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THE VERSES OF JAMES W. FOLEY 
 
 SUNSHINE 
 
 AND 
 
 SONG 
 
 PRESS OF THE TRIBUNE, 
 
 BISMARCK, N. D. 
 
 1909 
 
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 JUL 
 
 ' '" ' 909 
 
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Copyright, 1909, by 
 James IV. Foley. 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 
 
 The verses here published appeared originally in the New York 
 Times, Collier's, the Saturday Evening Post, the Youth's Com- 
 panion, the Woman's Home Companion, Life, and the Bismarck 
 Tribune, and to the editors of these publications and especially to 
 Mr. M. H. Jewell of the Tribune, grateful acknowledgment 
 is made. 
 
V 
 
TO MY MOTHER, 
 RACHEL ASTON SHRYOCK. 
 
SUNSHINE AND SONG: 
 
ONCE UPON A TIME. 
 
 ONCE upon a time rare flowers grew 
 On every shrub and bush we used to see ; 
 The skies above our heads were always blue, 
 The woods held secrets deep for you and me ; 
 The hillsides had their caves where tales were told 
 
 Of swart-cheeked pirates from a far-off clime, 
 When cutlases were fierce and rovers bold — 
 Don't you remember? — Once upon a time. 
 
 Once upon a time from sun to sun 
 
 The hours were full of joy — there was no care, 
 And webs of gaudy dreams in air were spun 
 
 Of deeds heroic and of fortunes fair; 
 The jangling schoolhouse bell was all the woe 
 
 Our spirits knew, and in its tuneless chime 
 Was all the sorrow of the long ago — 
 
 Don't you remember? — Once upon a time. 
 
 Once upon a time the witches rode 
 
 In sinister and ominous parade 
 Upon their sticks at night, and queer lights glowed 
 
 With eery noises by the goblins made; 
 And many things mysterious there were 
 
 For boyish cheeks to pale at through the grime 
 That held them brown ; and shadows queer would stir- 
 
 Don't you remember? — Once upon a time. 
 
 Once upon a time our faith was vast 
 
 To compass all the things on sea and land 
 That boys have trembled o'er for ages past, 
 
 Nor ever could explain or understand, 
 And in that faith found happiness too deep 
 
 For all the gifted tongues of prose or rime, 
 And joys ineffable we could not keep — 
 
 Don't you remember.^ — Once upon a time. 
 
THE OPTIMISTS FEAST. 
 
 BRING me a bowl of sunshine, Lass, 
 From the fount of a rosy dawn ; 
 A frozen rainbow for my glass 
 Ere the sparkle of it is gone ; 
 The silver lining of a cloud 
 
 As a cloth for my table here, 
 And sing me a merry song aloud 
 With a voice that is sweet and clear. 
 
 Bring me the blue of a sunny sky 
 
 And cast it overhead, 
 Lay me a rug of clover by 
 
 Like a wave of velvet spread ; 
 Shower me over with cherry flowers 
 
 Just bursting to full bloom, 
 To freshen this perfect day of ours 
 
 With spice of their sweet perfume. 
 
 Drape me the black of a midnight sky, 
 
 And stud it with stars of white. 
 To hang my walls with a tapestry 
 
 Rare as the peace of night ; 
 Stretch me a frieze of clouds that lie 
 
 Over the sunlit hills, 
 Where the bowl of sunshine, brimming high, 
 
 Just overflows and spills. 
 
 And my cloth shall be soft as the rose's cheek. 
 
 And my heart strings shall be atune, 
 All, all of my bidden guests shall speak 
 
 With tongues of the birds in June ; 
 So, — a bowl of sun from a rifted cloud. 
 
 And set it before me here, 
 And sing me a merry song aloud 
 
 With a voice that is sweet and clear. 
 
THE GARDEN OF YESTERDAY. 
 
 I KNOW a garden fair to see, where haunting memories 
 there be 
 Of treasures lost and joys of ours, forgotten, left 
 among the flowers ; 
 Like toys of children strewn upon the playground of 
 
 the leaf and lawn; 
 And many stand without the gate who learn with hearts 
 
 disconsolate 
 It swings but out and none may go in search of treasures 
 
 scattered so, 
 For Time is keeper of the way— the Garden there is 
 
 Yesterday. 
 All day I stood beside the gate from dawn to dusk, and 
 
 saw them wait, 
 To plead with him to clear the way, that they might 
 
 search in Yesterday; 
 But to them all he shook his head, "The way forever 
 
 closed," he said; 
 'T lost a child," the mother cried ; "A sweetheart I," the 
 
 lover sighed ; 
 "A song," the poet said, "was there, sweet-voiced, ineflfable 
 
 and rare ;" 
 But Time, unyielding, held the way : "The place is mine— 
 
 'tis Yesterday!" 
 And came a schoolgirl, tearful-eyed: "My playmate!" 
 
 sorrowful, she cried ; 
 The felon said: "My liberty— will you not give it back 
 
 to me?" 
 "My gold," the miser prayed, " 'tis there, the hoard I loved 
 
 and could not spare ;'' 
 "My youth is there," the old man said ; the widow whispered 
 low: "My dead." 
 
THE GARDEN OF YESTERDAY. 
 
 "My honor," faltered the weak knave: "my strength," the 
 
 sodden, sotted slave ; 
 And one by one they came to pray they might go back to 
 
 Yesterday. 
 
 And somewhere in the Garden gleam the gems of innocence 
 
 and dream; 
 And somewhere are the loves that were ; the eyes and 
 
 cheeks, and lips of Her. 
 Somewhere the hearts from sorrow free and all the joy 
 
 that was to be; 
 The peace of Honor yet unsoiled; Ambition's sweetness 
 
 still unspoiled ; 
 The ties of love, the strength of youth, the hearts of hope, 
 
 the ways of truth ; 
 But Time is keeper of the way — the place is his, 'tis 
 
 Yesterday ! 
 
A PRESENT FOR LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 OUR Neighbor, he calls me his Little Boy Blue 
 Whenever he goes by our yard ; 
 And he says, "Good-morning" or "How-do-you-do? 
 But sometimes he winks awful hard. 
 I guess he don't know what my name really is, 
 
 Or else he forgot, if he knew; 
 And my! You would think I am really part his— 
 
 He calls me his Little Boy Blue! 
 Our Neighbor, he told me that Little Boy Blue 
 
 Once stood all his toys in a row. 
 And said, "Now, don't go till I come back for you — 
 
 But that was a long time ago. 
 And one time, at Christmas, when I had a tree, 
 
 He brought me a sled, all brand-new. 
 And smiled when he said it was partly for me 
 
 And partly for Little Boy Blue. 
 Our Neighbor, he's not going to have any tree. 
 
 So he says the best he can do 
 Is try to get something to partly give me 
 
 And partly give Little Boy Blue. 
 Because, if he's here, it would make him so glad, 
 
 And he said he knew it was true 
 That ever and ever so many folks had 
 
 A boy just like Little Boy Blue. 
 Our Neighbor, he calls me his Little Boy Blue, 
 
 And said he would like to help trim 
 Our tree when it came— he would feel that he knew 
 
 It was partly for me and for him. 
 He said he would fix it with lights and wax flowers, 
 
 With popcorn and berries — you see. 
 He'd like to come over and help to trim ours — 
 He's not going to have any tree ! 
 
THE RECONCILIATION OF PA. 
 
 MY PA, he's disappointed tuz I ain't a boy. 'At is 
 He ain't now but he used to was. He likes me tuz I'm his 
 An' buys me lots of toys an' things ; but w'en I first begun 
 Ma said he's awful fond of boys an' 'ist wished I was one. 
 But now he don't care any more, tuz I'm growed up so nice 
 He likes me better 'n before, an' there ain't any price 
 'At you could offer him for me an' he would take it, tuz 
 I'm so much nicer, don't you see, 'an my Pa thought I was. 
 
 W'en I'm come first my Mama said 'at he 'ud ruther I 
 
 'Ud been a boy the stork 'ud brought ; she says she don't see w'y, 
 
 Tuz she 'ist thinks 'at little girls are awful nice, an' w'en 
 
 You wash 'eir face an' brush 'eir turls, 'ey're nicer'n ever 'en. 
 
 But he is disappointed tuz at first he didn't know 
 
 How rilly truly nice I was ; but w'en I came to grow 
 
 He wouldn't take the world for me, so he told Ma, 'ist tuz 
 
 I'm so much nicer, don't you see, 'an my Pa thought I was. 
 
 An' my Ma says 'at if I grow up 'ist so nice an' sweet 
 As I am now, my Pa'll know 'at stork was hard to beat ; 
 An' he won't never wish again 'at I'm a boy, 'ist tuz 
 He'll know how sweet I am, an' 'en he's glad I'm w'at I was, 
 Tuz boys are awful nice at first, 'at is, you think they are; 
 An' w'en they're big they're 'ist the worst ! An' girls is better far. 
 An' Ma says if you want 'em sweet, 'ist sweet as sweet can be, 
 You'll find it awful hard to beat a little girl like me. 
 
A TALE OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 THIS life's a middlin' crooked trail, an' after forty year 
 Of knocking 'round I'm free to say the right ain't always clear. 
 I've seen a lot of folks go wrong — git off the main highroad 
 An' fetch up in a swamp somewhere, almost before they knowed. 
 I don't pretend to be no judge of right and wrong in men ; 
 I ain't been perfect all my life, an' may not be again ; 
 An' sometimes when I see a chap who seems plumb gone astray 
 I think perhaps he started right, but somehow lost his way. 
 
 I like to think the good in 'em by far outweighs the ill ; 
 
 The trail of life is middlin' hard, and lots of it up hill ; 
 
 There's places where there ain't no guides or signboards up, an' so 
 
 It's partly guess work an' part luck which way you chance to go. 
 
 I've seen th' trails fork some myself, an' when I had to choose 
 
 I wasn't sure when I struck out if it was win or lose. 
 
 So when I see a m.an who looks as though he'd gone astray 
 
 I like to think he started right an' only lost his way. 
 
 I've seen a lot of 'em start out with grit an' spunk to scale 
 
 Th' hills that purple over there an' somenow lose th' trail ; 
 
 I've seen 'em stop an' start again, not sure about th' road ; 
 
 An' found 'em lost on some blind trail almost afore they knowed, 
 
 I've seen 'em circli'n', tired out, with every pathway blind, 
 
 With cliffs before 'em, mountain high, an' sloughs an' swamps behind. 
 
 I've seen 'em stringin' through th' dusk, when twilight's gettin' gray 
 
 A-lookin' for th' main highroad — poor chaps who've lost their way. 
 
 It ain't so far from right to wrong — th' trail ain't hard to lose ; 
 There's times I'd almost give my horse to know which one to choose. 
 There ain't no signboards on the road t' keep you on the track ; 
 Wrong's sometimes white as driven snow, an' right looks awful black ! 
 I don't set up to be no judge of right an' wrong in men ; 
 I've lost the trail sometimes myself — I may get lost again. 
 An' if I see som.e chap that looks as though he'd gone astray 
 I want to shove my hand in his an' help him find th' way. 
 
SUNSET ON THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 THEY have tamed it with their harrows; they have broken it 
 with plows; 
 Where the bison used to range it some one's built himself 
 a house ; 
 They have stuck it full of fence posts, they have girdled it with wire, 
 They have shamed it and profaned it with an automobile tire; 
 They have bridged its gullied rivers ; they have peopled it with men ; 
 They have churched it, they have schooled it, they have steepled 
 
 it — Amen. 
 They have furrowed it with ridges, they have seeded it with grain, 
 And the West that was worth knowing I shall never see again. 
 
 They have smothered all its campfires, where the beaten plainsman 
 
 slept ; 
 They have driven up their cattle where the skulking coyote crept; 
 They have made themselves a pasture where the timid deer would 
 
 browse, 
 Where the antelope were feeding they have dotted o'er with cows ; 
 There's a yokel's tuneless whistling down the bison's winding trail, 
 Where the redman's arrow fluttered there's a woman with a pail 
 Drivmg up the cows for milking; they have cut its wild extent 
 Into forty-acre patches till its glory is all spent, 
 
 I remember in the sixties, when as far as I could see, 
 It had never lord or ruler but the buffalo and me ; 
 Ere the blight of man was on it, and the endless acres lay 
 Just as God Almighty left them on the restful Seventh Day; 
 When no sound rose from its vastness but a murmured hum and dim 
 Like the echoed void of Silence in an unheard Prairie hymn; 
 And I lay at night and rested in my bed of blankets curled 
 Much alone as if I was the only man in all the world. 
 
 But the prairie's passed, or passing, with the passing of the years, 
 Till there is no West worth knowing and there are no Pioneers ; 
 
SUNSET ON THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 They have riddled with railroads, throbbing on and on and on, 
 They have ridded it of dangers till the zest of it is gone ; 
 And I've saddled up my pony, for I'm dull and lonesome here, 
 To go westward, westward, westward, till we find a new frontier; 
 To get back to God's own wildness and the skies we used to know- 
 But there is no West ; it's conquered— and I don't know where to go. 
 
A LETTER HOME. 
 
 LIKE to come and see you, daddy, and perhaps I will some day; 
 Like to come back East and visit, but I wouldn't care to stay. 
 Glad you're doing well, and happy ; glad you like your country 
 best, 
 But, for me, I always hunger for the freedom of the West. 
 There's a wholesomeness about it that I couldn't quite explain; 
 Once you breathe this air you love it and you long for it again ; 
 There's a tie you can't dissever in the splendor of its sky — 
 It's just home to you forever and I can't just tell you why. 
 
 It's so big and broad and boundless and its heaven is so blue 
 And the metal of its people always rings so clear and true ; 
 All its billowed acres quiver like the shudder of the sea 
 And its waves roll, rich and golden, in upon the shore for me. 
 Why, your farm and all the others that we used to think so fine 
 Wouldn't — lump 'em all together — make a corner lot of mine ; 
 And your old red clover pasture, with its gate of fence rails barred, 
 Why, it wouldn't make a grass plot in our district school house yard. 
 
 Not a foot has touched its prairies but is longing to return, 
 
 Not an eye has seen the sunset on its western heavens burn 
 
 But looks back in hungry yearning, with the memory grown dim, 
 
 And the zephyr of its prairies breathes the cadence of a hymn 
 
 That is sweet and full of promise as the "Beulah Land" we knew 
 
 When we used to sit together in the queer, old-fashioned pew. 
 
 And at eventide the glory of the sun and sky and sod 
 
 Bids me bare my head in homage and in gratitude to God. 
 
 Yes, I love you, daddy, love you with a heart that's true as steel. 
 But there's something in Dakota makes you live and breathe and feel ; 
 Makes you bigger, broader, better; makes you know the worth 
 
 of toil ; 
 Makes you free as are her prairies and as noble as her soil ; 
 Makes you kingly as a man is ; makes you manly as a king ; 
 
A LETTER HOME. 
 
 And there's something in the grandeur of her seasons' sweep and 
 
 swing 
 That casts off the fretting fetters of your East and marks you blest 
 With the vigor of the prairies — with the freedom of the West ! 
 
BEREAVED. 
 
 I GUESS he must be awful old; we had him years and years, 
 And he's so old the ends were worn all off of both his ears. 
 He couldn't hardly eat, because his teeth were all worn out, 
 And all his legs got stiff, so he could hardly drag about. 
 One day he lay down by the house, right near the cellar door, 
 And gasped and gasped for breath, until he couldn't any more; 
 So I went out and patted him, and when he heard me call 
 He looked at me and wagged his tail, which died the last of all. 
 
 My! he was black and curly once, when he was new and young, 
 
 And he would open up his mouth at us and curl his tongue. 
 
 Just like he laughed, and play with us ; and he would go into 
 
 The creek, and bring our hats to us, or anything we threw. 
 
 In winter we would hitch him up, and he would haul our sled, 
 
 And walk or trot or run with it, or anything we said ; 
 
 So when he wagged his tail at me I laid him right beside 
 
 The cellar door, and then I went behind the barn and cried. 
 
 He was a friend of all the boys, and when they came to play 
 He'd wag his tail and bark and look at them the smartest way; 
 And he'd pretend to bite at them and nip their pants, but he 
 Would never bite,'cause he was just as kind as he could be. 
 And Henry Watson looked at him beside the cellar door. 
 And said, "He'll never haul us boys on our sled any more." 
 He turned his ears back straight and nice ; he liked him awful well ; 
 Because he had tears in his eyes, and then a big one fell. 
 
 So after while we got a spade, and Billy Gibson came. 
 
 And Tommy Dean and Eddie Brink, and they all felt the same. 
 
 We dug some turf up in the yard, right underneath a tree, 
 
 And laid him in and left there, all covered carefully ; 
 
 It was an awful solemn day for all of us, for though 
 
 He'd got worn out and couldn't eat, we boys all liked him so; 
 
 And Eddie Brink, he didn't think the Lord would really care 
 
 If we boys sang a hymn for him and said a little prayer. 
 
BEREAVED. 
 
 My! it was awful sad that day! And Tommy said he thought 
 
 We wouldn't play that afternoon, because he'd rather not. 
 
 And Mama made some nice ice-cream, which cheered us up, but when 
 
 We wanted her to eat she said she couldn't eat just then. 
 
 And Amy Robbins heard of it. and brought some leaves and flowers 
 
 To scatter over him, because he was a friend of ours ; 
 
 And I told her I patted him, and wtien he heard me call 
 
 He looked at me and wagged his tail, which died the last of all. 
 
A LITTLE BOY I KNOW. 
 
 A LITTLE boy I used to know, from whom I've been away, 
 Oh, very many years, took me upon a trip today. 
 It seemed so good to be witn him, and he was glad to be 
 Companion, guide, and friend until the journey's end with me. 
 I quite forgot my cares with him, nor could I well be sad. 
 As long as he was at my side, for he was blithe and glad, 
 And oh, the merry songs he sang, the tunes he whistled clear 
 That I had half forgotten till he sang and whistled here ! 
 
 By many a winding stream we went, and many a limpid brook, 
 Where oft he bade me stop and cast a line and fishing hook 
 Until we drew a struggling fish from out some eddy deep. 
 And once upon the bank we lay and both fell fast asleep. 
 By clover meadows sweet we strayed, where cow bells tinkled far, 
 Deep in the woods where hollow logs and darting squirrels are. 
 And here and there he bade me stop till he would climb a tree 
 To shake a limb and rattle down some nuts for him and me. 
 
 Down many a shady lane we walked, through some familiar land, 
 
 Where dreams of faces long forgot arose on every hand ; 
 
 We saw a cottage by the road, and in the kitchen door 
 
 A woman with the sweetest face — a glimpse and nothing more. 
 
 And as she vanished from our sight I saw the teardrops shine 
 
 In both his eyes, and I could feel the tears well up in mine ; 
 
 He plucked his shabby sleeve to brush the teardrops from his eye 
 
 And whispered, "I saw Mother there!" and I said, "So did I!" 
 
 And there were spreading apple trees where oft he bade me lie 
 Upon the grass and watch the clouds that swept across the sky. 
 He lent me many a dream to dream — of fame and love and truth, 
 Such dreams as Fancy stores within the Treasure-heart of Youth! 
 Ofttimes we found a sparkling spring and lay upon the brink 
 Our lips laved with its bubbling stream, to drink and drink and drink ; 
 And oh, the joys we two renewed, and oh, the hum of bees. 
 The songs of birds, the violets and treasures such as these ! 
 
A LITTLE BOY I KNOW. 
 
 A little boy I used to know, a lad of nine or ten, 
 
 Took me a journey glad today — I hope he'll come agam : 
 
 To take my hand and walk with me where golden sunshine gleams, 
 
 To lead me by familiar ways and lend me all his dreams! 
 
 To keep me near the hopes we had, to whistle merry tunes, 
 
 To find me dawns like those we knew and sunny afternoons ; 
 
 A little boy his Mother loved ! — a land of nine or ten ; 
 
 Perhaps you've known and walked with him — I hope he comes again ! 
 
 _2 
 
TWO LITTLE MAIDS. 
 
 LITTLE Miss Nothing-to-do 
 Is fretful and cross and so blue, 
 And the light in her eyes 
 Is all dim when she cries 
 And her friends, they are few, Oh, so few ! 
 Her dolls, they are nothing but sawdust and clothes, 
 Whenever she wants to go skating it snows, 
 And everything's criss-cross, the world is askew ! 
 I wouldn't be Little Miss Nothing-to-do 
 Now, true, 
 
 I wouldn't be Little Miss Nothing-to-do 
 Would you? 
 
 Little Miss Busy-all-day 
 
 Is cheerful and happy and gay 
 
 And she isn't a shirk 
 
 For she smiles at her work 
 
 And she romps when it comes time for play. 
 
 Her dolls, they are princesses, blue eyed and fair, 
 
 She makes them a throne from a rickety chair, 
 
 And everything happens the jolliest way, 
 
 I'd rather be Little Miss Busy-all-day, 
 
 Hurray, 
 
 I'd rather be Little Miss Busy-all-day, 
 
 I sav. 
 
A NEW CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 COME, children, I'll tell you a wonderful tale, 
 I learned it one night in a dream ; 
 The snow lay all white and the full moon shone pale, 
 The housetops about were agleam; 
 I'd fallen asleep in my big easy chair, 
 
 I heard a gruff voice in my ear, 
 I knew that Saint Nicholas surely was there 
 And listened to see what I'd hear. 
 
 "Come, follow with me,'' were the first words he said, 
 
 'T'm off for my Palace of Snow; 
 I've emptied my pack of each doll, toy and sled, 
 
 It's time for old Santa to go. 
 But, Oh, I've a treat waiting for me tonight, 
 
 I've planned it for years in my mind ; 
 Come, follow with me, while the moon is still bright — " 
 
 I rose and we sped like the wind. 
 
 We flew like a flash to the Palace of Snow, 
 
 By hilltop and valley and plain, 
 Nor ever I will be permitted, I know, 
 
 To make such a journey again ; 
 And there in the warmest and cosiest nook 
 
 He bade me sit down while he dressed 
 In robes of rich scarlet and said to me : "Look ! 
 
 Here come the Child Hosts of the Blest." 
 
 A flash of his eye and my wonderment grew, 
 
 A word and a wave of his rod, 
 Forth came Orphan Annie and Little Boy Blue, 
 
 And Wynken and Blynken and Nod. 
 With Alice from Wonderland, blue-eyed and fair, 
 
 Tom Tucker — Jack Horner with him. 
 And Oh, at the last, can you guess who was there? — 
 
 Poor Topsy and Dear Tiny Tim ! 
 
A NEW CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 He spread out his arms and they passed one by one, 
 
 Each laden with treasures and toys, 
 And never or ever a night of such fun 
 
 Was passed by such girls and such boys ; 
 Nor ever will Annie be orphan with him, 
 
 He told me, and Little Boy Blue 
 Came back from the shadows all misty and dim, 
 
 So glad that the toy dog was true. 
 
 And always and always he'll keep them with him, 
 
 He told me, through all of the years, 
 Poor Topsy and Alice and Dear Tiny Tim, 
 
 And Topsy will know no more tears. 
 But tales of them all he will bring Christmas night, 
 
 The brightest and sweetest and best. 
 That our boys and girls may know joy and delight 
 
 From Santa's Child Hosts of the Blest ! 
 
A WORLD WITHOUT CARE. 
 
 THERE'S a song that is sweet 
 And a whistle that's clear; 
 There's a dog at his feet 
 And another one near ; 
 There's a fish in the brook 
 
 And a line that is whirled, 
 
 There's a worm on a hook — 
 
 All is well with the world. 
 
 There's a rock that has slipped 
 
 From the bank to the brink, 
 There's a hat that is dipped 
 
 In the brook for a drink; 
 There's a line that is cast 
 
 Where an eddy is swirled. 
 There's a fat perch caught fast — 
 
 All is well with the world. 
 
 There's a heartful of joy 
 
 And a handful of fish, 
 There's a satisfied boy 
 
 Glad as gladness could wish ; 
 There are leaves green and cool 
 
 Where the fat perch is curled. 
 There are more in the pool — 
 
 All is well with the world. 
 
 There's an angler come home 
 
 At the close of the day. 
 There's a chirp in the gloam 
 
 Of a whistle so gay, 
 There's a monster near-caught 
 
 Where the foam danced and curled, 
 There's a meal piping hot — 
 
 All is well with the world. 
 
RIGHT AFTER SCHOOL. 
 
 I KNOW where's the happiest Kingdom in all of the world 
 I have seen, 
 No bigger than Grandfather's orchard, and all of it's grassy 
 and green, 
 It has but a few dozen people, the happiest )'oungsters alive, 
 'Tis ruled by a Princess of seven and one little soldier of five ; 
 There's one little crown made of daisies and one little sword made 
 
 of tin. 
 And one little drum that goes rolling betimes with a terrible din ; 
 You'd think that a war was beginning by all of the noise that is 
 
 made. 
 When, really, it's only the army declaring itself on parade. 
 
 In all of the bounds of the Kingdom there isn't a book or a chore ; 
 
 The reign of the Princess begins when the schoolday is over at four ; 
 
 Her castle with turrets and towers is right near a big apple tree. 
 
 It isn't a visible castle, but if you were there you could see; 
 
 And if you should chance to be looking that way when the proud 
 Princess comes, 
 
 You'd see a bold soldier go marching and hear a fierce rattle of 
 drums. 
 
 You'd see loyal subjects and happy, with no thought of table 
 or rule, 
 
 You'd want to belong to the Kingdom — the Kingdom of Right- 
 After-School ! 
 
 It's really a well-behaved people — they put by their slates and their 
 
 books 
 And have little use for an army except as a matter of looks ; 
 But nobody dares say addition, division, subtraction — if you 
 Should mention a one of these subjects the tin sword would run 
 
 you right through ! 
 But you can say swinging or jumping or follow-my-leader, nor fear 
 You break any law of the country — and if from your window 
 
 you hear 
 
RIGHT AFTER SCHOOL. 
 A chorus of voices or laughter, when evening grows twilit and 
 
 cool, r T3- 1, 
 
 You'll know 'tis the music they make in the Kmgdom of Right- 
 After-School ! 
 
 There's not a sad heart in the Kingdom, nor ever or ever a tear, 
 
 And all of the sorrows of schooldays are lost or forgotten m here ; 
 
 The make-believe fairies go singing with songs that are won- 
 drously sweet; 
 
 The green turf is flecked with white dresses and patters with fast- 
 flying feet; 
 
 It's just between School's-Out and Teatime— an hour or so of the 
 day, . 
 
 And often I see them there crowning with daisies the Princess 
 
 of Play; 
 
 Then some one calls: "Supper-time, children '."—when evening 
 grows twilit and cool. 
 
 It fades from my sight till tomorrow— the Kingdom of Right- 
 After-School ! 
 
A PLEA FOR OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 I WAS fond, indeed, of Paul Revere, 
 In the days of my earlier age, 
 And the picture of him stands out clear 
 From the old school reader page ; 
 And I've seen the light in the belfry tower, 
 
 I've heard the hoof beats, too. 
 But, alas ! alas ! in an evil hour, 
 They say it's all untrue! 
 
 And Barbara Frietchie — ^all these years. 
 
 From guileless boyhood down, 
 I've seen the flag and heard the cheers 
 
 In far off Fredericktown ; 
 And I've seen Jackson lift his hat 
 
 And bid his troops march on. 
 But now, alas ! they tell me that 
 
 Is a dreamer's tale, and gone! 
 
 And oft at night, as though 't were real, 
 
 I've heard the flames' wild roar, 
 I've seen Jim Bludso hold the wheel 
 
 Till the last galoot's ashore; 
 I thought the better of men for it. 
 
 And of duty to die or do. 
 But some wise men, of little wit. 
 
 Say none of the tale is true. 
 
 Oh, leave me the ride of Paul Revere 
 
 And the story of FredericKtown ! 
 The nozzle agin' th' bank — so clear 
 
 From guileless boyhood down ! 
 Leave me the curfew that was not rung. 
 
 Leave them for me and you ; 
 And let more songs like these be sung. 
 
 Though none of the tales be true! 
 
DOWN AND OUT. 
 
 USED to brag when work was slack, 
 Nothing else to do, 
 Couldn't put him on his back, 
 No use tryin' to. 
 Said he'd been in many a bout, 
 
 Wrastlin' every day, 
 Nobody could put him out, 
 Wasn't built that way. 
 
 Little feller name o' Hall, 
 
 Well known here in town, 
 Wasn't neither short nor tall, 
 
 Tried to put him down. 
 Used to wrastle every day, 
 
 Wrastled quite a bit, 
 Hall 'ud lose, but always say: 
 
 "Bet I throw him yit!" 
 
 Wal — they wrastled on for years. 
 
 Finally, one day, 
 After all his jokes an' jeers. 
 
 Hall put him away. 
 Put him out for good and all; 
 
 "Don't know Hall ?" How so ? 
 First name's Al an' last name's Hall, 
 
 Middle name was Coe. 
 
A TRAGEDY OF CENTER FIELD. 
 
 HE muffed the fly that lost the game ; he never did before ; 
 The boys don't think he'll ever be light-hearted any more. 
 Our captain didn't say a word ; he just picked up his bat 
 And started home with downcast head — wliat words could equal that ? 
 Nobody spoke on our whole side, or didn't even ask 
 How Stubby came to muff the fly. Bud Hicks picked up his mask 
 And sighed an awful sorry sigh. Stub Weeks is not the same — 
 Our boys don't think he ever will, because he lost the game. 
 
 Nobody asked him to explain. They couldn't understand 
 
 How Stubby dropped it when he had the ball right in his hand. 
 
 It sailed from Pudgy Williams' bat and soared just like a bird 
 
 To center field where Stubby was. Nobody hardly stirred 
 
 Because it was so critical, but Bud Hicks gave a shout, 
 
 He knew a fly in center field was just as good as out 
 
 When Stubby Weeks was under it. And then he gave a cry 
 
 Of agony too great for words when Stubby muffed the fly. 
 
 Our boys all slowly walked away, and even Red Blake's team 
 Were too surprised to cheer because it seemed just like a dream. 
 And over there in center field Stub Weeks was dreaming, too. 
 As though he was Napoleon and this was Waterloo. 
 The blow was such an awful one he acted sort of stunned, 
 And then he walked in from the field expecting to be shunned 
 Forevermore by all his friends. His throat was hoarse and dry; 
 We knew his heart broken then because he muffed the fly. 
 
 He saw us all pick up our things and walk away, and then 
 The awful stain upon his name came back to him again. 
 He thought of how it should have been — the loud hurrahs and cheers, 
 And leaned against the back-stop fence and drenched it with his tears, 
 Till all the boys felt sorry then, and told him not to mind 
 Because the sun was in his eyes and must have made him blind. 
 But weeks and weeks have passed since then — his heart is awful sore. 
 Our boys don't think he'll ever be light-hearted any more ! 
 
SOME QUESTIONS FOR YOU. 
 
 DO you come nearer day by day 
 To the port where yonr dreams all 
 anchored lie ? 
 Or do you sail farther and far away 
 In an angry sea with a sullen sky? 
 Do you come nearer the Ought-to-be 
 
 In the wagon you hitched to a distant star ? 
 Or do you drift on hopelessly, 
 
 Content to bide with the Things-that-are ? 
 
 Are you a Drone or a Do-it-now? 
 
 A Hurry-up or a Wait-a- while? 
 A Do-it-so or an Anyhow? 
 
 A Cheer-up-boys or a Never-smile? 
 It's none of my business, that I know, 
 
 For you are the captain and mate and crew 
 Of that ship of yours, but the Where-you-go 
 
 Depends on the What-and-how-you-do. 
 
 Are you a Yes or a Maybe-so? 
 
 Are you a Will or a Guess-you'11-be ? 
 A Come-on-lads or a Let's-not-go ? 
 
 A Yes-I-will or an Oh-I'll-see? 
 It isn't the least concern of mine, 
 
 I know that well, but as time endures, 
 When they thresh the wheat and store the wine, 
 
 You'll find it's a big concern of yours. 
 
DOCTHER DOOLEY—LL. D. 
 
 I'VE bin wa-aiting f'r some college, 
 Blessed wid dignity an' knowledge, 
 Av which wit is first vice president and humor is 
 thrustee, 
 To sind all th' world a greetin' 
 Av a quite informal meetin' 
 
 To confer on Ma-artin Dooley th' degree of 
 LL. D. 
 
 Shure, they do it th' world over ; 
 ''Docther" Cha-ancy — "Docther" Grover — 
 
 "Docther" — half a thousand others I could mintion 
 if I choose ; 
 An' in all th' world av wit or 
 Humor, tell me who is fitter 
 
 Than is Mister Ma-artin Dooley f'r t' fill a docther's 
 shoes ? 
 
 Jist imagine it : "Yours thruly, 
 'Docther' — 'Docther' Ma-artin Dooley." 
 
 Th' divil fly away wid ye, an' don't ye under- 
 stand 
 That av all th' famous min I see 
 Jist Dooley's lift an' Hi'nnessy, 
 
 Who haven't yet bin docthered as their services 
 dema-and. 
 
 Shure, I'm timpted t' be startin' 
 Jist a little wan f'r Ma-artin, 
 
 Av which ivery last good fellow in th' land shall 
 be thrustee, 
 Widout faculty — no chafifin' — 
 Save th' faculty f'r laughin', 
 An' confer on Ma-artin Dooley th' degree av 
 LL. D. 
 
DOCTHER DOOLEY—LL. D. 
 
 Thin, be hivins, sir, whiniver 
 Ye had blues or torpid liver 
 
 An' were needin' av' a tonic — an' there's minny 
 needs th' sa-ame — 
 Y'd be sindin' f r yours thruly, 
 "Docther" — "Docther" Ma-artin Dooley 
 
 An' be takin' his prescription to th' glory av his 
 na-ame. 
 
ART IN FROZEN CREEK. 
 
 HE was a tourist, rich I guess; an' he stepped down off th' 
 train 
 Way out at th' town o' Frozen Crick, in th' heart o' th' 
 Western plain ; 
 Hi Cobb was there an' Wryneck Potts an' Amos Drake an' me ; 
 (We alhis 'lowed to 'tend th' train to see what we could see.) 
 He stepped up brisk to Wryneck Potts an' he says to him: "My 
 
 man, 
 Have you got a drug store handy here?" An' Wryneck Potts 
 
 he ran 
 An' p'inted out th' one we had an' th' tourist hurried there, 
 Ez if somebody was in straits an' he had no time t' spare. 
 
 An' Wryneck Potts he told Hi Cobb from th' feller's look of pain 
 He thought his wife or child or kin was dyin' on th' train, 
 An' Cobb he turned to Amos Drake an' Amos turned to me 
 But he didn't say he 'lowed on it, he said 'twas true, you see; 
 An' I says : "Cobb, go git Doc Dufif an' bring him over here 
 While I run up to th' furder end an' tell th' engineer, 
 So's he don't pull out ;" — 'cuz we may be rough an' slow in Frozen 
 
 Crick, 
 But we got a sight o' sympathy if there's anybody sick. 
 
 An' Cobb he run an' so did I an' Doc says: ''Is she bad?" 
 'Cuz a couple dozen quinine pills was all th' dope he had ; 
 An' he an' Cobb come runnin' back an' he says to Wryneck :"Jump ! 
 Go fetch me a couple quarts of rye an' a crutch an' a stomach 
 
 pump." 
 'Cuz Doc he liked to be perpared ; an' then I run across 
 To th' drug store where th' feller was an' I says to him : "Ol' Hoss, 
 We've got th' doctor over there 'cuz in sickness we're all pards." 
 An' he looked at me an' says : "Oh, Pshaw ! Fm buyin' postal 
 
 cards!" 
 
ART IN FROZEN CREEK. 
 
 We might 'a' used th' feller rough, but he run back to th' train 
 
 An' before th' word of it got out th' train was gone again ; 
 
 An' Wryneck Potts with crutch an' pump an' his couple quarts 
 
 o' rye 
 For first relief, went back again 'cuz th' crisis was gone by. 
 An' Cobb he says th' postal craze is gettin' smeared on thick 
 When any one wants postal cards with scenes o' Frozen Crick, 
 An' Doc Duff says : "A call's two plunks an' who's to pay my fee?" 
 So Wryneck Potts says: "Step up, Gents. This time th' drink's 
 
 on me." 
 
"BACK TO OLD AUNT MARY'S." 
 
 NOW we read in song and story of the reminiscent glory of 
 the woods and fields of boyhood, as in fancy we go 
 back, 
 Back in dreams to old Aunt Mary's, back to bees and huckleber- 
 ries, back to apples, plums, and cherries, back to haymow, 
 field, and stack ; 
 And the poet at this season for some psychologic reason feels 
 the conscious guilt of treason if he fails to take his 
 pen 
 And achieve his rhythmic duty of extolling woodland beauty and 
 his verses always end with "Could I but go back again !" 
 
 Some would go "back to the wildwood, in the innocence of child- 
 hood;'' some are headed for the orchard where the apples in 
 the sun 
 
 Swing and ripen, richly, redly, while the bird songs in a medley 
 fill the air with mellow music and the days pass one by one; 
 
 Some would go back with fine fancies, to Aunt Mollie's, Jane's, 
 or Nancy's — (all our poets seem to have a stock of aunts 
 that never fail!) 
 
 And when evening shades are falling and the whippoorwill is 
 calling — (every poet has a whippoorwill!) — you know how 
 goes the tale ! 
 
 But forgive these fancy-revels, and forgive us dreaming devils, 
 
 who, from seventh-story windows may look out upon the 
 
 street 
 Where men sweat and steam and swelter, where the world seems 
 
 helter-skelter, if we dream of creeks and hollows where the 
 
 grass is cool and sweet ; 
 If we dream that we are going where the Summer flowers are 
 
 blowing and where husbandmen are mowing in the clover 
 
 red and white. 
 If we write a verse whose fancies carry us back to Aunt Nancy's, 
 
 for it comforts us and gives us half an hour of delight ! 
 
THE WRECK OF THE WOMANS' CIRCLE. 
 
 C^ UE ALLEN ! Laws o' mercy ! We aint never had no peace 
 ^^ Since th' day she j'ined th' Circle with her sister an' her 
 ^^^ niece 
 
 An' began a-pickin' flaws an' findin' fault with everything 
 Fr'm th' organ in th' choir loft to th' pastor's study-wing. 
 
 Said th' church was small an' stuffy an' we orto build a new, 
 An' she fumed an' fussed an' fretted till she had us all a-stew, 
 An' she argyed an' she argyed till she got us to agree 
 That we'd raise a thousand dollars if th' Mission made it three. 
 
 It was social, social, social, with each heavin' mortal breath, 
 We must raise a thousand dollars, so we socialed 'em to death, 
 It was cream an' cake an' chicken till Melinda Wilkins said 
 She would give us all her earnin's if we'd see that she was fed. 
 
 An' we never had a meetin' but it turned on ways an' means. 
 On th' cost o' lath an' plaster an' th' size o' window screens, 
 An' she had us money-grubbin' like a lot o' Mammon's slaves 
 When we'd orto been a-thinkin' of our sinful souls an' graves. 
 
 When Sapphira Snodgrass left us it made somethin' of a stir. 
 For she said th' pace we'd taken was a trifle fast for her ; 
 So she sent her resignation an' she told us plain an' clear 
 That she wasn't goin' t' try to lay up all her treasures here. 
 
 Marthy Wiggins started even with Sue Allen at th' post 
 
 But before we'd raised five hundred she had given up th' ghost; 
 
 An' she sent word to th' Circle she had done her level best 
 
 But she'd wrecked her nervous system an' she'd have to take a rest. 
 
 But Sue Allen never faltered ; with a firm, forbiddin' eye 
 
 She declared we'd keep our pledges an' she knitted "Do or Die" 
 
 In a fancy lettered motto which induced Matilda Skidd 
 
 To observe it didn't matter if we Died or if we Did. 
 
 ~2r— 
 
THE WRECK OF THE WOMANS' CIRCLE. 
 
 Blossom Craven she staid loyal to th' project, floor to dome, 
 An' earned hopes of high salvation by neglectin' things at home 
 Till her husband got to drinkin' since she left him in th' lurch. 
 An' she felt his mortal temple more important than th' church. 
 
 At th' forty-second social, held on Primrose Potter's lawn, 
 I was leanin' on an ellum, feelin' kind o' worn an' gone, 
 When Rebekah Mullin's eldest came across th' lawn to tell 
 How Rebekah Mullin's youngest had just fallen down th' well. 
 
 He was fished out, wet an' gaspin', but Rebekah then an' there 
 Sent a word by Ellen Wilson that she guessed she'd done her share, 
 An' hereafter she was willin' to do what was right an' just, 
 But her children needed watchin', an' she'd have to do that fust. 
 
 When we'd raised eight hundred dollars, leavin' only two to gain 
 Sarah Pembroke fell in harness fr'm th' pressure o' th' strain, 
 An' she said it was a question between givin' up th' boast 
 Made by Sue to raise a thousand or of givin' up th' ghost. 
 
 When we'd sold our whole possessions for whatever they would 
 
 fetch 
 To squeeze money out o' nothin' an' were comin' down th' stretch, 
 Amy Ringrose, bakin' doughnuts for a Womans' Food Exchange 
 Slipped an' scalded herself dreadful in' th' hot lard on th' range. 
 
 So th' Circle by th' wayside faded slowly fr'm our view. 
 An' we had to change th' rules to make a quorum out o' two. 
 An' th' day we reached th' limit of th' task that Sue had set 
 There was only me an' Susan when th' Womans' Circle met. 
 
 An' we've got th' thousand dollars that we pledged ourselves to get 
 An' th' Mission's give th' other that it promised us ; — an' yet 
 Sue Allen, she admitted as she wept upon my neck 
 That we'd got th' Church we wanted but th' Circle was a wreck! 
 
A LITTLE BIT O' RILEY. 
 
 JES' a little bit o' Riley when th' twilight's growin' dim, 
 You can open of it anywheres an' read a verse from him. 
 It rests me when I'm weary, an' it cheers me when I'm sad, 
 An' sometimes th' pathos in it, while I'm cryin', makes me glad; 
 For I like it 'cause it's human, an' my heart jes' seems t' say 
 That if it could speak, like Riley's, it would talk jes' thataway ! 
 
 Jes' a little bit o' Riley when th' summer is in bloom, 
 
 'Cause it sort o' adds a measure to th' fragrance an' perfume ; 
 
 It seems to lend new meanin' to th' chatter an' th' song 
 
 Of th' birds that cry up yonder an' th' brooks that dance along; 
 
 An' I like it 'cause it's honest an' my heart jes' seems t' say 
 
 That if it could speak, like Riley's, it would talk jes' thataway! 
 
 Jes' a little bit o' Riley when the shadders fall on me — 
 
 (An' I know I'll meet my Pilot where th' stream becomes th' sea!) 
 
 An' I want to meet him honest, as a man should meet a man, 
 
 An' I want to be clean-hearted an' as decent as I can. 
 
 So I want a verse o' Riley an' I want to smile an' say : 
 
 "If my heart could plead for pardon it would talk jes' thataway!" 
 
T 
 
 HOME. 
 
 HE uncertain hum of the prairies when twih'ght is dim, 
 The wash of the seas on a battlement rocky and grim, 
 The unbroken forest that breathes a druidical hymn. 
 
 The plainsman, sun-beaten, hears voices from hollow and swell, 
 And where from the midst of the distance the deep shadows fell, 
 They came with low murmurs — the hum of the tenantless shell. 
 
 The woodsman hears voices — the sigh of the bough, swinging low, 
 
 The flutter of leaves in the dusk, till their choruses grow 
 
 To be the sweet songs that his forest has taught him to know. 
 
 The sailor hears voices — the wash of the low-lying sea. 
 
 The flap of the gull in the dusk and the harmonies lie 
 
 Has learned from the Deep, as the Master has bade it to be. 
 
 The plainsman heard voices — the song that the forester knew, 
 And shuddered at dusk, for his burden of lonesomeness grew, 
 Nor comfort he found in the song of the oak tree or yew. 
 
 The woodsman heard voices — the wash of the low-lying seas 
 And shuddered at dusk, for they were not the sweet harmonies 
 His Master had taught him to know m his leaves and his trees. 
 
 The sailor heard voices — the murmur of hollow and swell 
 And shuddered at dusk when his burden of lonesomeness fell 
 Upon him alone, with the hum of the tenantless shell. 
 
 And yet all alone in the night where the thick shadows creep 
 
 The plainsman is bold on his prairies and lays him to sleep. 
 
 Nor the woodsman fears aught of hi's trees, nor the sailor his Deep. 
 
ON THE ROAD. 
 
 HANDSOME pair o' Colts— eh, Stranger? 
 No, there ain't a bit of danger. 
 Let yer vision sort o' linger 
 On that off one — minds my finger 
 At th' slightest touch. Be keerful! 
 'Cause I'm alius sort o' fearful 
 They're so everlastin' willin' ; 
 Might go off an' make a killin'. 
 
 Handsome pair o' Colts, I tell ye. 
 Mind yer hands! It's jes' as well ye 
 
 Keep 'em lifted like I told ye, 
 
 'Cause it ain't no odds how bold ye 
 Be — it won't do ye no service 
 If my finger sh'd get nervous, 
 
 An' I wouldn't have 'em harm ye. 
 
 Jes' stand still till I disarm ye. 
 
 See the muzzle o' that nigh one? 
 Feller right here tried t' buy one 
 
 Not a week ago — it's funny, 
 
 But he shelled out all his money 
 Jes' th' minute he laid eyes on 
 Him. Remarkable surprisin' 
 
 •What a pair o' Colts '11 fetch ye 
 
 'Fore th' vigilantes get ye! 
 
 Come on. Stranger — better loosen! 
 Tain't no use in yer refusin' 
 
 'Cause th' odds is all agin' ye, 
 
 An' I ain't a-goin' t' chin ye 
 More'n an hour or two. So hurry, 
 
ON THE ROAD. 
 
 'Cause these Colts is apt t' worry, 
 An' whenever they get fretful 
 They jes' act up somethin' dreadful. 
 
 Thanks ! That's handsome ! Now jes' mind me 
 Drive along. Don't look behind ye 
 
 Er yer hour-glass's sand '11 
 
 Run out fast. They're hard t' handle. 
 Keep straight on thar — that's a wise 'un ! 
 Forty-fours? Oh, yes. Surprisin' 
 
 What a pair o' Colts '11 fetch ye. 
 
 Evenin', Stranger. Glad I met ye! 
 
THE VOICES OF SONG. 
 
 THEY come to me on wings of air, with plaintive lullabies, 
 And many songs and music rare they bring from dome- 
 less skies ; 
 Ah, me ! They bid my soul be fair, and nobler dreamings rise ! 
 
 Naught am I but interpreter of dreams they bring to me 
 
 In hidden harmonies that were all veiled in mystery 
 
 Until She bade them speak through Her — and She is Poetry. 
 
 So many, many moods beguile the sweetness of Her hours ! 
 She frowns, and now again Her smile has all the speech of flowers, 
 And lulling dreams Her moments while in cool and shady 
 bowers. 
 
 And often in the moonless night on wings of lurid flame, 
 Her head all aureoled with light, in majesty She came, 
 And bade me reach my pen and write — nor theme I knew, nor 
 name. 
 
 Nor aught vouchsafing me of why, in Her imperious mood. 
 
 She bade me only write, and I but little understood. 
 
 Save I was slave to Her, to die or flourish, as She would. 
 
 Then voices whispered in my ears, like songs from distant choirs, 
 And one told me the tale of tears, and one of those hot fires 
 That flame through all the sweep of years in Time's consuming 
 pyres. 
 
 And one was Laughter's merry tune, and one was like the rain 
 That in the gloomy night-tide's noon but beats and beats again, 
 Till crackling sedge and sandy dune are wet with tears of Pain. 
 
 Then War's tumultuous voice arose, in the harsh notes of Hate, 
 And thrusts and shots and shouts and blows, and thirst insatiate 
 For blood, and a red river flows where beaked vultures wait. 
 
THE VOICES OF SONG. 
 
 And Love's voice was among the rest that murmured in my ears, 
 With flute-Hke caroHngs, all blest with the delight of tears, 
 As Grief, her sister, sably drest, walked with her down the years. 
 
 My soul was but a harp, and She played gloriously and long, 
 As might a Master, curiously, with practiced touch and strong, 
 Strike all the waiting strings to see if it were fit for song. 
 
 Then all the babbling tongues were stilled, and in the dreamy night 
 My flagging pen to words I willed. Alas ! I could not write ; 
 And darkness all my senses filled that She had made so light. 
 
 Nor soul of man has understood, nor tongue of man can say 
 Why never comes She when I would, nor prayers will bid Her stay ; 
 But, like a lass for favor sued, turns in caprice away. 
 
 But Genius, like a lover, knows the songs of seraphim 
 
 That follow in Her train, and goes with laughing eye or dim 
 
 To sit with Her when Music flows and She would speak with him! 
 
ON THE TRAIL. 
 
 GOT a price on his head, 
 An' th' ranch-boss, he said 
 He'd prefer him aHve, but he would take 
 him dead. 
 Same ol' trouble, o' course. 
 Drink an' Cap. R. E. Morse 
 An' a dash f'r th' plains on another man's boss. 
 
 Knowed him since he's a lad, 
 
 Used t' bunk with his Dad, 
 
 Ain't a natural tough, but in liquor he's bad. 
 
 Fill hi'self to his chin. 
 
 Soak hi'self to th' skin 
 
 An' then sit around waitin' a chance to mix in. 
 
 Say! Th' youngster could ride 
 
 Anything with a hide 
 
 On its back where th' hair was a-growin' outside, 
 
 Roll a good cigarette 
 
 On his boss on a bet 
 
 When th' cayuse was buckin' an' never lost yet. 
 
 Sittin' there in th' camp, 
 
 Sort o' worn out an' damp, 
 
 An' his boss ga'nt an' tired fr'm a ninety-mile tramp 
 
 Through th' snow an' th' sleet. 
 
 An' he took liquor neat, 
 
 F'r th' stuff seemed t' be both his drink an' his meat. 
 
 I dunno! Somethin' hot 
 
 Passed between 'em — a shot. 
 
 An' th' other man drawed summat slower 'n he 
 
 ought. 
 Well ! It wasn't much loss. 
 
ON THE TRAIL. 
 
 But th' big buckskin boss 
 
 That he tuk when he skipped was th' pride of 
 th' boss! 
 
 'Taint because that galoot 
 That he killed with a beaut 
 Of a shot had an idee he knew how to shoot. 
 Ef he jest hadn't tuk 
 That especial ol' buck- 
 Skin th' boss broke hi'self 'twouldn't matter — wuss 
 luck! 
 
 Got a price on his head, 
 
 An' th' ranch-boss, he said 
 
 He'd prefer him alive, but he would take him dead. 
 
 'Cause a man ain't much loss, 
 
 But It's time, says th' boss, 
 
 That all plainsmen was learnin' a boss is a boss. 
 
THE REVERIES OF A WIDOW. 
 
 I. — THE WORM. 
 
 NOW am I like a worm condemned to crawl, 
 My happiness to burrow in the earth, 
 Seeking communion with the shape of all 
 My soul held dear ; to shun the cup of mirth ; 
 To banish laughter as a thing profane; 
 
 To weed myself in black; to rear a stone; 
 To bury hope; to wander down the lane 
 Of life forsaken, cheerless, and alone. 
 
 II. — THE CHRYSALIS. 
 
 What shape takes now my soul that is not woe 
 
 Nor yet is happiness ; but half between 
 The two; the earth where I was wont to go 
 
 For comfort chills me as a thing unclean ; 
 I am who am wife nor maid, what bids me leave 
 
 This self-abased state and take on wings 
 To fly with? Is't forbidden I shall grieve 
 
 So long upon the dust of earthly things? 
 
 III. — THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 What airy wings are these, and delicate 
 
 That lift my soul from earth and on this flower 
 Of hope bid me to rest and sip, nor fret 
 
 Upon the sorrow of a vanished hour? 
 Was it my soul that yesterday was cast 
 
 Into the dust? Oh, Time, what magic lies 
 In that weird wand of thine that gives at last 
 
 To worms the shape and wings of butterflies? 
 
THE VILLAGE COBBLER. 
 
 HELLO, Doc. Got th' rheumatiz. 
 I dunno what on airth it is, 
 But jest let th' weather change a bit 
 An' I'm mighty nigh down flat with it. 
 I was goin' t' mend them shoes of yourn. 
 But I jest ain't quite got around to it yit! 
 
 You healthy rascal ! Don't you smile, 
 'Cause th' years '11 git you after while. 
 
 Oh, I remember — yes, I do, 
 
 When I was young an' strong, like you. 
 But I been bent over this bench so long 
 
 That I squeak and squawk like a bran-new sho€. 
 
 Mornin', Squire ! Kind o' nasty day. 
 
 Oh, yes, I keep on peggin' away. 
 
 But it don't seem like I git much done. 
 Though I'm up with th' very first peep o' sun. 
 
 I did hope to have that job o' yourn. 
 But I ain't got around yit to mend that one. 
 
 Day, Mis' Green ! Hope I see you well. 
 Oh, I'm so so. Jest a little spell 
 
 O' my old complaint — sort o' saps my grit, 
 
 But I'm able to do what work I git. 
 
 An' I was goin' t' have that patchin' done. 
 
 But I jest ain't quite got around to it yit! 
 
 Howdy, Ben! Got yer plantin' done? 
 Oh, I'm about as I alius run. 
 
 I'm sufferin' some, as I alius do. 
 
 But I'm able t' drive a peg or two. 
 
 An' I was goin' t' have them boots all done, 
 
 But I ain't got around yit to git 'em through. 
 
THE VILLAGE COBBLER. 
 
 No, I ain't much of a hand t' fret. 
 
 As long as I'm healthy enough t' set 
 At th' ol' work bench down here an' git 
 My work out prompt I ain't dead yit. 
 
 Mis' Wise? How' do! Them shoes of yourn? 
 Well, I got one done, but th' sole don't fit ! 
 
 No, I don't fret if it's shine or rain. 
 I peg away an' I don't complain. 
 
 My shoes are good an' I make 'em fit 
 
 As well as a mortal man can git 
 
 'Em to. Hello! There's Deacon Hayes 
 
 An' I ain't got around to his job yit 1 
 
THE OLD PUMP'S FAREWELL. 
 
 AYE, root me up like some dedd tree 
 Bereft of leaf and shade, 
 And in some corner let me be 
 Irreverently laid, 
 To waste my bones in rot and rust, 
 
 And let me, once who gave 
 Cool draughts to man and beast, in dust 
 Find an unhonored grave. 
 
 It was thy father set me here 
 
 A score of years ago, 
 And bade cool water, crystal clear. 
 
 In grateful streams to flow. 
 In all my years no thirsty lout 
 
 For drink of me has cried 
 And from my overflowing spout 
 
 Has gone unsatisfied. 
 
 The children, rioting from school, 
 
 Have sought my dripping spout, 
 Whence sparkling water, clear and cool, 
 
 In torrents gushing out, 
 Brought thirst a comforting eclipse 
 
 With its refreshing draught, 
 And ah! the sweetness of their lips 
 
 Pressed to me as they quaffed. 
 
 Then, speeding onward to their play, 
 
 I heard their merry cries, 
 And like the tears that drip away 
 
 In gladness from the eyes, 
 The cool drops flowed and trickled down 
 
 My iron cheek, to see 
 How from far corners of the town 
 
 The thirsty came to me. 
 
THE OLD PUMP'S FAREWELL. 
 
 The dusty yokel, worn and tasked, 
 
 Tramped to me from the road, 
 Gripped hands with me, and all unasked 
 
 The grateful waters flowed. 
 The cup held by its clanking chain 
 
 He lifted oft and drained 
 Its crystal waters once again, 
 
 And some new vigor gained. i 
 
 And, ah, those patient beasts that brought 
 
 Their noses to my tank. 
 When the red sun beat fiercely hot 
 
 And drank, and drank, and drank ' 
 
 With mighty draughts and deep until 
 
 My labors were nigh vain 
 To give them drink enough and fill 
 
 My water tub again. 
 
 Nor all my score of years till now 
 
 Have I once failed to cool 
 The thirsty lip and fevered brow 
 
 From that still rippling pool 
 Wherein my feet have stood. My cup 
 
 In ready hands and strong 
 Has dipped its crystal waters up 
 
 So long, so long, so long! 
 
 But now my joints are worn and old, 
 
 My spout is parched and dry; 
 My cup's a-leak and will not hold 
 
 My drink, howe'er I try. 
 So root me up like some old tree 
 
 Bereft of leaf and shade. 
 And in some corner let me be 
 
 Irreverently laid. 
 
BACK TO SCHOOL. 
 
 FELL in the creek twice yesterday ! 
 Slipped and slid from a load of hay, 
 Stepped on a stone and bruised my toe ; 
 Hardly walk 'cause I'm blistered so ; 
 Hit my knee till it's blue and black, 
 Sat in the sun and burned my back 
 When I went to swim, but my, I'm glad ! 
 Best vacation I ever had. 
 
 Slid off the old red barn last week. 
 
 Wind all gone so I couldn't speak 
 
 When they laid me in upon the bed 
 
 And put cold water on my head. 
 
 Got poison-ivy on my legs 
 
 When I went in the weeds to look for eggs ; 
 
 But I've had more fun since I don't know when ! 
 
 Hate to go back to school again. 
 
 Burned my hands till they're awful sore 
 When the calf ran out of the big barn door 
 And I tried to hold the rope and fell 
 Most twenty feet down the old dry well. 
 Lost my hat that was almost new. 
 In the great big lake, when the high wind blew ; 
 And my pants are torn from many a climb, 
 But I never had such a summer-time. ' 
 
 Ate poison berries by the creek 
 Till they thought I'd die, I felt so sick; 
 But they gave me ipecac to take, 
 And it cured up all my stomach-ache ! 
 Got stung by bees, but I got stung best 
 When I started home with a hornets' nest, 
 And I all swelled up ; but I'm gone down now, 
 And it's all in a boy's life, anyhow ! 
 
 Nose all peeled till it's red and rough, 
 Hands all brown, but I'm awful tough 
 From the exercise, and I'm big and strong, 
 
BACK TO SCHOOL. 
 
 'Cause I hoed in a corn-field all day long. 
 And my uncle said that I might stay 
 For harvest-time, and he'd give me pay ; 
 And I'd like to stay, but I have to go 
 Back home to school, 'cause my ma said so. 
 
THE SONG OF THE DINNER BELL. 
 
 AS long as they fry spring chicken, 
 As long as young squabs are born, 
 As long as my pulses quicken 
 At platters of fresh green corn, 
 Sing me no mournful numbers. 
 
 Chant me no solemn song; 
 As long as we've sliced cucumbers 
 I guess I can get along. 
 
 As long as we've baked potatoes 
 
 That fluff out like flakes of snow. 
 As long as we've sliced tomatoes, 
 
 As long as young turkeys grow, 
 Bring me no pale and pallid 
 
 Refrain from a funeral song; 
 As long as we've sweetbread salad 
 
 I guess I can get along. 
 
 Bid not mine eyes be moist or 
 
 Red from expected woes, 
 As long as they leave an oyster. 
 
 As long as a lobster grows. 
 How can the times be tearful, 
 
 How can the world be sad? 
 How can we not be cheerful 
 
 As long as they plank roe-shad? 
 
 As long as the tall, hot biscuit 
 
 Is dripping with honey sweet. 
 You may hate the world — I'll risk it 
 
 As long as we've things to eat. 
 No praises that I might utter. 
 
 No splendors my fancy spreads, 
 Compare with the yellow butter 
 
 Spread thick on fresh home-made bread. 
 
THE SONG OF THE DINNER BELL. 
 
 What is the sense of spoih'ng 
 
 Life, with its bill-of-fare? 
 As long as we've mushrooms broiling 
 
 Where is the room for care? 
 Why should our troubles fret us, 
 
 Why should our hopes e'er fade, 
 As long as we've crisp head-lettuce, 
 
 With mayonnaise overlaid? 
 
 Peace to thy sighing, brother ; 
 
 See that thy tears are dried. 
 Get thee a steak, and smother 
 
 It with some onions, fried. 
 Turkey with oyster dressing, 
 
 Beef with its gravy brown. 
 Life? It is one grand blessing — 
 
 Dinner is served — sit down ! 
 
FOR THE LOVE OF A HORSE. 
 
 YOU'VE got the drop, Sandy ! There's cottonwoods handy ; 
 I ain't no spring chicken — I know what it means ! 
 So get out your halter; you won't see me falter! I ain't 
 no cheap tenderfoot still in his teens ! 
 You've raced me an' chased me, but you ain't disgraced me ! Old 
 
 Baldy went lame from a prairie dog hole — 
 You're crippled, old fellow, but there ain't no yellow in all of your 
 make-up, from crupper to poll ! 
 
 Don't hesitate, Sandy! I know it's onhandy to hang an old friend 
 
 just for stealin' a horse; 
 But get your traps ready for I ain't onsteady ; an' justice is justice 
 
 an' must take its course ! 
 I gave all your posse a run that was flossy, through sage brush an' 
 
 cactus, up cut bank an' hill. 
 An' now that you've caught me an' got me, why rot me! I'm 
 
 just a plain outlaw, who bows to your will. 
 
 Want Baldy ? Well, hold him ! An' Sandy, I sold him — I got in 
 
 a jackpot an' needed the dough ; 
 I sold him to Meehan, th' same time agreein' that he'd sell him 
 
 back when I wanted it so ; 
 An' Meehan, th' greaser, he went back on me, Sir, an' wouldn't 
 
 make good when I flashed him a roll. 
 An' said I had sold him for keeps an' I told him some things not 
 
 intended to comfort his soul. 
 
 Sell Baldy? Why, Sandy, he's carried me handy a hundred long 
 
 miles in a many day's sun ; 
 An' come in a prancin'. his head up, an' dancin', just like a young 
 
 tenderfoot sportin' a gun ; 
 He ain't no cheap quitter ! He'll cut out a critter an' hold him hard 
 
 fast when he's roped an' been thrown ; 
 An' five 3'ears I knowed him an' five years I rode him an' never a 
 
 leg crossed his back but my own. 
 
FOR THE LOVE OF A HORSE. 
 
 I got set for roami'n' — there's work in Wyomin' — an' when that 
 
 durn greaser went back on his word 
 I went an' called Baldy an' when he was called he just pricked up 
 
 liis ears an' came out of th' herd ; 
 An' say ! When he'd whinner, as I am a sinner, I put both my arms 
 
 'round his neck an' I cried, 
 An' then I just hollered an' Baldy, he follered — an' you know th' 
 
 rest an' th' end of th' ride ! 
 
 So that's th' tale, Sandy ; there's cottonwoods handy ! An' I ain't 
 
 afraid of th' law of th' plains. 
 But you can damn me. Sir, if that thi'evin' greaser will ever get 
 
 Baldy — I'll blow out his brains. 
 What's that? Nothin' doin'? No tree party brewin'? Well. 
 
 Sandy, that's handsome! "Just go on my course?" 
 What's this that's a-fillin' my eyes ? Tom McQuillen a-weepin' ! 
 
 An' all for th' love of a horse ! 
 
IN SWIMMING. 
 
 ? T ST boys — th' kind you used t' know, 
 I What-d'-y'-call-him, So-and-so 
 
 An' What's-His-Name — an' every one 
 '1st full o' health an' out for fun. 
 No meanness in a one of us, 
 '1st brown an' strong an' mischievous, 
 'Cuz that's th' way 'at boys all grow — 
 '1st boys — th' kind you used t' know. 
 
 '1st boys — th' kind you used t' be. 
 What! Never climbed an' apple tree 
 An' shook 'em down .'' Why, Mister, you — 
 You never was a boy, real true. 
 I'll bet 'at you was mischievous 
 As you could be. You're foolin' us 
 'Cuz you can't help but see 'at we 
 Are boys — 'ist like you used t' be. 
 
 Of course we ought t' be at school, 
 But my ! The water's nice an' cool 
 An' when it calls you, w'y, you 'ist 
 Can't be a real boy an' resist. 
 An' say! We caught a fish down there 
 'Most two feet long — right close t' w'ere 
 You're standin' now. Now don't you see 
 We're boys — 'ist like you used t' be? 
 
 Say, you ain't goin' t' tell our Ma 
 'At you was passin' by an' saw 
 Us swimmin' here. W'y, Mister, you 
 Won't never feel right if you do. 
 Don't be a tattle-tale! W'y, say. 
 If you should give us boys away 
 You couldn't never bear to see 
 A boy — 'ist like you used t' be. 
 
IN SWIMMING. 
 
 Come on, now ! You ain't goin' t' tell 
 
 On us. I know it, 'ist as well 
 
 As anythin'. You wouldn't hurt 
 
 Her feelin's 'ist t' do us dirt. 
 
 You won't? Thanks, Mister. You're a brick. 
 
 We're goin' home, Sir, pretty quick. 
 
 It's awful fine here, 'cuz, y' see, 
 
 We're boys — 'ist like you used t' be. 
 
A REFUGE IN DISTRESS. 
 
 A FELLOW'S father knows a lot 
 Of office work and such, 
 But when I't come to things like what 
 A boy wants, he ain't much. 
 For when it comes to cuts or warts 
 
 Or stone bruise on your toes, 
 A fellow's father don't know, but 
 A fellow's mother knows. 
 
 A fellow's father, he looks wise 
 
 And says: "Ahem! A-hem!" 
 But when it comes to cakes and pies, 
 
 What does he know of them? 
 He knows tne price of wheat and rye 
 
 And corn and oats, it's true, 
 But if you got the leg ache, why, 
 
 He don't know what to do. 
 
 And if you burned your back the time 
 
 That you went in to swim. 
 And want some stuff to heal it, why, 
 
 You never go to him. 
 Because he doesn't know a thing 
 
 About such things as those, 
 But you just bet, and don't forget, 
 
 A fellow's mother knows. 
 
 And if your nose is sunburned, till 
 
 It's all peeled off, and you 
 Go to him for some healin' stuff, 
 
 He don't know what to do. 
 He's just as helpless as can be. 
 
 But when a fellow goes 
 And asks his mother, why, you see, 
 
 A fellow's mother knows. 
 
A REFUGE IN DISTRESS. 
 
 A fellow's father knows a lot, 
 
 But it ain't any use, 
 So if a fellow's really got 
 
 The leg ache or a bruise, 
 Or if there's anything he wants 
 
 He gets right up and goes 
 And asks his mother, for, you see, 
 
 A fellow's mother knows. 
 
CONSERVING THE RESOURCES. 
 
 HOD Kellar said he read o' late, 
 In forty thousand years or nigh, 
 Th' water'll all evaporate 
 From off th' earth an' leave it dry; 
 He said th' moon is dried up now, 
 An' water's scarcer, he can tell. 
 By lookin' down an' seein' how 
 
 It's gittin' shaller in his well. 
 An' Peleg Potter winked his eye. 
 An' says by drinkin' only rye 
 Hod's savin' water, so there'll be 
 A-plenty for Posterity! 
 
 Hod told us up in Tinker's store 
 
 That wood was bein' used so free. 
 He read there wouldn't be no more 
 
 In 'bout another century. 
 An' he said he remembered well 
 
 Logs three foot through, an' told us how 
 They used to rip 'em, an' says, "Tell 
 
 Me where are them big sawlogs now?" 
 An' Peleg said he understood 
 Why Hod would never saw no wood — 
 'Cuz he's afeard that it would be 
 A crime ag'in Posterity ! 
 
 Hod said he read th' stock o' coal 
 
 Was gittin' lower — he'd allow 
 Th' won't a single livin' soul 
 
 Have any fifty years from now ; 
 He used to git a ton for less 
 
 Than he can git a bag to-day, 
 An' wasn't sure, but said he guess 
 
 We'd frittered all th' stock away. 
 
CONSERVING THE RESOURCES. 
 
 An' Peleg said perhaps that's why 
 Hod's coal bin was most always shy — 
 He borrers what he burns 'cuz he 
 Don't want to cheat Posterity. 
 
 Hod said he read th' land to-day 
 
 Was bein' cropped so much an' fast 
 Th' juices in it that makes hay 
 
 An' corn an' fodder wouldn't last. 
 He said in fifty years or so 
 
 Th' way they use it now, by gosh, 
 A half an acre wouldn't grow 
 
 A sweet potater or a squash! 
 An' Peleg he said he knew now 
 Why Hod would never drive a plow — 
 He's so afeard th' land won't be 
 Ez fertile for Posterity! 
 
THE SCAPEGOAT. 
 
 IF anybody comes in late 
 To dinner and don't shut the gate, 
 Or doesn't sweep the porch, or go 
 Right out and shovel off the snow, 
 Or bring in wood or wipe his feet, 
 Or leave the woodshed nice and neat — 
 It's me ! 
 
 If anybody doesn't think 
 To carry out the cow a drink. 
 Or tracks mud on the kitchen floor, 
 Or doesn't shut the cellar door, 
 Or leaves the broom out on the stoop, 
 Or doesn't close the* chicken coop — 
 It's me! 
 
 If anybody doesn't bring 
 The hammer in, or breaks a thing, 
 Or dulls the axe, or doesn't know 
 What has become of so-and-so 
 That's lost for maybe six weeks past, 
 If anybody had it last — 
 It's me ! 
 
 If anything is lost or gone. 
 They've got some one to blame it on ; 
 I get the blame for all the rest 
 Because I am the little-est; 
 And if they have to blame some one 
 For what is or what isn't done — 
 It's me! 
 
OLD HALLOWE'EN FRIENDS. 
 
 OHO ! Mr. Ghost, with your raiment of white, 
 Come to frighten me out of my wits in the night ! 
 With your eyes flaming forth like two coals and your 
 breath 
 Bearing fire that would scare a poor mortal to death ; 
 With your rows of great teeth grinning widely at me 
 And your loose-hanging gown flapping under the tree 
 In the orchard out there — Oh ! I know how you're made, 
 And the youngsters who made you, so I'm not afraid. 
 
 Oho ! Mr. Ghost, I am waiting for you ; 
 
 You're an old friend of mine, both trustworthy and true ; 
 
 For that big head of yours that near gave me a fright 
 
 Was in somebody's pumpkin patch only last night. 
 
 And out of my window not two hours ago 
 
 I saw your head scooped out by Bill, Jack, and Joe ; 
 
 And I saw you stuck up on the end of a lath 
 
 Before you were stationed right here in my path. 
 
 Oho! Mr. Ghost, with your garments so fine! 
 I know what became of that sheet on the line 
 In the neighbor's back yard, newly washed and alone. 
 It is hiding that lath that you use for backbone. 
 And the candle that burned in the kithchen last night 
 Lights those cavernous eyes that near gave me a fright ; 
 Indeed, you are made from such odds and such ends 
 That I feel we're tb.e warmest of very old friends. 
 
 And those sepulchral groans you are making at me, 
 I know whence they come — from that big apple tree 
 That is right behind you — I have heard them before ; 
 They were begging for cake at the side kitchen door. 
 So you see, Mr. Ghost, with your pumpkin and lath. 
 With your candle and sheet, when I came up the path 
 I heard a boy chuckle up there in the tree. 
 And that is the reason you can't frighten me ! 
 
DISENCHANTMENTS. 
 
 HERE is the brook where the bold pirates ferried, 
 SwashbuckHng wretches, cold-blooded, unkind; 
 Here is the tree where vast treasure was buried, 
 Doubloons we dug for but never could find. 
 How things have changed since these waters were riven, 
 
 Splashed with our paddles and churned into foam ! 
 Since the dark nights when the pickaxe was driven 
 Where the lost treasure lay under the loam ! 
 
 Here is the wood with its fastness unbounded, 
 
 Whence the red savage stole noiselessly out, 
 Warning us not till his warwhoop was sounded, 
 
 Leaving us scalped on the greensward about. 
 How things have changed from the steed and the stirrup, 
 
 Flintlock and tomahawk whittled from lath, 
 Where our blood ran there's no fluid but syrup 
 
 From the sap maples along our war path ! 
 
 Here is the plain where our scouts reconnoitred. 
 
 Crawling and creeping through morass and glade, 
 Sighting some bloodtnirsty savage who loitered 
 
 Near by the scene of some scalp-lifting raid. 
 How things have changed since the red deer went leaping. 
 
 Since came the bison by hundreds to browse, 
 Silent the plain where our brave scouts went creeping. 
 
 Save for the lowing of far distant cows. 
 
 Here is the cave where our clans were assembled. 
 
 Guarded by sentries, nor traitor could reach ; 
 Ghostly and tomb-like, where heroes dissembled 
 
 Blood-chilling fears in their boldness of speech. 
 Bruce had a refuge here, Wallace lay wounded, 
 
 Hallowed its clammy walls, safe its retreat, 
 Once 'twas a labyrinth, gloomy, unsounded, 
 
 'Tis but a gravel pit, just off the street. 
 
DISENCHANTMENTS. 
 
 How things have changed in the years since we knew them, 
 
 Pirate and redskin and treasure and clan ; 
 Men walk beside them and past them and through them, 
 
 Giving no heed that our blood there once ran. 
 Making no sign for the struggles that swept them, 
 
 Flintlock and scalplock, raid, warfare, and strife, 
 How things have changed since we cherished and kept them ! 
 
 All of the romance has gone out of life ! 
 
A RAINY NIGHT. 
 
 } I) OUT eight o'clock first night that we 
 ll Were down at the academy 
 'Twas awful rainy out, and so 
 We both of us stayed in, you know ; 
 But we could hear the wind and rain 
 Come splashing on the window-pane ; 
 And after while, why, Henry Stout 
 Put up the curtain and looked out, 
 And said, "My! Ain't she coming down! 
 I wish I was in Beaverstown." 
 
 And then nobody spoke at all, 
 Just listened to the rain-drops fall ; 
 And Henry sniffled up his nose 
 Because he had a cold, I s'pose. 
 And then he said, 'T wonder how 
 Our folks are getting on by now." 
 And I said, "Oh, I guess all right. 
 My ! Ain't it rainy out to-night !" 
 And Henry gave a great big sigh 
 And swallowed hard — and so did I. 
 
 And then he said. "My ! Such a noise ! 
 I guess there's lots of homesick boys 
 Around tonight." And I said, "Oh," — 
 Just careless like, — "Oh, I don't know." 
 And then he said, "I guess Jim Brown 
 Is glad he stayed in Beaverstown 
 And didn't have to come down here." 
 And I said, "Do your eyes feel queer? 
 I got a speck in mine, I guess. 
 They water so." And he said, "Yes." 
 
A RAINY NIGHT. 
 
 And then he looked and tried to smile. 
 And we kept still for quite a while. 
 And heard it rain. And then he said, 
 "I s'pose our folks are gone to bed 
 And sound asleep by now, I guess." 
 And then I swallowed and said, "Yes." 
 So then we both got into bed 
 And heard it rain ; and then he said, 
 "My! Ain't she just a-pouring down! 
 I wish I was in Beaverstown." 
 
 — 5— 
 
A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE. 
 
 HER that wuz Liddy Thomas once — married a man named 
 Brown, 
 Who run away an' left his wife; so Liddy came back 
 to town 
 With the cunnin'est little baby, but nary a cent had she, 
 So we summoned a special meetin' o' the Aid Society. 
 
 The members wuz summat flustered; we'd all o' us paid our dues 
 Till the treasury wuz a-groanin', but never a call to use 
 A cent o' the funds we'd gathered till Liddy came back to town — 
 Her that wuz Liddy Thomas who married a man named Brown. 
 
 The case wuz ourn in justice, since we had diskivvered it. 
 But the Women's Benevolent Circle felt called upon to sit 
 In a solemn special session when news o' it got about. 
 An' stubbornly they insisted on a-helpin' Liddy out ! 
 
 So Tabithy Jenkins Thomas, who wuz Worthy President 
 
 O' the Aid Society, told 'em they shouldn't pay a cent : 
 
 That Liddy's distress wuz ourn, an' there wuzn't the slightest call 
 
 Fer the Women's Benevolent Circle to interfere at all. 
 
 Think o' the meanness on't! Our body eleven year old. 
 With never a chance to aid distress till this one, as I've told ; 
 An' after we'd been an' found it, to have them a-tryin' to claim 
 The credit fer helpin' Liddy ! We felt it a mortal shame ! 
 
 So Tabithy Jenkins Thomas she writ 'em a little note 
 That we would take care o' Liddy, an' they needn't pay a groat; 
 An' she called it a bit onchristian fer them to be dippin' in 
 When we had diskivvered Liddy, forsook o' her kith an' kin. 
 
 Mehitabel Prudence Tippen, the Benevolent Circle's head, 
 Writ back to us summat uppish, an' in her epistle said 
 That Charity's realms wuz boundless as the stars in heaven were, 
 Which wuz jest the kind o' letter we figgered we'd git from her. 
 
A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE. 
 
 Then Tabithy writ another, an' say, 'twuz a scorcher, too, 
 A-tellin' Mehitabel Tippen some things that wuz good an' true ; 
 An' pendin' Miss Tippen's answer, she had Liddy's case referred 
 To the Indigent Poor committee, to wait till we had some word. 
 
 Now here wuz a purty pickle ! Not one o' us but jest yearned 
 To be doin' fer Liddy Thomas, an' yit we jest fumed an' burned 
 With hon'rable indignation, an' couldn't lend aid, becuz 
 We must wait fer Mehitabel Tippen, an' settle whose case it wuz. 
 
 Mehitabel Tippen answered, in the course o' a week or so, 
 With a note to Tabithy Thomas that wuz jest full o' brag an' blow, 
 In which she again insisted there wuzn't no claim on Need, 
 An' Charity wuz a blessin' that never acknowledged creed! 
 
 An' Tabithy she wuz hoppin' ! She read it all through an' vowed 
 By all o' the stars in heaven there shouldn't no one be 'lowed 
 To interfere in the case o' Liddy if she had to go an' stay 
 On watch beside Liddy's bedside, an' keep other folks away. 
 
 So the Indigent Poor committee wuz ordered to make report, 
 An' we authorized sech expenses as all o' us thought we ort. 
 But found, when we looked fer Liddy to prove our contention with. 
 She'd been taken indoors an' cared fer by a fam'Iy name o' Smith ! 
 
 Oh, the burnin' injustice o' it! Our treasury groanin' fat, 
 An' Mehitabel's interferin' permittin' a thing like that ! 
 A-provin' that sisterhood o' love is only a dazzlin' mvth, 
 An' thrustin* our crown o' glory on a family name o' Smith ! 
 
KITCHEN MIRACLES. 
 
 IN Aunt Amelia's kitchen there are many wonders done, 
 Such miracles are wrought as never seen beneath the sun: 
 A pumpkin from the garden — just a yellow sphere that lies 
 Beneath her skilful handling ripens quickly into pies ; 
 The corn grows into fritters, you must marvel at the change; 
 The apples change to dumplings in the glowing kitchen range; 
 She waves her hands above it, and the milk is cottage cheese. 
 You merely watch her, and you see such miracles as these. 
 
 She finds it easy, quite, to make blueberries into rolls ; 
 
 And eggs are changed to omelets above the glowing coals; 
 
 And sometimes when she's fixing the materials for pies 
 
 She turns cider into mince-meat right before your very eyes ! 
 
 Sometimes she makes a currant roll, — you would not think she 
 
 could, — 
 Or makes a peach turn over, or does something just as good ; 
 But she says quite the hardest task that ever she has found 
 Is, when she has her boys at tea, to make these things go 'round ! 
 
EXTINGUISHED. 
 
 44" I ^HE boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him 
 I had fled"— 
 
 When Tommy Gibbs stood up to speak he had it in his 
 head, 
 But when he saw the schoolroom full of visitors, he knew, 
 From his weak knees and parching tongue, the words had all 
 fled, too. 
 
 "The boy stood on the burning deck" — a second time he tried, 
 But he forgot about the boy, or if he lived or died ; 
 He only knew the burning deck was something nice and cool 
 Beside the rostrum where he stood that awful day in school. 
 
 "The boy stood on the burning deck" — he felt the flames and 
 
 smoke. 
 His tongue was thick, his mouth was dry, he felt that he would 
 
 choke. 
 And from the far back seats he heard a whisper run about : 
 "Come back, Tom, and take your seat. They've put the fire out!" 
 
THE UNCHEERED HERO, 
 
 TIM Brooks he studies awful hard 
 And faithful all the year, 
 But goes out in the school house yard 
 And never gets a cheer; 
 And Billy Gibbs, he shirks and frets — 
 
 He hates to work at all — 
 But you should hear the cheer he gets 
 Because he hits the ball. 
 
 Tim Brooks he always leads his class 
 
 And gets his lessons done; 
 But Billy Gibbs lets hours pass 
 
 Just thinking up some fun ; 
 But no one cheers and throws his hat 
 
 And says : "Hurrah for Tim !" 
 But when Bill Gibbs goes up to bat 
 
 The boys all cheer for him. 
 
 Bill Gibbs he suffers awful pain 
 
 When he comes to recite ; 
 He cannot do his sums again 
 
 Or get his grammar right; 
 Then teacher calls on Timmy Brooks 
 
 And points to him with pride, 
 But when we play a game she looks 
 
 And cheers for Bill outside. 
 
 Sometimes Tim Brooks he sees the game 
 
 And watches Bill at bat, 
 He gets excited just the same 
 
 And cheers and throws his hat; 
 But when he has his sums in school 
 
 And Bill is watching him. 
 Bill quite forgets the Golden Rule 
 
 And never cheers for Tim. 
 
THE UNCHEERED HERO. 
 
 I guess I'd rather be li"ke Tim 
 
 Than Billy Gibbs, but when 
 The boys outside are cheering him 
 
 It sounds quite pleasant then; 
 And it must sometimes seem quite hard 
 
 To study all the year 
 And go out in the school house yard 
 
 But never get a cheer ! 
 
THE SPIRIT OF THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 THROUGH the New Year I can see them from the distant 
 lands and far 
 Moving Westward, Westward, Westward, where the fertile 
 prairies are ; 
 See them, many a man and woman, like the Pilgrim sires of old. 
 Come to bid the soil be broken, come to bid the fields be gold; 
 In the valleys that were silent come the droves and flocks to browse, 
 Sheep are bleating from the hillsides and I hear the low of cows ; 
 And the lights like stars are twinkling, where the bison used to roam ; 
 Twinkling lights from many a cabin where the settler finds him 
 Home. 
 
 Through the New Year I can see them — see the plowman guide 
 
 his share. 
 See the seed of Spring flung broadcast and the fields grown green 
 
 and fair, 
 I can see the glow of forges, hear the hum of mill and mill 
 And the chimes outrung of Labor that will nevermore be still. 
 See the granaries uprearing of the harvest, yours or mine, 
 Like the sentinels of Ceres set to mark her far-flung line. 
 And the song of share and sickle, of the seedtime and the Fall 
 Is the song the New Year brings me — is the West's Processional. 
 
 And the New Year brings me gladness that the West is fair and 
 
 free. 
 With the doors of Hope swung open bidding enter you and me; 
 That its acred plains are boundless, that its arch of sky is blue. 
 That its heart is beating joyous, that the soul of it is true ; 
 That the men of it are brothers, that the creed of it is Toil, 
 That the seal of it is Honor — Honor in the fruits of soil. 
 That the song of it is Promise, echoed gladly through and through 
 All its fields and hills and valleys and resung by me and you. 
 
A RURAL MORALIST. 
 
 HOD Graham says we ain't got no more idee 
 Of th' way that th' country is run 
 Than nothin' at all, and th' whole thing '11 fall 
 Into wreck if there ain't somethin' done ; 
 If we just had to-day men like Webster and Clay — 
 
 But there ain't no such statesmen as these; 
 So dishonesty's rife in political life — 
 
 (And he weighed his hand in with the cheese.) 
 
 Hod says nobody knows where th' tax money goes 
 
 An' the funds of th' people an' sich ; 
 An' what can we expect from th' men we elect 
 
 An' th' all-around craze to git rich ; 
 So as fur as he knows from th' way th' world goes 
 
 There ain't no relief he can see ; 
 Till we all learn ag'in to declare war on sin, 
 
 (And he weighed in the scoop with the tea.) 
 
 Hod says morals is slack an' we ought to go back 
 
 To th' days of our earliest youth, 
 When a feller was taught to do just as he ought 
 
 An' th' wasn't no discount on truth ; 
 When a man's word was good an' he did as he should 
 
 An' the feller who served Uncle Sam 
 Worked as hard as though he worked for you or for me, 
 
 (And he weighed in his knife with the ham.) 
 
 An' Hod says that th' more he runs grocery store 
 
 An' the more that he studies an' reads, 
 Th' more he's afraid we are on th' down grade, 
 
 With our morals all grown up to weeds ; 
 An' th' one thing to do is for me an' for you 
 
 An' for every respectable soul. 
 To stick to th' ways of th' old-fashioned days, 
 
 (So he weighed himself in with the coal.) 
 

 DON'T. 
 
 A HUNDRED times a day I hear 
 His mother say: "Don't do that, dear!" 
 From early morn till dusk 'tis all 
 "Don't do that, dear!" I hear her call 
 From the back porch and front and side 
 As though some evil would betide 
 Unless she drummed it in his ear: 
 "Don't do that, dear ! Don't do that, dear !" 
 
 If he goes out and slams the door; 
 "Don't do that, dear !" and if the floor 
 Is newly scrubbed and he comes near; 
 "Don't do that, dear!" is all I hear. 
 If he comes romping down the stairs; 
 "Don't do that, dear !" and if he wears 
 No coat, but hangs it somewhere near. 
 She sees and says : "Don't do that, dear !" 
 
 If he goes shmning up a tree : 
 
 "Don't do that, dear !" If he should be 
 
 Astride a roof I know I'll hear 
 
 Her call to him: "Don't do that, dear!" 
 
 His life is all "Don't this," "Don't that," 
 
 "Don't loose the dog," "Don't chase the cat," 
 
 "Don't go," "Don't stay," "Don't there," "Don't here," 
 
 "Don't do that, dear !" "Don't do that, dear !'' 
 
 Sometimes he seems to me as still 
 
 As any mouse until a shrill 
 
 "Don't do that, dear!" falls on the air 
 
 And drives him swift away from there. 
 
 So when he finds another spot : 
 
 "Don't do that, dear!" and he says: "What?" 
 
 And she replies and cannot say — 
 
 But— "Well, don't do it, anyway!" 
 
AN UNUSUAL CHUM. 
 
 HENRY BLAKE'S father goes fishing with him, 
 And goes in the creek so's to teach him to swim ; 
 He talks to him just like they're awful close chums 
 And sometimes at night he helps Henry do sums; 
 And once he showed Henry how he used to make 
 A basket by whittling a peach stone and take 
 The bark off of willows for whistles although 
 He hadn't made one since a long time ago. 
 
 Henry Blake's father is just like his chum, 
 And when he goes fishing he lets Henry come; 
 He fixes two seats on the bank of the brook 
 And shows Henry how to put frogs on his hook; 
 And sometimes he laughs in the jolliest way 
 At some little thing that he hears Henry say, 
 And dips up a drink in his hat like you do 
 When only just boys go a-fishing with you. 
 
 Henry Blake's father will take him and stay 
 Somewhere in the woods for a half holiday 
 And wear his old clothes and bring home a big sack 
 Of hick'ries and walnuts to help Henry crack; 
 And sit on a dead log somewhere in the shade 
 To eat big sandwiches his mother has made ; 
 And Henry Blake's father, he don't seem as though 
 He's more than his uncle, he likes Henry so! 
 
YOUTH. 
 
 DON'T you recall when apples grew, 
 Oh, twice as big as now? 
 When fish, however they were few, 
 Were monster ones somehow? 
 When Gaines's mill-dam made a roar 
 
 As though the water hurled 
 Were gathered in a mighty store 
 From all the wide, wide world? 
 
 Don't you remember when the trees, 
 
 The oak trees and the beech, 
 Were lost in clouds on days like these 
 
 And eyes could hardly reach 
 Their waving tops? When noonday skies 
 
 Were oh, such deeper blue? 
 When Jack's great bean stalk in our eyes 
 
 Just grew and grew and grew? 
 
 And there were bells, so more than fine, 
 
 Of blue and white and red. 
 Upon the morning glory vine 
 
 That climbed up on the shed. 
 To be a wonder and delight. 
 
 So fresh and full of dew. 
 To bud and open in a night — 
 
 I see them now — don't you? 
 
 Don't you remember when the caves 
 
 Were thick and full of gloom. 
 Where captive maidens, once, like slaves, 
 
 Were chained in some damp room? 
 When twilight rustling in the brush 
 
 Was some fierce beast? A cow 
 It was, but cows at dusk are — Hush! 
 
 I think I hear one now. 
 
YOUTH. 
 
 Come, take a little trip with me, 
 
 Forget the things that fret, 
 For you may close your eyes and see 
 
 Some things that I forget. 
 Why, I've seen Bluebeard's hidden room 
 
 And Cinderella's shoe! 
 And I have seen where violets bloom — 
 
 So blue ! So blue ! So blue ! 
 
LITTLE GIRL WITH THE CURLS. 
 
 LITTLE girl with the curls, and the passionless eyes, 
 With your heart that is pure as the cool springs that rise 
 In the green of the hills, and with cheeks that are fair 
 And unsoiled of the world as the snowflake in air. 
 With your dreams that are sweet and that always come true, 
 Little girl with the curls, here's a blessing for you. 
 
 Little girl with the curls and with grace that is sweet 
 From the toss of your head to your fast flying feet, 
 With the light in your eyes that is brimming with truth 
 And the straightforward gaze that's the glory of youth, 
 With your smiles that are glad and your days that are fair, 
 Here's a blessing as rich as the gold of your hair. 
 
 Little girl with the curls and the kisses as light 
 As the butterfly's kiss of the flower in its flight, 
 With your heart all atune to the beauties you see. 
 With the song of your days sweet as music can be, 
 With your peace like the pardon of heaven unfurls. 
 Here's a blessing for you, little girl with the curls. 
 
 And Oh, be the days of thy trial as far 
 
 From the deeps of the sea as the snowy peaks are! 
 
 And Oh, be thy heart in its singing atune. 
 
 Thy skies be but blue with the splendors of June. 
 
 So bless thee and keep thee and spare thee, — with pearls 
 
 Be thy days strung through life, little girl with the curls. 
 
LULLABY. 
 
 SLEEPY little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming 
 With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow, 
 Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming 
 Hear their rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go; 
 Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing 
 In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, 
 Creep, creep, creep! 
 Time to go to sleep ! 
 Baby playing 'possum with his big, brown eyes ! 
 
 Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little chatter 
 
 Sings his prattling little, rattling little, tattling little tune, 
 
 Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter 
 
 As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon ; 
 
 Beaming little, gleaming little fire flies go dreaming 
 
 To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies. 
 
 Creep, creep, creep! 
 
 Time to go to sleep ! 
 Baby playing 'possum with his big, brown eyes ! 
 
 Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver 
 
 In the mushy little, rushy little, reedy, weedy bogs, 
 
 Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river 
 
 In the joking little, croaking little cadence of the frogs. 
 
 Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming 
 
 Where the clover heads like fairy little night caps rise. 
 
 Creep, creep, creep! 
 
 Time to go to sleep ! 
 Baby playing 'possum with his big, brown eyes! 
 

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