she couldn't look up! Total stranger to us, too— Country-folks ain't allus Nigh so shameful unpolite As some people call us!— But the honest facts is, then , Addeliney Bower- Sox's feelin's was so hurt She cried half an hour! My dest was acrost from her 'n: Set and watched her tryin' To p'tend she didn't keer, And a kind o' dryin' Up her tears with smiles—-tel I Thought, "Well, ' Addeliney Bowersox ' is plain, but she's Purty as a piney!" It's be'n many of a year Sence that most oncommon Cur'ous name o' Bowersox Struck me so abomin- Nubble and outlandish-like!— I changed it to Adde- Liney Daubenspeck —and that Nearly killed her Daddy! TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST. Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost! Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin Impalpable transparency of grin; And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin, And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast That I am helpless to combat thee! Well, Have at thee, then! Yet if a doom most dire Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst!—Revile Me not, Miasmic Mist!—Rank Air! retire ! One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll Inhale thee, O thou wraith despicable! THE QUARREL. They faced each other: Topaz-brown And lambent burnt her eyes and shot Sharp flame at his of amethyst.— "I hate you! Go, and be forgot As death forgets!" their glitter hissed (So seemed it) in their hatred. Ho! Dared any mortal front her so?— Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down— Tense nostril, mouth—no muscle slack,— And black—the suffocating black— The stifling blackness of her frown! Ah! but the lifted face of her! And the twitched lip and tilted head! Yet he did neither wince nor stir,— Only—his hands clenched; and, instead Of words, he answered with a stare That stammered not in aught it said, As might his voice if trusted there. And what—what spake his steady gaze?— Was there a look that harshly fell To scoff her?—or a syllable Of anger?—or the bitter phrase That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, Or curdles blood as poison drips? What made their breasts to heave and swell As billows under bows of ships In broken seas on stormy days? We may not know—nor they indeed— What mercy found them in their need. A sudden sunlight smote the gloom; And round about them swept a breeze, With faint breaths as of clover-bloom; A bird was heard, through drone of bees,— Then, far and clear and eerily, A child's voice from an orchard-tree— Then laughter, sweet as the perfume Of lilacs, could the hearing see. And he—O Love! he fed thy name On bruised kisses, while her dim Deep eyes, with all their inner flame, Like drowning gems were turned on him. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. I. As one in sorrow looks upon The dead face of a loyal friend, By the dim light of New Year's dawn I saw the Old Year end. Upon the pallid features lay The dear old smile—so warm and bright Ere thus its cheer had died away In ashes of delight. The hands that I had learned to love With strength of passion half divine, Were folded now, all heedless of The emptiness of mine. The eyes that once had shed their bright Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, And ever lidded from the light That made them beautiful. II. The chimes of bells were in the air, And sounds of mirth in hall and street, With pealing laughter everywhere And throb of dancing feet: The mirth and the convivial din Of revelers in wanton glee, With tunes of harp and violin In tangled harmony. But with a sense of nameless dread, I turned me, from the merry face Of this newcomer, to my dead; And, kneeling there a space, I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:— By this dear face so fixed and cold, O Lord, let not this New Year be As happy as the old!