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A LITTLE 
 
 BOOK OF TRIBUNE VERSE 
 
 A NUMBER OF HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED 
 POEMS, GRAVE AND GAY 
 
 BY 
 
 Eugene Field 
 
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 collected and edited by 
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 PUBLISHERS 
 
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 THE LIBRARY OF 
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 'UL. 2 1901 
 
 Cqpyhight entry 
 
 CLASS ^XXe. N<». 
 
 COPY 8. 
 
 Op This Large Paper Edition, only Seven Hundred and Fiftt 
 Copies Have Been Issued, op Whioh This is 
 
 W^7fl/(j/^ 
 
 ••• ♦-• 
 
 • • • !• 
 
 •-» •"• 
 
 COPYRiaHT, 1901 
 BY 
 
 Tandy, Wheeler & Co, 
 
Ifntrobuction. 
 
Ilntrobuction^ 
 
 It is the purpose of this volume to present to 
 the admirers of Eugene Field a collection of poems 
 from a store wherein many of his richest gems of 
 wit, humor and pathos have been buried for twenty 
 years and forgotten, save by a few of those who 
 were his intimate associates during his career in 
 Denver. 
 
 These poems appeared at intervals from Au- 
 gust, 1 88 1, to August, 1883, in the columns of The 
 Denver Tribune, of which paper Field was then 
 associate editor. Their circulation in that journal 
 was restricted and provincial and, being published 
 anonymously, the knowledge of their authorship 
 was confined to the few readers who were familiar 
 with the quaint style and inimitable humor of the 
 author. A number of these verses were copied into 
 other journals, and so attained a wider circula- 
 tion. But, whether honored by his contemporaries 
 
or not, their creation was but ephemeral, for they 
 have never before been collected and printed in ac- 
 cessible and enduring form. 
 
 Considering the anonymity of these poems it is 
 interesting to read in "The Love Affairs of a Biblio- 
 maniac" : "When a song is printed it is printed in 
 small type, and the name of him who wrote it is 
 appended thereunto in big type. If the song be 
 meritorious it goes to the corners of the earth 
 through the medium of the art preservative of arts, 
 but the longer and the farther it travels the bigger 
 does the type of the song become and the smaller 
 becomes the type wherein the author's name is set. 
 
 "Then, finally, some inconsiderate hand, weild- 
 ing the pen or shears, blots out or snips off the poet's 
 name, and henceforth the song is anonymous. A 
 great iconoclast — a royal old iconoclast — is Time: 
 but he hath no terrors for those precious things 
 which are embalmed in words, and the only fellow 
 that shall surely escape him till the crack of doom 
 is he whom men know by the name of Anonymous !" 
 
 Surely Field was an exception to his own state- 
 ments, for while his poems are being printed in ever 
 increasing sizes of type, his name grows in propor- 
 tion, a fact that proves that his admirers love the 
 poet as much as the poetry. 
 
 These poems cover the same wide range as his 
 after life's work and embrace a number of subjects 
 which subsequently became the sources of his 
 greater fame. Four of them — "Christmas Treas- 
 urers," "Jim's Kids," "Pike's Peak Philosophic 
 Burro" and "The Jaffa and Jerusalem R. R." — 
 were revised by Field himself and, having been 
 
published in his previous books, have helped to make 
 him famous. But they have never before been re- 
 published in the form in which they first came from 
 their author's brain. It is believed that students 
 and lovers of Field will find sufficient interest in 
 comparing the different versions to need no excuse 
 for the slight repetition. 
 
 The poems are here arranged more or less ac- 
 cording to their subject matter and the dates given 
 are the dates of The Denver Tribune, in which they 
 appeared. Field conducted a department on the 
 editorial page of the paper, which was known among 
 his associates as "The Nonpariel Column" from the 
 fact that it was printed from nonpariel type. At 
 first this column bore no heading, but later it was 
 headed "Odd Gossip." Most of his poems appeared 
 in this column, though some of them were found in 
 other departments of the paper. It is believed that 
 this collection contains all the verses contributed by 
 him to the Tribune with the possible exception of 
 a few from the authenticity of which it was found 
 impossible to remove all doubt, a few of purely per- 
 sonal interest and one or two which have appeared 
 in other books. In publishing these verses in book 
 form it has been thought best to correct in the text 
 a few errors and transpositions which were evidently 
 due to the printer. 
 
 A number of the poems appeared in the paper 
 over the signatures of well known Denver men, a 
 form of humor of which Field was very fond and 
 which he afterwards practiced in Chicago. To one 
 who was familiar with the personality of these men 
 the poems have a peculiar zest, but even deprived 
 
of this they can still well afford to stand upon their 
 own merits. Only one of them — "Christmas Treas- 
 ures" — appeared over his own name. 
 
 During the time Field was in Denver he was 
 associated with O. H. Rothacker and F. J. V. Skiff, 
 forming a trio which was well known for its jour- 
 nalistic ability and love of healthy fun. These men 
 attracted within their circle the people of culture 
 and those who controlled the commercial and politi- 
 cal destinies of Colorado. In a more restricted 
 sense they found their local associates among the 
 common masses of the city people. Among the 
 lowly, as well as those of proud estate. Field num- 
 bered his hosts of friends. The latter had his sym- 
 pathies and his charities. From the children and 
 from the poor and distressed he drew the lessons 
 and the scenes that gave pathos to his verse. 
 Against the men of wealth and station he directed 
 the keen edged shafts of his humor and sarcastic 
 wit. A large part of his literary work in Denver 
 was inspired by his association with these classes 
 and the peculiar social conditions then existing. It 
 is equally true that under influences differing from 
 those which inspired his earlier efforts, his work in 
 Denver, his writings in prose, no less than those in 
 verse, laid the solid foundation and formed the most 
 essential part in building the great reputation which 
 followed him through the remainder of his life. 
 
 One of the best known features of his early 
 work was the "Tribune Primer," which, in its serial 
 publication, drew more than casual attention. This 
 was his first publication in book or pamphlet form. 
 The small edition, being quickly exhausted, is now 
 
the rarest American first edition. The poems, 
 which are here presented, are related to the Primer 
 articles, for their appearance in the columns of the 
 Tribune from October, 1881, to the Spring of 1882, 
 was coincident, and much that is of a personal nat- 
 ure or having reference to occurrences or affairs 
 had the same source of inspiration. 
 
 The personal career and work of Eugene Field, 
 the journalist, add many unknown qualities to the 
 character of the man. He was a man of hard work 
 and close application, capable of stupendous labor 
 and equal to the complicated details of all depart- 
 ments of a daily newspaper. In the midst of such 
 serious practical duties, so vexatious and irksome to 
 the average newspaper man, he was at all times 
 evenly balanced, good-natured, patient, kind, yet al- 
 ways alert for occasion with sharpened wit and 
 brimming with humor. His special column in the 
 paper was almost always in prose. His poems were 
 occasional. He was not a poetic machine, nor did 
 he think at all times in verse or rhyme, though he 
 did not always wait for moods or invoke the muses 
 to inspire his lyric themes. Whether at his desk, 
 in contact with the crowd upon the street or in con- 
 vivial intercourse with his intimate friends, there 
 was little in his manner or speech to denote either 
 the man of levity or one absorbed in serious thought. 
 The sparkling wit which illumined his work was the 
 spontaneous overflowing of a vigorous mind and a 
 merry heart. A lover of fun, it was his greatest 
 delight to make fun for others, though often at their 
 own expense. If he amused the people of his com- 
 munity he was content. To please the children was 
 his greatest delight. He knew the value of money 
 
only in its immediate uses and he was equally grati- 
 * fied if his last dollar ministered to his own desires 
 
 or the needs of others. 
 
 His talent was the curious blending of the liter- 
 ary and journalistic instinct, but the former was 
 manifestly in the ascendant. Many of his poems, 
 especially those written under the influence of his 
 newspaper environments in Denver, reflect the genu- 
 ine nature of the man as he appeared in his every- 
 day communion with the people. Professionally, 
 his peculiar characteristic was his extraordinary 
 versatility. Familiar with every phase of news- 
 paper work in his time, the enormous quantity of 
 copy that he would upon occasion furnish the 
 printer, did not affect its quality to disadvantage. 
 
 Joseph G. Brown. 
 Denver, March 28th, igoi. 
 
 10 
 
Contents. 
 
Content0» 
 
 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 JoHNNY^s Team 21 
 
 The Truant 23 
 
 We Runned Away 24 
 
 The Foundling 25 
 
 Ba-by Fay Fer-ny 26 
 
 Baby-Land 28 
 
 A Trip to Toyland 29 
 
 Wee Babies 31 
 
 Baby Bobby 32 
 
 Peek-a-Boo 33 
 
 Baby Brother 34 
 
 A Funny Little Boy 35 
 
 Last Yearns Doll 36 
 
 Dolls at School 37 
 
 A Word to Rover 38 
 
 The Old Cow 39 
 
 How the Sheep Found Bo-Peep 40 
 
 Clover-Top and Thistle-Down 41 
 
 Outside My Window 42 
 
 The Wren's Nest 43 
 
 13 
 
Aunt Eleanor^s Diamonds 45 
 
 The Twins 46 
 
 Out Doqr and In 47 
 
 Mary and Martha 48 
 
 Two Little Bears 49 
 
 Hush-a-By Baby 50 
 
 Baby and 1 51 
 
 Colic 53 
 
 A Hushaby Song 54 
 
 A IvUllaby 56 
 
 Baby's Cold 57 
 
 Little Gold Head 58 
 
 Taking Care of Kitty 59 
 
 The Awful Fate of Little Jim 60 
 
 Ellen May 62 
 
 Apple Blossoms 64 
 
 The Swimming Boy 65 
 
 The Awful Bugaboo 66 
 
 The Mountain Lion 6y 
 
 The Good Boy and the Bad 68 
 
 A Christmas Wish 69 
 
 My Lady 71 
 
 Mamma's Valentine 73 
 
 Little Flo 74 
 
 The Prayer 76 
 
 Jim's Kids , "jy 
 
 The Christmas Treasures 80 
 
 POEMS OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 The Advertiser 85 
 
 Be Not Forgetful 87 
 
 The Angel's Visit 88 
 
 14 
 
The Twin Followers 89 
 
 Gems for the Printer 90 
 
 Discontent 92 
 
 The Poet's Theme 93 
 
 Paradise Regained 95 
 
 The Pious Banker 96 
 
 The Revival 97 
 
 Living and Dying . . f 99 
 
 Electing Fate loi 
 
 Romance of the Cucumber 103 
 
 Her Essay 104 
 
 Departed Friends 105 
 
 The Compliment 106 
 
 The Cruel Father 107 
 
 The Piazza Tragedy 108 
 
 The Front Gate no 
 
 The Recreant 112 
 
 Love's Request 113 
 
 The Dimple 114 
 
 A Siren Sold 116 
 
 As TO Eyes 118 
 
 The April Fool 119 
 
 The Two Meetings 121 
 
 Pleasures of Memory 123 
 
 Sympathy 124 
 
 So Lonely 125 
 
 A Golden Hair 126 
 
 Only a Woman's Hair 127 
 
 The Fiddler 128 
 
 To the May Fly of the Angler 129 
 
 To Mrs. Lydia E. Pinkham 130 
 
 The Fisherman 131 
 
 Rapture 133 
 
 15 
 
Love 134 
 
 Paradise 135 
 
 Memories 136 
 
 True Love 137 
 
 St. Valentine's Day 138 
 
 A Valentine 1 39 
 
 The Valentine 140 
 
 A New Year Idyl 141 
 
 January ist, 1883 143 
 
 New Year's Resolutions 145 
 
 Easter 146 
 
 An Easter Sermon 147 
 
 Spring 149 
 
 May 150 
 
 Thanksgiving, 1881 151 
 
 The Approach of Thanksgiving 152 
 
 A Glorious Fourth 153 
 
 O Tempora; a Fourth of July Reflection. 155 
 
 The Fifth of July 157 
 
 The Warrior 158 
 
 The Survivor 1 59 
 
 The Militiaman 161 
 
 The Kansas Veteran 162 
 
 WESTERN VERSE. 
 
 Formerly of Kansas 167 
 
 The Pioneer 169 
 
 Atmospheric Deception 171 
 
 A Colorado Sand Storm 172 
 
 The Drouth 174 
 
 Winter in Colorado 176 
 
 December, 1881 177 
 
 16 
 
To AN Undershirt 178 
 
 A Wild West Protest 1 79 
 
 Utah 180 
 
 WuN Lung and Gin Sling 182 
 
 The Colorado Springs Belle 184 
 
 A Kansas City Echo 186 
 
 Cupid at Manitou 188 
 
 The Brown Tragedy 189 
 
 The Cactus 190 
 
 The Two Sleepers 192 
 
 Death of the Cow-Boy 193 
 
 Pike's Peak Philosophic Burro 195 
 
 The Mustang 196 
 
 To Emma Abbott 198 
 
 Emma Abbott's Baby 200 
 
 Tabor and Abbott 201 
 
 Emma Abbott's Kiss 202 
 
 The Smile and the Bird 203 
 
 Emma Abbott 204 
 
 Joseph Wilson 205 
 
 Return of the Editors 206 
 
 A Mexican Ballad 208 
 
 A Spanish Fandango 210 
 
 The Denver Mariner 212 
 
 The Denver Life Boat 213 
 
 Morning 216 
 
 Maud Muller 217 
 
 PARODIES, ETC. 
 
 The Coventry Legend 221 
 
 Really Too Utterly-Quite 223 
 
 We Are Seven 224 
 
 17 
 
In Re Spring 225 
 
 I Cannot Sing the Old Songs 226 
 
 The Same Dear Hand 227 
 
 Winter Joys 228 
 
 Lost Chords 229 
 
 Arabi Bey 231 
 
 Ode to the Passions 233 
 
 Ode to Maecenas 235 
 
 The Fate of Tomato Kahn 237 
 
 The Jaffa and Jerusalem R. R 239 
 
 The Jaffa and Jerusalem R. R. Troubles . . 241 
 
 A Pastoral 243 
 
 Political Rhymes 246 
 
 Random Verse 248 
 
 The Punster Goes Buggy Riding • -251 
 
 An Orthographical Fancy 252 
 
 A Nautical Lover 253 
 
 Va. and Geo 254 
 
 The Poet Lovers 255 
 
 18 
 
poems of Cbflbboob. 
 
Ipoeme of (tbil£)boob* 
 
 JOHNNY'S TEAM. 
 
 I think of all the galloping, 
 The trotting, fast and hard, 
 
 That I have seen in town or park, 
 On track or boulevard, 
 
 No horses ever pawed the air. 
 Or plunged about and ran. 
 
 Taking the bit between their teeth, 
 As those of Johnny's can. 
 
 What color are they? sorrel? roan? 
 
 Chestnut, or dapple grey? 
 Excuse me, but 'tis difficult 
 
 To know just what to say. 
 
 I'm not enough a horseman to 
 Have learned their phrases yet; 
 
 But one, I think, is yellow blonde, 
 The other a brunette. 
 
 21 
 
Where is their stable ? do they have 
 
 A manger and a stall? 
 One has his room with Johnny, one 
 
 Rooms just across the hall. 
 
 They're not such very patient steeds, 
 
 For both are apt to cry; 
 I heard them, too, today at lunch, 
 
 Quarrel about their pie. 
 
 But still, they're very spirited, 
 To neigh and prance and run. 
 
 And make for Johnny, when he drives. 
 Plenty of work and fun. 
 
 October i6th, 1881. 
 
 22 
 
THE TRUANT. 
 
 It was a bright and genial day, 
 
 When, tempted by the open gate 
 
 And by a little truant mate. 
 Our Baby Willie ran away; 
 And prompted by each varying fear. 
 
 Impelled by agonized alarm 
 
 That he, perchance, might come to harm, 
 We hunted for him far and near. 
 
 Yet all in vain his baby name 
 
 We called and called with no reply. 
 Till with the sunset in the sky. 
 
 Back to his home the baby came. 
 
 Poor, tired child, how glad he crept 
 Into his mother's arms and said, 
 "I'm glad I'm home, le's do to bed!" 
 
 And oh, how peacefully he slept. 
 
 "Glad I am home!" It is the cry 
 That many a weary wanderer gives, 
 When tired of the life he lives 
 
 He turns him to the wall to die. 
 
 And as I to my joyous breast 
 
 Took back my truant child that day. 
 So will the arms that live for aye 
 
 Receive each truant soul to rest. 
 
 (Attributed to) Major Bowels. 
 
 December 8th, 1881. 
 
 23 
 
WE RUNNED AWAY. 
 
 Two little rascally darlings they stood, 
 Hand clasped in hand and eyes full of glee, 
 
 Stock still in the midst of the crowded street. 
 Naughty as ever children could be. 
 
 Horses to right of them, horses to left. 
 Men hurrying breathless to and fro. 
 
 Nobody stopping to wonder at them. 
 Nobody there with a right to know. 
 
 Oh, what a chance for a full truant joy! 
 
 Earth holds no other equal delight. 
 Hark! it is over, a shriek fills the air, 
 
 A woman's face flashes, pallid white. 
 
 "O Babies! whose are you? How came you here?'* 
 The busy street halts aghast at bay; 
 
 Serene smile the infants, as heavenly clear 
 
 They both speak together: "We runned away!" 
 
 The crowd and the bustle swayed on again. 
 The babies are safe and had lost their fun ; 
 
 And we, who saw, felt a secret pain. 
 
 Half envy, of what the babies had done. 
 
 And said in our hearts, alack ! if we tell 
 
 The truth, and the whole truth, we must say, 
 
 We never get now so good a time 
 
 As we used to have when "we runned away." 
 
 December Bjih, 1882. 
 
 24 
 
THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 A little child upon the ground, 
 
 Chilled by the storm and crying sore, 
 With humble raiment covered o'er. 
 
 One blustering winter's morn was found. 
 
 None knew from whence or how he came, 
 That little stranger all forlorn, 
 Deserted on that cruel morn, 
 
 None knew the little foundling's name. 
 
 Kind people heard the piteous cry, 
 
 Perhaps 'twas God that ope'd their ears. 
 They dried the little suff'rers tears. 
 
 And wrapped his limbs in garments dry. 
 
 Withal he dies, and now forgot. 
 
 He sleeps within the churchyard green. 
 No name, no sign has e'er been seen 
 
 Upon the stone that marks the spot. 
 
 But wild flowers nestled all around, 
 The birds sing sweetly overhead. 
 The little children love to spread 
 
 Their tributes o'er the tiny mound. 
 
 If there be aught of heavenly love, 
 O what a mockery is fame, 
 A little soul without a name 
 
 May find a biding place above. 
 
 February 20th, 1882. 
 
 25 
 
BA-BY FAY FER-NY. 
 
 What is this with blue 
 Lit-tle shoes, so new, 
 Cun-ning lit-tle feet. 
 Trot-ting down the street, 
 What will Ma-ma say? 
 Baby 's run a- way, 
 
 Ba-by Fay Fer-ny. 
 
 Calls a boy, "Hal-lo! 
 See here, lit-tle pop-pet show. 
 Come with me!" "No, no, 
 Ba-by' s do-in' do 
 Ba-by's own self!" Fast 
 Round the corner passed 
 Ba-by Fay Fer-ny. 
 
 Stops a great big man, 
 Hur-ry-ing all he can, 
 "Here! what's this! my! 
 Drop-ped down from the sky? 
 Some-bod-ys to blame. 
 Baby, what 's your name?" 
 "Ba-by Fay Fer-ny." 
 
 26 
 
"Where you go-ing? say!" 
 
 "Day-day." "What's that, hey? 
 
 See the Ba-by fidg-et! 
 
 What d'you want, you midg-et?" 
 
 "Piece of butter-bed, 
 
 Sugy on it, 'lasses on it, 
 
 Jam on it," said 
 
 Ba-by Fay Fer-ny. 
 
 People pause to see, 
 Ladies, one, two, three, 
 A po-lice-man, too; 
 But no one that knew 
 Whence the ba-by came; 
 "What's your pa-pa's name?" 
 "Pa-pa Fay Fer-ny." 
 
 Comes a breath-less maid, 
 "Oh, dear! I'm afraid 
 Ba-by' s lost and gone, 
 Ba-by Fer-gu-son! 
 No, there, down the street ! 
 O, you natighty, sweet 
 Ba-by Fay Fer-ny!" 
 
 September i8th, 1881. 
 
BABY-LAND. 
 
 How many miles to Baby-land? 
 Any one can tell, 
 
 Up one flight, 
 
 To your right, 
 Please to ring the bell. 
 
 What can you see in Baby-land? 
 Little folks in white; 
 
 Downy heads. 
 
 Cradle beds. 
 Faces pure and bright. 
 
 What do they do in Baby-land? 
 Dream and wake and play; 
 Laugh and crow. 
 Shout and grow, 
 Jolly times have they. 
 
 What do they say in Baby-land? 
 Why, the oddest things ; 
 Might as well 
 Try to tell 
 What the birdie sings. 
 
 Who is Queen of Baby-land? 
 Mother, kind and sweet; 
 
 And her love 
 
 Born above. 
 Guides the little feet. 
 
 March ipth, 1882. 
 
 28 
 
A TRIP TO TOY-LAND. 
 
 And how do you get to Toy-land? 
 To all little people the joy-land? 
 
 Just follow your nose 
 
 And go on tip-toes, 
 It's only a minute to Toy-land. 
 
 And oh! but it's gay in Toy-land, 
 This bright, merry, girl-and-boy-land, 
 
 And woolly dogs white 
 
 That never will bite 
 You'll meet on the highways in Toy-land. 
 
 Society's fine, in Toy-land, 
 
 The dollies all think it a joy-land, 
 
 And folks in the ark 
 
 Stay out after dark 
 And tin soldiers regulate Toy-land. 
 
 There's fun all the year, in Toy-land, 
 To sorrow 'twas ever a coy-land; 
 
 And steamers are run. 
 
 And steam cars, for fun. 
 They're wound up with keys down in Toy-land. 
 
Bold jumping- jacks thrive in Toy-land; 
 Fine castles adorn this joy-land; 
 
 And bright are the dreams 
 
 And sunny the beams 
 That gladden the faces in Toy-land. 
 
 How long do you live in Toy-land? 
 This bright, merry, girl-and-boy-land ? 
 
 A few days, at best, 
 
 We stay as a guest. 
 Then good-bye, forever, to Toy-land! 
 
 30 
 
WEE BABIES. 
 
 Babies short and babies tall, 
 Babies big and babies small, 
 Blue-eyed babies, babies fair. 
 Brown-eyed babies with lots of hair, 
 Babies so tiny they can't sit up, 
 Babies that drink from a silver cup. 
 Babies that coo and babies that creep, 
 Babies that only can eat and sleep. 
 Babies that laugh and babies that talk, 
 Babies quite big enough to walk, 
 Dimpled fingers and dimpled feet. 
 What in the world is half so sweet 
 As babies that jump, laugh, cry and crawl. 
 Eat, sleep, talk, walk, creep, coo and all 
 Wee Babies? 
 
 (Attributed to) Gov. F. W. Pitkin. 
 
 November 28th, 1882. 
 
 31 
 
BABY BOBBY. 
 
 I know a house so full of noise, 
 
 You'd think a regiment of boys, 
 
 From early morn till close of day. 
 
 Were busy with their romping play. 
 
 And yet, I'm ready to declare. 
 
 There is but one small youngster there. 
 
 A little, golden headed chap, 
 
 Who used to think his mother's lap 
 
 The nicest place that e'er could be 
 
 Until he grew so big that he 
 
 Was 'most a man, and learned what fun 
 
 It is to shout, and jump and run. 
 
 This restless, noisy little elf 
 
 Has learned, alas! to think himself 
 
 Too old in mother's arms to sleep ; 
 
 Yet his blue eyes he cannot keep 
 
 From hiding 'neath their lids so white 
 
 And, climbing on the sofa's height. 
 
 He snuggles down, forgets his play 
 
 And into dreamland sails away; 
 
 And then it is that mamma knows 
 
 Why the whole house so silent grows. 
 
 October isth, 1881. 
 
 32 
 
PEEK-A-BOO. 
 
 Now, where' s the baby gone? 
 
 All gone away, 
 Underneath the handkerchief, 
 
 Sweet little May. 
 Baby's eyes are big and blue. 
 Almost I see them through. 
 While we're playing peek-a-boo, 
 
 May and I. 
 
 Something stirs the corner white 
 Out creep the ringlets bright! 
 Baby's lips of rosebud hue 
 Bubble o'er with laughter, too. 
 While we're playing peek-a-boo. 
 May and I. 
 
 October i6th, 1881. 
 
 33 
 
BABY BROTHER. 
 
 See my baby brother, 
 Sitting in mamma's lap; 
 
 He's just getting ready 
 To take a little nap. 
 
 But before in dreamland 
 My baby brother goes, 
 
 I want to count his fingers 
 And see his chubby toes. 
 
 Mamma, can't you make him 
 Just talk and laugh again, 
 
 So we can find the dimple 
 In his sweet cheeks and chin? 
 
 Now he talks a little, 
 
 And laughs — come quick and see 
 My baby brother's dimples. 
 
 As cunning as can be! 
 
 His eyes shine like diamonds 
 When he looks up so glad, 
 
 O, he's the dearest brother 
 A sister ever had. 
 
 The angels love our baby. 
 
 He is so very fair; 
 And so they came and kissed him 
 
 And left the dimples there. 
 
 January 2^th, 1882. 
 
 34 
 
A FUNNY LITTLE BOY. 
 
 A funny little chin, 
 
 A funny little nose, 
 A funny little grin, 
 
 Ten funny little toes. 
 Two funny little eyes. 
 
 And funny little hands, 
 How funnily he tries 
 
 To give his wee commands. 
 
 A funny little chat 
 
 With funny little bees, 
 A funny little cat 
 
 And funny toads and trees, 
 A funny little dress, 
 
 A funny laugh of joy, 
 May heaven ever bless 
 
 My funny little boy. 
 
 A funny little sigh, 
 
 A funny little head. 
 That funnily will try 
 
 To miss the time for bed. 
 A funny little peep 
 
 From funny eyes that gleam, 
 A funny little sleep, 
 
 A funny little dream. 
 
 December 4th, 1881. 
 
 35 
 
LAST YEAR'S DOLL. 
 
 Fm only a last year's doll! 
 
 I thought I was lovely and fair — 
 But alas for the cheeks that were rosy, 
 
 Alas, for the once-flowing hair! 
 I'm sure that my back is broken, 
 
 For it hurts me when I rise ! 
 Oh, I'd cry for every sorrow, 
 
 But I've lost out both my eyes. 
 
 In comes my pretty mistress, 
 
 With my rival in her arms, 
 A fine young miss, most surely. 
 
 Arrayed in her borrowed charms! 
 My dress and my slippers, too, 
 
 But sadder, oh, sadder than all. 
 She's won the dear love I have lost, 
 
 For I'm only a last year's doll. 
 
 Oh, pity me, hearts that are tender, 
 
 I'm lonely and battered and bruised, 
 I'm tucked out of sight in the closet, 
 
 Forgotten, despised and abused! 
 I'm only a last year's doll, 
 
 Alone with my troubled heart, 
 Sweet mistress, still I love thee, 
 
 Inconstant though thou art. 
 
 February 12th, 1882. 
 
 36 
 
DOLLS AT SCHOOL. 
 
 Ding, dong, Dolly! School is in, 
 Hark! the lessons now begin; 
 Keep all the pupils there, 
 Dollies nice and neat and fair, 
 Fat and lean, short and tall, 
 In a row against the wall. 
 Lots of little teachers, too. 
 Come to show them what to do. 
 
 "Now, Miss Wax, turn out your toes. 
 Tell us how you spoiled your nose; 
 Miss Rag, pray, for once, sit straight, 
 How came you to be so late? 
 Do, Miss China, sit down, dear; 
 Papa dolls, don't act so queer." 
 One, when squeezed, could say, "Mam-ma!" 
 Smartest in the class by far. 
 
 Some will graduate next fall. 
 Others are almost too small. 
 Does your dolly ever go? 
 Terms are very cheap, you know, 
 Better take her there at once. 
 Who would want a doll a dunce? 
 "Time is up" ! the teachers shout, 
 Ding, dong, dolly! school is out. 
 
 September 2^th, 1881. 
 
 37 
 
A WORD TO ROVER. 
 
 ''Now Rover, do you hear me, sir? 
 
 I am ashamed of you; 
 I want you just to understand 
 
 Such conduct will not do. 
 
 "I saw you bark and prance about 
 
 At that poor little kit 
 When Nannie brought a little milk, 
 
 And she was drinking it. 
 
 ''You drove the cunning little thing, 
 
 So white and soft as silk. 
 Way up into the apple tree, 
 
 Then you drank up the milk. 
 
 "You acted like a coward, sir! 
 
 What would you think if I, 
 A great big boy, should tease and make 
 
 My little sister cry? 
 
 "Now I shall give to pussy cat 
 
 Your supper, by and by, 
 And if you do the like again 
 
 I'll know the reason wh}^" 
 
 February ipth, 1882. 
 
 38 
 
THE OLD COW. 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle, a bell I hear, 
 
 Ringing softly and drawing near, 
 
 'Tis the gentle cow returning home 
 
 From the pasture lands where she likes to roam, 
 
 Where she feeds on the grasses, fresh and sweet, 
 And drinks from the pond where the streamlets meet 
 And strolls at noon under shady trees. 
 Catching a cooler breath in the breeze. 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle ! her bell rings out. 
 
 While all day long she wanders about ; 
 
 But when the sun is low in the west. 
 
 She is glad to come back to the barn and rest 
 
 September lyth, 1882, 
 
 39 
 
HOW THE SHEEP FOUND BO-PEEP. 
 
 Ivittle Bo-peep awoke from her sleep, 
 Her eyes opened wide and wider, 
 
 For she found herself seated on the grass 
 With an old sheep standing beside her. 
 
 
 Little Bo-peep," said the good, old sheep. 
 How glad I am we've found you! 
 "Here we are — rams and sheep and lambs — 
 "All flocking up around you." 
 
 "You blessed sheep," said little Bo-peep, 
 "I've been worried to death about you." 
 
 "We've been searching for you," said the good old 
 sheep, 
 "We wouldn't go home without you." 
 
 October soth, 1881, 
 
 40 
 
CLOVER-TOP AND THISTLE-DOWN. 
 
 Clover-top sighed when the wind sang sweet, 
 
 Dropping the thistle-down at her feet; 
 
 '*Oh, dear me, never a day 
 
 Can I roam at my will, but ever, alway. 
 
 In this tiresome meadow must ever stay!" 
 
 Thistle-down floated, then sunk into rest. 
 Only to rise at the breezes' behest. 
 Hither and yon, on the wings of the air. 
 Tired little sprite, so dainty and fair, 
 "Oh, to just stop," she sighed, "anywhere." 
 
 Honey-bees swarmed to thistle and clover, 
 Sweet little toiling ones, over and over 
 A work-a-day song they cheerily sing: 
 "Look up, dear hearts, and what the days bring, 
 Bless God for it all — yes — everything!" 
 
 October i6th, 1881. 
 
 41 
 
OUTSIDE MY WINDOW. 
 
 Five little pigeons perched on the barn roof, 
 Watching the corn in the hen yard below; 
 
 Close around the white cat is hiding, 
 
 Hoping to catch them if down they should go. 
 
 All of a sudden I open my window. 
 
 With a whiz and a burr the pigeons are gone, 
 
 Pussy darts off round the house in a twinkling. 
 And the little white chickens eat up all the corn! 
 
 November 2jth, 1881. 
 
 42 
 
THE WREN'S NEST. 
 
 "Come, come, Mrs. Brownie,'' says young Mr. 
 Wren, 
 " 'Tis time to be building our nest; 
 For the winter has gone, the spring blossoms have 
 come. 
 And the trees in green beauty are dressed, 
 
 Dressed, dressed, 
 And the trees in green beauty are dressed." 
 
 *'0, where shall we build it, my dear little wife, 
 
 O where shall we build it?" says he — 
 "In the sweet woodbine bower, in the rose by the 
 door, 
 Or way up in the old apple tree. 
 
 Tree, tree — 
 Or way up in the old apple tree?" 
 
 "From woodbine," says Brownie, "My dear Mr. 
 Wren, 
 The Sparrows would drive us away. 
 In the rose by the door cats would eat us I'm sure, 
 Let us build in the apple tree, pray, 
 
 Pray, pray, 
 Let us build in the apple tree pray." 
 
 43 
 
So away up in the old apple tree, 
 
 Mr. Wren built Brownie's nest, 
 And 'tis there she sits now, in the white blossomed 
 bough, 
 With the baby birds under her breast. 
 
 Breast, breast. 
 With the baby birds under her breast. 
 
 September nth, 1881. 
 
 44 
 
AUNT ELEANOR'S DIAMONDS. 
 
 Aunt Eleanor wears such diamonds! 
 
 Shiny and gay and grand, 
 Some on her neck and some in her hair, 
 
 And some on her pretty hand. 
 One day I asked my mamma 
 
 Why she never wore them, too; 
 She laughed and said, as she kissed my eyes,, 
 
 "My jewels are here, bright blue. 
 
 "They laugh and dance and beam and smile. 
 
 So lovely all the day, 
 And never like Aunt Eleanor's go 
 
 In a velvet box to stay. 
 Hers are prisoned in bands of gold, 
 
 But mine are free as air. 
 Set in a bonny, dimpled face 
 
 And shadowed with shining hair !" 
 
 November 2'/th, 1881. 
 
 45 
 
THE TWINS. 
 
 Do you know our Peter and Polly, 
 So pretty, so plump and so jolly? 
 One with merry blue eyes and lips like a cherry, 
 And one with dark hair and cheeks brown as a berry ? 
 Then this is our Peter and Polly! 
 
 Do you know our Polly and Peter? 
 
 One a little and one a great eater. 
 One with jews-harp and whistle and hammer 
 Just making a houseful of clamor ; 
 
 And' one with her dollie, and stories, 
 
 And lapf ul of blue morning glories ? 
 
 Then this is our Polly and Peter ! 
 
 November 2yth, 1881. 
 
 46 
 
OUT DOOR AND IN. 
 
 Five little chickens, 
 
 Wasn't it fun, 
 When their mother called them. 
 
 To see them all run? 
 Out in the garden path 
 
 She scratched up a bug! 
 
 Fluffy-down caught it first 
 
 And gave a big tug. 
 Yellow-back and Top-knot 
 
 Each seized a wing; 
 Two ran with all their might 
 
 But never found a thing. 
 
 September nth, 1881. 
 
 47 
 
MARY AND MARTHA. 
 
 Mary and Martha were two girls 
 The only children Mamma had, 
 
 Martha was always very good, 
 But Mary was always very bad. 
 
 One morning as they were at play, 
 A tiger cat came crawling up, 
 
 And said, "Now, Martha, run away. 
 While I upon your sister sup." 
 
 Now Martha hurried homeward, while 
 A royal feast the tiger had, 
 
 "Aha," he murmured with a smile, 
 I'd eaten her, if she'd been bad !" 
 
 48 
 
TWO LITTLE BEARS. 
 
 Two little cub-bears, 
 Frisky and strong, 
 
 Hair brown and shaggy. 
 Claws sharp and long. 
 
 Two little cub-bears 
 In a child's breast. 
 
 Fawn-like and gentle. 
 Bringing us rest. 
 
 In the green grass rolling, 
 Snapping their jaws. 
 
 Now standing upright. 
 Licking their paws; 
 
 Why how can that be? 
 
 Not strange you stare, 
 W^here was there ever 
 
 A gentle bear? 
 
 Two little cub-bears 
 In a child's breast. 
 
 Called bear and forbear^ 
 They bring us rest. 
 
 August 28th, 188 1. 
 
 49 
 
HUSH-A-BY BABY. 
 
 Hush-a-by baby; as the birds fly, 
 
 We are off to the island of Lullaby- 
 
 I am the Captain, you are the crew, 
 
 And the cradle, I guess, is our birch bark canoe; 
 
 We'll drift away from the work-day shore 
 
 For a thousand long leagues or more. 
 
 Till we reach the strand where happy dreams wait, 
 
 Whether we're early or whether we're late. 
 
 Hush-a-by, baby; as the birds fly 
 
 Let us make the snug harbor of Lullaby. 
 
 Some little folks are far on the way; 
 
 Some have put in at Wide-awake Bay; 
 
 Others, I fear, are long overdue; 
 
 Don't let this happen, my darling, to you; 
 
 Let us steer for the coast where happy dreams wait, 
 
 Whether we're early or whether we're late. 
 
 November 13th, 188 1. 
 
 50 
 
BABY AND I. 
 
 Baby and I, in the twilight sweet, 
 Hearing the weary birds repeat 
 Cheery good-nights, from tree to tree, 
 Dearest of all day's comfort see; 
 
 For weary, too, 
 
 We kiss and coo. 
 He gives up all his world for me. 
 
 Baby and I, in the twilight glow. 
 Watching the branches to and fro, 
 Waving good-nights to the golden west, 
 Welcome the hour we love the best; 
 
 We rock and sing, 
 
 Till sleep we bring. 
 Who folds him in her downy nest. 
 
 Lingering still in the twilight grey, 
 After the radiance fades away, 
 I watch my darling, so still, so fair. 
 With thankful heart that to my care, 
 
 For happiness 
 
 No words express. 
 Awhile God trusts a gift so dear. 
 
 51 
 
As in his little bed I place 
 My babe, in all his slumbering grace, 
 Heaven's starry lamps are lit on high, 
 One, angel borne, now flashes by. 
 
 And by their light 
 
 Through all the night. 
 Celestial watchers will be nigh. 
 
 October 30th, 1881. 
 
 52 
 
COLIC. 
 
 Baby and I in the weary night 
 Are taking a walk for his delight; 
 I drowsily stumble o'er stool and chair 
 And clasp the babe with a grim despair, 
 
 For he's got the colic 
 
 And paregoric 
 Don't seem to ease my squalling heir. 
 
 Baby and I with the morning grey, 
 Are griping and squalling and walking away; 
 The fire's gone out and I nearly freeze; 
 There's a smell of peppermint on the breeze; 
 
 Then Mamma wakes 
 
 And baby takes 
 And says, ''Now cook the breakfast, please !" 
 
 November 21st, 1881. 
 
 53 
 
A HUSHABY SONG. 
 
 Come, tender babe, and on this breast 
 Thy silken, golden ringlets rest; 
 Shut up thine eyes, those limpid eyes, 
 As blue, as sunny as the skies; 
 Hush, hush thy sobbing, go to sleep, 
 While angels o'er thee vigils keep. 
 
 He sleeps, my darling baby boy. 
 My life, my hope, my sweetest joy! 
 How like a budding, blushing rose 
 His tiny mouth, now in repose! 
 How white his chubby, dimpled fists. 
 How plump and creased his baby wrists 
 His little neck, how soft and sleek. 
 His chubby legs, how childish weak! 
 How sweet to gaze on baby's face 
 And dream of future manhood days. 
 
 Who knows but in the time to be 
 His form shall grace the gallows tree? 
 Then shall his eyes so pure and bright 
 Be veiled by cap as black as night; 
 Then shall his tiny hands, alack! 
 Be strapped behind his sturdy back! 
 
 54 
 
Then shall his chubby legs be bound 
 With cruel hempen cords around, 
 Then shall his neck so white and fair, 
 By brutal hands be laid all bare, 
 A ruthless noose adjusted here 
 Below his tiny, shell-like ear! 
 
 How sweet to gaze on baby's face 
 And dream of future manhood days! 
 
 55 
 
A LULLABY. 
 
 Go, little darling, go, 
 Nid nodding to Bye-low; 
 
 The snow white sheep 
 
 Are fast asleep 
 In such a pretty row. 
 All in the sweet Bye-low; 
 Then go, my darling, go. 
 
 September nth, 1881. 
 
 56 
 
BABY'S COLD. 
 
 Back from off his fevered temples 
 
 Brush his struggling locks of gold, 
 Hear his deep stentorious breathing, 
 
 Little darling's caught a cold. 
 Hasten, get the soapstone heated. 
 
 Place it at his chubby toes. 
 Speed thee for the mutton tallow. 
 
 Grease the little darling's nose. 
 
 January ipth, i88^. 
 
 57 
 
UTTLE GOLD HEAD. 
 
 The little Gold Head was so ''put out," 
 Though none but herself knew what about, 
 That she sat on the door steps a while to pout. 
 Oh, greedy little Gold Head ! 
 
 "I had one tart, but I wanted two, 
 So I'll run away, that's what I'll do!" 
 And she found White-wool in the meadow dew 
 Cropping the clover red. 
 
 The two were friends, and glad to meet. 
 She cried, "Nan-nan, is the clover sweet? 
 And can you have all you want to eat?" 
 ''Ba-a ba-a — !" he said. 
 
 September i8th, 1881, 
 
 58 
 
TAKING CARE OF KITTY. 
 
 They brushed the clothes, they beat the clothes, 
 
 One sunny April day — 
 Their winter clothes I mean — and then 
 
 They packed them all away 
 In paper boxes tied around, 
 
 With very strongest strings. 
 First freely sprinkling them with some 
 
 Tobacco dust and camphor gum. 
 
 And when their labor done they took 
 
 Their tea and toasted bread, 
 "Why, where is kitty?" some one asked, 
 
 And 'T know," Lulu said; 
 "She's in my dollies' biggest trunk; 
 
 I brushed and heated her; 
 There can't not any moths I dess, 
 
 Det into her nice fur. 
 She scratched my fingers when I put 
 
 The camphor stuff about, 
 Div me some toast that's buttered froo." 
 
 They left it all to her and flew 
 To get poor kitty out. 
 
 August yfh, 1 88 1. 
 
 59 
 
THE AWFUL FATE OF LITTLE JIM. 
 
 Children hear this dreadful story 
 Of a little boy named Jim, 
 
 That upon this day, Thanksgiving, 
 You may warning take of him. 
 
 Jim sat down to eat his dinner 
 On a bright Thanksgiving day, 
 
 Nor for bib nor even blessing- 
 Would the little fellow stay. 
 
 "James," his mother gently warned him, 
 
 "James, you musn't eat too much. 
 These are very hearty victuals. 
 
 All these turkeys, quails and such;" 
 Jim paid no attention to her. 
 
 Save to give a passing frown. 
 He was too entirely busy 
 
 Putting all the good things down. 
 
 Venison, partridge, quail and rabbit, 
 
 Sardines, lobster, chicken pie, 
 Down his little gullet vanished 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye. 
 "Look a'here, my son," said Papa, 
 
 "You have eaten quite enough. 
 You'll be sick if you continue 
 
 To fill up on this 'ere stuff." 
 
 60 
 
All in vain; his headstrong hopeful 
 
 Would not listen unto him, 
 But continued eating, eating. 
 
 Naughty, naughty little Jim; 
 Bigger, bigger grows his stomach. 
 
 Filled with cakes and pies and meat. 
 Rounder, fuller, tighter, plumper. 
 
 Still he did not cease to eat. 
 
 Last of all the round plum pudding; 
 
 Jim was looking very pale, 
 "James, my dear," his Ma protested, 
 
 "Something you must surely ail;" 
 Jim rolled up his little eyeballs. 
 
 Put one hand upon his head 
 And the other on his stomach, 
 
 "I am feeling sick," he said. 
 
 Papa hastened for the doctor. 
 
 Mamma shrieked and tore her hair, 
 All too late to save poor Jimmy, 
 
 He had climbed the golden stair; 
 For there came a loud explosion. 
 
 Rending Jimmy all asunder. 
 Nevermore his form was witnessed. 
 
 He had bursted all to thunder. 
 
 Six men worked a week with brushes 
 
 Ere enough of James was found 
 To adorn a modest corner 
 
 In the family burying ground. 
 So to-day, dear little children. 
 
 Ere your appetite inflames 
 You to eat more than you ought to. 
 
 Think, oh! think of little James. 
 
 November 30th, 1882. 
 
 61 
 
ELLEN MAY. 
 
 A sweet and interesting child 
 Whose name was Ellen May, 
 
 Met with a most untimely fate 
 A week ago today. 
 
 And, though we shudder to relate, 
 It happened in this way. 
 
 The air was fresh and balmy like. 
 The sun shone clear and bright. 
 
 When little Ellen asked her ma 
 If she with Bettie White 
 
 Could on the sidewalk play, and ma 
 ' Informed her that she might. 
 
 Her mother for the nonce forgot 
 
 Her all accustomed care, 
 Deceived, alas ! by glowing rays 
 
 And by the balmy air. 
 So little Ellen May went out 
 
 And did not rubbers wear. 
 
 Then played they on the sidewalk there. 
 
 Did little Nell and Bet, 
 And running to and fro in sport 
 
 They all too soon did get 
 Their pinafores besplashed with mud, 
 
 Their shoes all soaking wet. 
 
 62 
 
Now Bettie White was strong and hale 
 
 As any child might be, 
 She romped and played the livelong day, 
 
 From ev'ry ailment free; 
 But Ellen May was fragile like, 
 
 Quite delicate was she. 
 
 And so that night while Betsy slept, 
 
 Poor Ellen gave a whoop 
 That made the very rafters ring 
 
 And roused the family group, 
 And Mamma, springing, wildly shrieked 
 
 "My baby's got the croup!" 
 
 In vain the doctor's sage advice. 
 
 In vain the patent pills, 
 In vain the guileful castor oil, 
 
 In vain the dose of squills. 
 Poor Ellen upward turned her toes 
 
 And ceased from mortal ills. 
 
 And so is told the tearful fate 
 
 Of little Ellen May, 
 Who, had she put her rubbers on 
 
 When she went out to play 
 That mild December afternoon, 
 
 Might be alive today. 
 
 63 
 
APPLE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Our little Tom to the orchard strayed, 
 
 Where bloomed the blossoms upon each limb, 
 
 One little blossom bent down where he played 
 And breathed a fragrant kiss to him. 
 
 Our little Tom smiled a cunning smile 
 
 And merrily shook his curly head, 
 "I'll tackle you, blossom, after a w^hile 
 
 When you grow to be an apple," he said. 
 
 The blossom remarked, " 'Tis a cold, cold day 
 When boys like you get away with me," 
 
 But the boy went carelessly on his way 
 
 While the blossom chuckled with fiendish glee. 
 
 The days passed on and the weeks passed on, 
 And the blossom into an apple grew, 
 
 When along came Tom and gobbled it down. 
 Skin, stem and core and the green seeds too. 
 
 Our little Tommy has angel wings 
 
 And he flops around in the golden sky; 
 
 It's to be presumed he sweetly sings 
 Of apple blossoms in the By and By. 
 
 64 
 
THE SWIMMING BOY. 
 
 A little boy went out to swim 
 And took a cake of soap with him 
 And slimed each supple little limb. 
 
 And when he on the bank arove 
 One long last downward look he gove 
 And then into the water dove. 
 
 And trying to regain the top 
 In vain, alas! he tried to flop, 
 He went so fast he couldn't stop; 
 
 His limbs were soaped from heel to hip 
 He couldn't get a half-way grip. 
 For, every time he tried, he'd slip. 
 
 The water no resistance gave 
 And so beneath the murky wave 
 He found a wet untimely grave. 
 
 With thrilling, thundering, thumping thud 
 He struck the misty, moisty mud. 
 And turtles fattened on his blood. 
 
 We dedicate this little hymn 
 
 To little boys of supple limb 
 
 Who soap themselves before they swim. 
 
 (Attributed to) Col. John Arkins. 
 
 November 2yth, 1882. 
 
 65 
 
THE AWFUIv BUGABOO. 
 
 There was an awful Bugaboo, 
 Whose eyes were red and hair was Blue; 
 His teeth were Long and Sharp and White, 
 And he went Prowling 'round at night. 
 
 A little girl was Tucked in Bed, 
 A pretty Night Cap on her Head; 
 Her mamma heard her Pleading say, 
 "Oh, do not take the Lamp away!" 
 
 But mamma took away the Lamp 
 And oh, the Room was Dark and Damp; 
 The little girl was scared to Death, 
 She did not Dare to draw her Breath. 
 
 And all at once the Bugaboo 
 
 Came rattling down the Chimney Flue ; 
 
 He perched upon the little Bed, 
 
 And Scratched the girl until she Bled. 
 
 He drank the Blood and Scratched again, 
 The little Girl cried out in Vain, 
 He picked Her up and Off he Flew, 
 This Naughty, Naughty Bugaboo! 
 
 So, children, when in Bed tonight. 
 Don't let them Take away the Light, 
 Or else the awful Bugaboo 
 May come and Fly away with you! 
 
 December ipth, 1881. 
 
 66 
 
THE MOUNTAIN LION. 
 
 I am a mountain lion free, 
 
 And I roam the mountain side, 
 I grit my teeth in savage glee, 
 
 And my chops with gore are dyed ; 
 I live on little babies fat 
 
 Which from their homes I steal, 
 I love to crunch each toothsome brat, 
 
 And hear his dying squeal! 
 
 February 6th, i88^. 
 
 67 
 
THE GOOD BOY AND THE BAD. 
 
 There was a worthy little boy 
 
 Whose name was Willie Hood; 
 He was as poor as poor can be, 
 
 But he was very good. 
 There was another little boy 
 
 Whose name was Jonas Ladd; 
 And though his father reeked with wealth, 
 
 The boy was very bad. 
 When Christmas came and Santa Claus 
 
 Went hovering about. 
 Bad Jonas got his full of truck. 
 
 Good Willie went without. 
 
 November 2^d, 1882. 
 
 68 
 
A CHRISTMAS WISH. 
 
 I'd like a stocking made for a giant, 
 
 And a meeting house full of toys, 
 Then I'd go out in a happy hunt 
 
 For the poor little girls and boys; 
 Up the street and down the street, 
 
 And across and over the town, 
 I'd search and find them every one, 
 
 Before the sun went down. 
 
 One would want a new jack-knife 
 
 Sharp enough to cut; 
 One would long for a doll with hair, 
 
 And eyes that open and shut; 
 One would ask for a china set 
 
 With dishes all to her mind; 
 One would wish a Noah's ark 
 
 With beasts of every kind. 
 
 Some would like a doll's cook-stove 
 
 And a little toy wash tub ; 
 Some would prefer a little drum, 
 
 For a noisy rub-a-dub-dub; 
 Some would wish for a story book. 
 
 And some for a set of blocks ; 
 Some would be wild with happiness 
 
 Over a new tool-box. 
 
 69 
 
And some would rather have little shoes, 
 
 And other things warm to wear; 
 For many children are very poor 
 
 And the winter is hard to bear ; 
 I'd buy soft flannels for little frocks, 
 
 And a thousand stockings or so. 
 And the j oiliest little coats and cloaks 
 
 To keep out the frost and snow. 
 
 I'd load a wagon with caramels 
 
 And candy of every kind, 
 And buy all the almond and pecan nuts 
 
 And taffy that I could find; 
 And barrels and barrels of oranges 
 
 I'd scatter right in the way. 
 So the children would find them the very first thing 
 
 When they wake on Christmas day. 
 
 70 
 
MY LADY. 
 
 My lady's eyes are bright and blue, 
 
 Her hair is soft and golden, 
 Her voice is sweeter than the coo 
 
 Of turtle doves when turtles woo. 
 Her bright smile would embolden 
 
 The faintest lover. More than this 
 
 She often clambers for a kiss. 
 
 Her little hands are soft and fat. 
 
 Her elbows have a dimple, 
 Her dress is quite superb; a hat 
 
 And snowy feather, think of that! 
 And yet her tastes are simple; 
 
 Red cape, blue sash, blue skirt, and blue's 
 
 The color of her funny sjioes. 
 
 My lady is not co}^. 
 
 Upon my lap already 
 She'll often sit; and to my joy 
 
 She calls me "Fy," or "my dear boy," 
 (She can't quite manage "Teddy,") 
 
 Around my neck her arms she'll fold. 
 
 And yet — you couldn't call her bold! 
 
 71 
 
She says that she will be my wife 
 
 When I'm inclined to marry, 
 How sweet, how sweet she'll make my life! 
 
 I have no fear of wedded strife; 
 Then wherefore should I tarry? 
 
 Well, if the truth must here be told, 
 
 My lady's only three years old. 
 
 September 25th, 188 1. 
 
 72 
 
MAMMA'S VALENTINE. 
 
 Baby came toddling up to my knee, 
 His chubby features all aglow, 
 *'Dess I'se doin' to be 'oor beau, 
 
 See what oo' dot from me!" 
 
 A valentine from my baby boy! 
 
 A crumpled sheet and a homely scrawl, 
 In a baby hand — that was all — 
 
 Yet it filled my heart with joy. 
 
 Broken my heart and white my hair. 
 And my mother eyes are used to weep, 
 My little boy is fast asleep 
 
 In the churchyard over there. 
 
 What shall be mamma's valentine? 
 The spirit touch of the baby hand, 
 A baby voice from the spirit land, 
 
 Singing a song divine. 
 
 February 14th, 188^. 
 
 73 
 
LITTLE FLO. 
 
 Yaas, that was many years ago 
 
 This glorious September, 
 Ah, though my hair is white as snow, 
 
 How well I kin remember 
 The hopes, the fright, the joy, the fears, 
 
 That early autumn mornin'. 
 The tremblin' and the burnin' tears, 
 
 While baby was a bornin'. 
 
 She was in thar, an' I outside, 
 
 Whar I could hear her cryin', 
 I felt like I could go and hide, 
 
 I swar 'twas wuss nor dyin'. 
 To think that I, I hadn't sand. 
 
 With all my pride and scornin', 
 Ter hold her leettle tremblin' hand, 
 
 While baby was a bornin'. 
 
 I looked up at the blazin' sun. 
 
 Ah, as the clock struck seven, 
 I thought I seen a little one. 
 
 Come sailin' down from Heaven. 
 And then I heern a feeble cry, 
 
 I knew the tiny warnin' 
 It seemed to come straight from the sky, 
 
 Ah, baby was a bornin'. 
 
 74 
 
She was the fust, — 'twas years ago, 
 
 And yet she is the dearest, 
 An' to my heart my little Flo 
 
 Seems, somehow, alius nearest. 
 I guess it must ha' been cos I, 
 
 That dre'ful autumn mornin'. 
 Stood at the door and heern the cry 
 
 Of little baby bornin'. 
 
 May 2pth 1882. 
 
 75 
 
THE PRAYER. 
 
 Long years have passed since that sweet time 
 When first I breathed upon the air 
 My simple Httle baby prayer, 
 
 A prayer with earnestness sublime; 
 
 Since first my mother clasped my hands 
 And bade me e'er I went to sleep, 
 Pray God my little soul to keep, 
 
 Take me to dwell in heav'nly lands. 
 
 And now the years on years have fled, 
 And tho' the mother's passed away 
 And tho' my head be bowed and grey. 
 
 The little prayer that I then said 
 
 Comes floating back on angel wing 
 As if, upon the other shore, 
 A Httle child had lisped it o'er 
 
 For God's own messengers to bring. 
 
 January 2'^th, 1882. 
 
 76 
 
JIM'S KIDS. 
 
 Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill, 
 
 Over the beach lived he and his wife, 
 In a little house — you can see it still — 
 
 An' their two fair boys; upon my life 
 You never seen two likelier kids, 
 
 In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise 
 
 Than them two boys! 
 
 Jim would go out in his boat on the sea. 
 
 Just as the rest of us fishermen did. 
 An' when he come back at night thar'd be 
 
 Up to his knees in the surf, each kid, 
 A beck'nin' and cheerin' to fisherman Jim ; 
 
 He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar 
 
 Of the waves on the shore. 
 
 But one night Jim came a sailin' home 
 
 And the little kids weren't on the sands; 
 Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come. 
 
 And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands. 
 And he learnt the worst up on the hill. 
 
 In the little house, an' he bowed his head, 
 
 "The fever," they said. 
 
 77 
 
'Twas an awful time for fisherman Jim, 
 
 With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes, 
 They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him. 
 
 For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries 
 Were about the waves and fisherman Jim 
 
 And the little boat a sailin' for shore 
 
 Till they spoke no more. 
 
 Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on. 
 
 And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, 
 But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone. 
 
 And he never was heard to speak the name 
 Of the little kids who were buried there. 
 
 Up on the hill in sight o' the sea, 
 
 Under a willow tree. 
 
 One night they came and told me to haste 
 
 To the house on the hill, for Jim was sigk, 
 And they said I hadn't no time to waste. 
 
 For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick 
 An' he seemed to be wand' r in' and crazy like, 
 
 An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see. 
 
 An' had called for me. 
 
 And fisherman Jim sez he to me, 
 
 "It's my last, last cruise, you understand, 
 I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea. 
 
 But off on the further shore, on the sand, 
 Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name 
 
 Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know. 
 
 In the long ago." 
 
 78 
 
No sir ! he wasn't afearecl to die, 
 
 For all that night he seemed to see 
 His little boys of the years gone by, 
 
 And to hear sweet voices forgot by me ; 
 An' just as the mornin' sun came up, 
 
 "They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried. 
 
 And so he died. 
 
 December 30th, 1882. 
 
 79 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TREASURES. 
 
 I count my treasures o'er with care — 
 A little toy that baby knew — 
 A little sock of faded hue — 
 
 A little lock of golden hair. 
 
 Long years ago this Christmas time, 
 My little one, my all to me — 
 Sat robed in white upon my knee 
 
 And heard the merry Christmas chimes. 
 
 "Tell me, my little golden head. 
 
 If Santa Claus should come tonight. 
 What shall he bring my baby bright — 
 
 What treasure for my boy?" I said. 
 
 And then he named the little toy. 
 
 While in his round and truthful eyes 
 There came a look of glad surprise, 
 
 That spoke his trustful, childish joy. 
 
 And as he lisped his evening prayer 
 He asked the boon with baby grace. 
 And toddling to the chimney place, 
 
 He hung his little stocking there. 
 
 80 
 
That night as length'ning shadows crept, 
 I saw the white winged angels come, 
 With music to our humble home 
 
 And kiss my darling as he slept. 
 
 They must have heard his baby prayer, 
 For in the morn, with glowing face, 
 He toddled to the chimney place. 
 
 And found the little treasure there. 
 
 They came again one Christmas tide — 
 That angel host so fair and white — 
 And, singing all the Christmas night, 
 
 They lured my darling from my side. 
 
 A little sock, a little toy — 
 
 A little lock of golden hair — 
 The Christmas music on the air — 
 
 Awatching for my baby boy. 
 
 But if again that angel train 
 
 And golden head come back for me 
 To bear me to eternity, 
 
 My watching will not be in vain. 
 
 December 2^th, 1881. 
 
 81 
 
poems ot the Ipeople. 
 
Ipoeme of tbe people* 
 
 THE ADVERTISER. 
 
 I am an advertiser great! 
 
 In letters bold 
 
 The praises of my wares I sound, 
 Prosperity is my estate; 
 
 The people come, 
 
 The people go 
 
 In one continuous, 
 
 Surging flow. 
 They buy my goods and come again 
 And I'm the happiest of men; 
 And this the reason I relate, 
 I'm an advertiser great! 
 
 85 
 
There is a shop across the way 
 
 Where ne'er is heard a human treads 
 Where trade is paralyzed and dead, 
 
 With ne'er a customer a day. 
 The people come, 
 The people go. 
 But never there. 
 They do not know 
 
 There's such a shop beneath the skies, 
 
 Because he does not advertise ! 
 
 While I with pleasure contemplate 
 
 That I'm an advertiser great. 
 
 The secret of my fortune lies 
 
 In one small fact, which I may state. 
 
 Too many tradesmen learn too late. 
 If I have goods, I advertise. 
 
 Then people come 
 
 And people go 
 
 In constant streams, 
 
 For people know 
 That he who has good wares to sell 
 Will surely advertise them well; 
 And proudly I reiterate, 
 I am an advertiser great ! 
 
 86 
 
BE NOT FORGETFUL. 
 
 Some folks believe in angels 
 A prowling around on earth ; 
 
 Experience teaches me better, 
 
 You may take it for what it's worth. 
 
 Las' night a dreamy-eyed creature 
 Crep' up in the darkness and said, 
 
 "Please gimme a quarter mister, 
 Ter pay fer a supper and bed." 
 
 I looked at him sharp and I thought 
 I saw a strange light in his eyes, 
 
 An' a suddent thought came upon me- 
 'Twas a angel chap in disguise! 
 
 So I reached down in my breeches, 
 And gin him my last stray dime, 
 
 An' he crept back into the darkness, 
 A blessin' me all the time. 
 
 A calm like peace came on me, 
 An' them blessins rung in my ear, 
 
 Till later that night I run across 
 That thar angel a guzzlin' beer. 
 
 Arter all, it done me more good. 
 To give to that thirsty moke. 
 
 Than if he'd a been a angel 
 A playin' a practical joke. 
 
 April 15th, 1882. 
 
 87 
 
THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 
 
 Do I believe in Angels? Yes, 
 
 And in their prowlings to and fro — 
 I entertained one long ago, 
 
 In guise of age and sore distress. 
 
 He clambered up the narrow stairs. 
 And by his heavenly smile I knew 
 He was a truant angel who 
 
 Had come to visit unawares. 
 
 "Rest thee, old man,'' I gaily cried, 
 
 "And share my humble couch and cheer- 
 Thou shalt not want for comfort here — 
 
 My home and heart are open wide." 
 
 Relieved of temporary cares, 
 
 The old man laid him down and slept; 
 
 And in my thankfulness I wept — 
 I'd entertained him unawares! 
 
 I never shall forget that night, 
 
 My happy dreams, my slumbers sound, 
 And when I woke at noon I found 
 
 My angel vanished out of sight. 
 
 Perhaps in years that are to be. 
 That angel will return, and yet 
 I sometimes fear he may forget 
 
 To bring my overcoat to me. 
 January ipth, 1882. 
 
THE TWIN FOLI.OWERS. 
 
 Two ragged holes beam sadly out 
 Below the suburbs of this vest, 
 Like guardian angels of unrest, 
 
 They follow him for e'er about. 
 
 No picture could the public scan, 
 With half the greedy, fixed intent. 
 That on those dual holes is bent. 
 
 Those trade marks of an honest man. 
 
 How came those hungry holes both there? 
 Ah, ask the hours of toil and pain, 
 The pencil, lamp and woven cane, 
 
 The creaky, rusty, office chair! 
 
 Why, everything is new at first 
 And framed to stem the tide of life, 
 But all must yield at last to strife. 
 
 And even pants at length will burst. 
 
 And so, O honest holes, we greet 
 You with a proud and hearty grace ; 
 Good welcome to the resting place. 
 
 Thrice welcome to the royal seat ! 
 
 In all the turmoil, all the strife. 
 There are no teachers half so true. 
 To teach us what we learn from you. 
 
 The stern realities of life. 
 
 89 
 
GEMS FOR THE PRINTER. 
 
 Slug 5 was portly and round and fair, 
 And he threw in type with a lordly air 
 Under the coal-oil's lurid glare. 
 
 One of Slug 5's most innocent joys 
 Was, when surcease from work and noise, 
 He jeffed with the other printer boys. 
 
 It made the printer men howl and moan 
 
 When on the fatal imposing stone 
 
 They saw his handful of em quads thrown. 
 
 One night, unknowing of Slug 5's fame 
 At playing this most unfortunate game, 
 A slim young man to the news room came. 
 
 And, seeing the slender creature near. 
 Slug 5 remarked with a bitter leer 
 "I'll jeff you, sir, for cigars or beer." 
 
 And the slim man started and tossed his head. 
 The shaft struck home and his heartstrings bled, 
 "Pray, what is jeffing?" the victim said. 
 
 90 
 
And Slug 5, thinking his ruin planned, 
 
 Explained the process in detail, and 
 
 The young man yearned for to take a hand. 
 
 Then three times threw Slug 5 the tricks, 
 And he made a total of just eight nicks, 
 And he quoth, *'He never can beat that fix." 
 
 The young man gathered the em quads too, 
 A Molly, a cock and two he threw, 
 "Now, one more throw and that will do !" 
 
 The young man threw, and there supine 
 On the cold, cold stone, in a ghastly line. 
 Loomed seven nicks, or a total nine! 
 
 March 2pth, 1882. 
 
 91 
 
DISCONTENT. 
 
 A printer man in sotto tone, 
 
 Did once his bitter fate bemoan; 
 
 "How does it always happen that 
 
 My 'takes' are 'solid' and not fat?" 
 
 I could not bear his piteous look, 
 
 And so I hung upon the "hook" 
 
 A "leaded take" which, with a leer. 
 
 He grasped, while these words reached my ear 
 
 "Yes, just my luck, there'll never be 
 
 No double leaded takes for me!" 
 
 Then that I might for just once make 
 
 His soul content, a rousing take 
 
 Of double-leaded nonpareil 
 
 Upon that hook I hung. Ah, well. 
 
 He still was sad and muttered low, 
 
 "I s'pose 't'll alius be just so. 
 
 Why don't they mark in some fat thing. 
 
 Like slugs, to swell a fellow's string?" 
 
 That printer man will sigh no more, 
 
 He lies a corpse upon the floor! 
 
 March 2pth, 1882. 
 
 92 
 
THE POET'S THEME. 
 
 If I could sing as the angels sing 
 
 In heaven above, 
 I would raise my voice to a heavenly thing, 
 
 And that is love. 
 But my voice is harsh and my petted sense 
 
 Is of humble stripe. 
 And oh! it's a lowly theme I choose, 
 
 The which is tripe. 
 
 The world may laugh and the world deride. 
 
 Ah, well, so be, 
 I take it stewed and I take it fried, 
 
 It stays by me, 
 It fills my soul with a strange delight. 
 
 As well my maw. 
 And I see in my dreams the livelong night, 
 
 My mother-in-law. 
 
 I am chased by bulls and gnawed by rats, 
 
 Down chasms falling. 
 Mine ears are filled with the noise of cats 
 
 Like demons squalling, 
 I am drowned and hung and burned to death. 
 
 Dunned by a tailor, 
 A witch befouls me with her breath 
 
 And loathsome squalor. 
 
 93 
 
Bah! sing if ye will, in rounded rhymes, 
 
 Each varying passion, 
 But for regular, thrilling, exciting times, 
 
 In cold blood fashion. 
 Give me the scenes of blood, of gore. 
 
 Of fiendish stripe. 
 Of goblins flitting from ceiling to floor, 
 
 Aye, give me tripe! 
 
 March nth, 1882. 
 
 94 
 
PARADISE REGAINED. 
 
 Once on a time a man did die, 
 
 And bursting forth, his soul flew straight, 
 Up to the pearly realms on high 
 
 Where good St. Peter kept the gate. 
 
 The sainted Peter shook his head 
 And would not lend a pitying ear, 
 
 "Such worthless folks as you," he said, 
 "Need make no application here!" 
 
 In vain the hapless soul implored, 
 The warden bade him go to grass, 
 
 In vain he begged and mourned and roared, 
 St. Peter would not let him pass. 
 
 Till, goaded on by misery's stings. 
 And tortured by revenge and spite 
 
 That soul drew back and flapped its wings. 
 And crowed three times with all its might. 
 
 St. Peter blushed a scarlet blush, 
 
 "Pass in," he cried, "I'll check your hat, 
 
 Don't be personal, but hush 
 
 In future all such sounds as that!" 
 
 Your soul may be as white as snow. 
 
 Your life be full of good intent, 
 'Twill matter not, some one will know 
 
 The record to your detriment. 
 
 October ^ist, 1882. 
 
 95 
 
THE PIOUS BANKER. 
 
 There was a banker, rich and proud, 
 
 A church man to a high degree, 
 And all society allowed 
 
 A worthy citizen was he; 
 And to his worship from afar 
 
 The sycophantic public ran. 
 And he was dubbed, with just eclat, 
 
 "A truly, truly honest man." 
 
 One morning, so the story goes, 
 
 The banker was no more in sight; 
 The public loud bewailed their woes. 
 
 Their money, too, had vanished quite. 
 And then the people prated loud 
 
 Of "robbing on the pious plan," 
 They failed to see the banker proud 
 
 Was truly still a non est man. 
 
 May ipth, 1883. 
 
 96 
 
THE REVIVAL. 
 
 And when, one night the parson come, 
 
 His piety friends to greet. 
 He found a crowd of the bummer gang 
 
 All sot on the hopeful seat. 
 He seemed for to take their meanin' in, 
 
 But never a mite he stirred, 
 An' the prayer he raised to the Lord that night 
 
 Was the powerfulest ever heard. 
 
 He prayed for all mankind that's vile 
 
 A livin' on earth below, 
 And he axed a special prayer for them 
 
 As sat on that thar front row. 
 The gang they stood it as best they could 
 
 Till it got too drefful hot, 
 And then the eggs begun for to fly 
 
 From where them bummers sot. 
 
 The parson allowed a quick Amen 
 
 And stepped squar up to the crowd, 
 "Show me the feller as flung them eggs !" 
 
 He inquiry made aloud. 
 **Waal, what do you purpose to do?" 
 
 One on em axed in reply. 
 But before he knowed it he calmly drapt, 
 
 With a balcony onto his eye. 
 
 97 
 
Them fellers fell and chawed the floor, 
 
 But the parson never stopt 
 Till he'd cleaned the crowd completely out 
 
 And the last durned cuss had dropt, 
 Then lookin' around on the women folk 
 
 In a calm and peaceful way, 
 He sez, "Now, sence the episode 
 
 Has concluded, let us pray." 
 
 From that thar moment the grace o' the Lord 
 
 Pervaded our little town, 
 And them folks got it wust who'd sworn 
 
 They'd get that preacher down. 
 That's why I have said and still maintain 
 
 Revivals is doubtless right. 
 But where would ha' been the grace o' God, 
 
 Ef that preacher'd been licked that night? 
 
 November 22d, 1882. 
 
 98 
 
UVING AND DYING. 
 
 Joe Smith was eke a goodly man 
 
 As ever lived on earth, 
 The world admired and loudly praised 
 
 His truly pious worth; 
 His life was full of charity 
 
 And free from sinful pride 
 But scarce had lived to thirty- four, 
 
 When one calm eventide 
 A mule kicked him quite playfully. 
 
 And Smith soon after died. 
 
 John Brown, a knave of deepest hue, 
 
 Dwelt in the selfsame town, 
 A grosser, meaner, viler scamp 
 
 There never lived than Brown; 
 He cussed, he swore, he smoked, he chewed. 
 
 He even keno played. 
 And down in Texas years ago 
 
 They say a man he slayed; 
 Yet he lived on contentedly 
 
 And lots of money made, 
 Till finally, a grey haired man, 
 
 John Brown lay down to die. 
 
 99 J.. 
 
 ,L.ofC. r^ 
 
His wife and children gathered 'round, 
 
 A preacher lingered nigh, 
 The only token of his death 
 
 A quiet, gentle sigh. 
 We'd like to live as did old Smith, 
 
 Revered by all the town, 
 But when it comes to dying, we'd 
 
 Prefer to die like Brown. 
 
 November 26th, 1882. 
 
 px 
 
 100 
 
ELECTING FATE. 
 
 Two pieces of ice in the ice house lay 
 Waiting the dawn of another day, 
 
 And as they lingered there side by side, 
 "Oh, tell me brother, since we must die. 
 What fate would you choose for the by and by ?' 
 
 The giddiest piece of the couple cried. 
 
 "Oh, I am fondly and gently bred," 
 The other ice cake sighing said, 
 
 "And I would melt in a glass of tea 
 With a maiden stirring me to and fro 
 And mixing me up with sugar I trow, 
 
 Such, I pray, may my ending be." 
 
 The other cake for a moment smiled, 
 "I always have been a wayward child 
 
 And it strikes me now I would like to float 
 In a brandy punch or a whisky sour. 
 Beguiling some wretched, mortal hour. 
 
 And cooling some thirsty mortal's throat." 
 
 The hours passed on and the days went by 
 Till finally came their time to die. 
 
 And the gentle piece of ice expired 
 In a bowl of tea, while the other piece, 
 In rare libation found surcease, 
 
 Each one perished as each desired. 
 
 lOI 
 
What of the maiden who quaffed the tea? 
 They planted her under a willow tree, 
 
 And the mourners come and the mourners go, 
 Ice cold tea was the dreadful cause. 
 Nature avenged her outraged laws, 
 
 Neuralgia wielded the deadly blow. 
 
 And the man — oh, the man of the whisky sour, 
 He's living and prospers this very hour, 
 
 And he struck it rich in a Gunnison mine. 
 Oh, it's always the same with ice and men. 
 It's nice to be giddy now and then. 
 
 Take your death in tea and your life in wine. 
 
 August yth, 1881. 
 
 102 
 
ROMANCE OF THE CUCUMBER. 
 
 A cucumber green on the table lay, 
 Biding his swiftly approaching death, 
 
 And he smiled at the vinegar over the way, 
 And unto the pepper and salt he saith, 
 
 ^'You'll keep me company, friends, I trust. 
 We'll die like Sampson if die we must." 
 
 A maiden sat in a chair hard by, 
 
 A beautiful maiden of supple grace. 
 And delicate features, and large blue eye. 
 
 And a rapturous transport over her face. 
 A youth drove moodily home that night. 
 
 In the last faint streak of the twilight blush, 
 And the moon as of one in a piteous plight, 
 
 Invaded the evening's solemn hush; 
 One look at the river, one little splash 
 
 And the eddy encircled the lover rash. 
 
 A sorrowing train with the tell-tale bier. 
 Passed over the road to the family lot 
 
 While the mourners gazed at the gardens near. 
 And the cucumbers whispered, ''Forget us not." 
 
 One little spirit by angels blest, 
 One little stomach for aye at rest. 
 
 (Attributed to) R. M. Field. 
 
 August 28th, 1881. 
 
 103 
 
HER ESSAY. 
 
 A seminary graduate 
 
 Was Miss Samantha Brown, 
 The wisest, wittiest, prettiest girl 
 
 In all our lovely town; 
 Her graduation essay was 
 
 The finest ever read 
 In east or west or north or south 
 
 Or anywhere, 'tis said. 
 
 Her dress was white pekay, en train, 
 
 And built with fairy skill, 
 'Twas tucked and pleated, gored and trimmed 
 
 With many a flounce and frill; 
 The overdress was baby blue 
 
 Enwrought with laces fine, 
 Oh, all the women folks declared 
 
 The essay was divine ! 
 
 The basque was cut in Perisian style. 
 
 With pipings all of silk. 
 The corsage was besplashed with bars 
 
 Of velvet pale as milk; 
 The waist was made decollete 
 
 And showed a comely form; 
 The essay — doubt you what we say? 
 
 Took all the men by storm. 
 
 104 
 
DEPARTED FRIENDS. 
 
 Where is the doodlebug that erst 
 
 When blushing, fragrance breathing flowers, 
 Wooed back by April's kindly showers, 
 Beamed gladly forth from Flora's bowers, 
 
 Where is the doodlebug, we say, 
 
 That burst 
 
 All into life and toiled away 
 Through sand and sun of summer day? 
 
 Where is the gauzey white pekay 
 
 Which when the spring, serene and warm 
 Succeeded wintry wind and storm. 
 Bedecked the average female form, 
 
 O where that fluted biased thing 
 
 We pra}^ 
 
 That with the advent of each spring. 
 The beaux admire and poets sing? 
 
 Gone, like a fevered, summer dream. 
 Gone like the soon forgotten lay. 
 Gone like the friend of yesterday. 
 The doodlebug, the white pekay! 
 
 But when the vernal breeze and rain 
 
 And beam 
 
 Refresh the hillside and the plain. 
 The two will come, will come again. 
 
 105 
 
THE COMPLIMENT. 
 
 Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest, 
 
 And other raiment fair to view, 
 I stood before my sweetheart Sue — 
 
 The charming creature I love best. 
 "Tell me and does my costume suit?" 
 
 I asked that apple of my eye — 
 
 And then the charmer made^ reply, 
 "Oh, yes, you do look awful cute !" 
 
 Although I frequently had heard 
 
 My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, 
 I must confess I did not know 
 
 The meaning of that favorite word. 
 
 But presently at window side 
 
 We stood and watched the passing throng. 
 
 And soon a donkey passed along 
 With ears like wings extended wide. 
 And gazing at the doleful brute 
 
 My sweetheart gave a merry cry — 
 
 I quote her language with a sigh — 
 "O, Charlie, ain't he awful cute?" 
 
 August ^th, 1882. 
 
 106 
 
THE CRUEL FATHER. 
 
 When charming Christine Nilsson sang 
 
 In our aesthetic town 
 And all our local country rang 
 
 With praise of her renown, 
 A gentle, comely maid we knew 
 Made loud and numerous ado, 
 
 The fair Camelia Brown. 
 
 'T want to hear Miss Nilsson sing," 
 
 To her papa said she; 
 **And so tonight I pray you bring 
 
 A bonnet home for me; 
 For how the other girls would stare 
 If I should show this old one there, 
 
 I hate the horrid thing!" 
 
 But he, with purpose to deride 
 And give his child the bluff, 
 
 "I'll buy no bonnets now," he cried, 
 "The old one's good enough." 
 The fair Camelia hung her head 
 And not another word she said, 
 
 She simply gasped and died. 
 
 December i8th, 1882. 
 
 107 
 
A PIAZZA TRAGEDY. 
 
 The beauteous Ethel's father has a 
 Newly painted front piazza, 
 
 He has a 
 
 Piazza ; 
 When with tobacco juice 'twas tainted, 
 They had the front piazza painted, 
 
 That tainted 
 
 Piazza painted. 
 
 Algernon called that night, perchance, 
 Arrayed in comely sealskin pants. 
 
 That night, perchance. 
 
 In gorgeous pants; 
 Engaging Ethel in a chat 
 On that piazza down he sat, 
 
 In chat. 
 
 They sat. , 
 
 And when an hour or two had passed, 
 He tried to rise, but oh, stuck fast. 
 
 At last 
 
 Stuck fast! 
 Fair Ethel shrieked, 'Tt is the paint!" 
 And fainted in a deadly faint, 
 
 This saint 
 
 Did faint. 
 
 io8 
 
Algernon sits there till this day, 
 He cannot tear himself away; 
 
 Away ? j 
 
 Nay, nay, 
 His pants are firm, the paint is dry. 
 He's nothing else to do but die; 
 
 To die! 
 
 O my! 
 
 109 
 
THE FRONT GATE. 
 
 An old and crippled gate am I, 
 
 And twenty years have passed 
 Since I was swung up high and dry 
 
 Betwixt these posts so fast; 
 And now I've grown so powerful weak, 
 
 Despised by man and beast, 
 I'm scarcely strong enough to squeak. 
 
 Although I'm never greased. 
 
 'Twas twenty years ago, I say, 
 
 When Mr. Enos White 
 Came kind of hanging 'round my way, 
 
 'Most every other night. 
 He hung upon my starboard side 
 
 And she upon the other. 
 Till Susan Smith became his bride 
 
 And in due time a mother. 
 
 I groaned intensely when I heard. 
 
 Despite I am no churl. 
 My doom breathed in a single word. 
 
 The baby was a girl! 
 And as she grew and grew and grew, 
 
 I loud bemoaned my fate. 
 For she was very fair to view. 
 
 And I — I was the gate! 
 
 no 
 
Then, in due time a lover came, 
 
 Betokening my ruin, 
 A dapper fellow. Brown by name, 
 
 The grown-up baby wooin'; 
 They swung upon me in the gloam, 
 
 And talked of moon and star, 
 They're married now and live at home 
 
 Along with ma and pa. 
 
 My lot was happy for a year. 
 
 No courting, night or day, 
 I had no thought, I had no fear. 
 
 Bad luck would come my way ; 
 But oh, this morning — save the mark! 
 
 There came a wild surprise, 
 A shadow flitted grim and dark 
 
 Across my sunny skies. 
 
 A doctor, with a knowing smile, 
 
 A nurse with face serene, 
 A bustle in the house a while. 
 
 Great scot! what can it mean? 
 My hinges ache, my lock is weak. 
 
 My pickets are awhirl, 
 I hear that awful doctor speak. 
 
 It is another girl! 
 
 January 26th, 188^. 
 
 in 
 
THE RECREANT. 
 
 While the stars are twinkling bright above 
 And Luna sinks in western steeps, 
 Her lonely watch fair Claudia keeps, 
 
 And broods upon her maiden love. 
 
 Upon her pallid cheek a tear 
 
 Strays from her wan and fireless eye. 
 And from her lips escapes a sigh, 
 
 "Oh, why is not Alberto here!" 
 
 Is that his voice in yonder dale, 
 That floats like music on the air? 
 No, no, Alberto is not there, 
 
 'Tis but the tuneful nightingale. 
 
 Is it his step upon the hill. 
 
 That brings the bloom to Claudia's cheeks? 
 
 Nay, this a thirsty mule that seeks 
 Refreshment at the mountain rill. 
 
 Heaven help thee in thy piteous plight, 
 O Claudia, fair as summer skies ; 
 Compose thy sorrow, wipe thine eyes, 
 
 Alberto will not come tonight. 
 
 For in the midnight's solemn hush. 
 He breathes a vow that smells of wine, 
 He holds a hand that is not thine, 
 
 He dallies with a bobtail flush. 
 
 112 
 
LOVE'S REQUEST. , 
 
 George, do not come tonight, 
 
 I would not cause thee pain, but oh ! 
 I must command thee, darling, go. 
 
 And when the moon's pale light 
 
 Doth shimmer through the waving trees, 
 And on the softly dancing breeze 
 
 The nightingale throbs his refrain, 
 
 Come not again, forgive the pain, 
 
 George, do not come tonight. 
 
 Nay, must I tell thee why? 
 
 And dost thou doubt this loyal heart? 
 
 'Tis better, George, that we should part. 
 For, O my darling, I 
 
 Discover by the pain 'tis making, 
 
 That horrid vaccination's taking. 
 Yet, if you'll promise on your knees 
 You will not tease me for a squeeze. 
 Tonight, George — you may come. 
 
 January isth, 1882. 
 
 113 
 
THE DIMPLE. 
 
 The lines by the arrows of Cupid oppressed, 
 The soul to the fairest of women addressed ; 
 
 My love hath the eyes of a fright-stricken doe, 
 And a voice that is mournfully tender; 
 
 And hair that is dark as eternity's flow 
 And a waist that is witchingly slender; 
 
 But ah, what I count her delightfullest charm 
 
 Is the dear little dimple she wears in her arm, 
 A charm. 
 
 That fair, precious dimple she wears in her arm ! 
 
 It loves to coquette with my eagersome eyes, 
 
 'Neath its mantle of gossamer laces, 
 And my lady affects the sincerest surprise 
 That I praise not her other fair graces; 
 Aye, vows she is racked with the direst alarm 
 Lest I too fondly praise that cute spot in her arm ; 
 
 Alarm 
 For the round, laughing dimple she wears in her 
 arm. 
 
 114 
 
Nay, soothe thy small jealousy, maiden so fair, 
 And grant me a boon that is simple, 
 
 For oh, I'd esteem it a favor most rare, 
 A kiss on that round laughing dimple! 
 
 You surely must know that there's never a harm 
 
 In kissing a dimple one wears on the arm ; 
 No harm. 
 
 In kissing that dimple that smiles on your arm! 
 
 "Oh, degenerate lover," methinks she replies, 
 And I tremble to hear her so speak, 
 
 "You may kiss, since your kisses I loftily prize, 
 This cute little mole on my cheek. 
 
 What you think is a dimple, I pray you be calm. 
 
 Is an old vaccination scar deep in my arm, 
 Be calm! 
 
 It's an old vaccination you see on my arm ! 
 
 November ^fhj 1881. 
 
 115 
 
A SIREN SOLD. 
 
 I can but think a woman's wink 
 
 Is rarely accidental, 
 The sex at flirting is adept, 
 For tempted Eve, old Adam wept, 
 
 And suffered supplemental. 
 
 We all recall man's primal fall 
 And how Eve tried to cater 
 To our first daddy's taste for fruit, 
 Before he donned the fig leaf suit, 
 Ah, too-too Alma Mater. 
 
 The other day, far up Broadway, 
 
 I saw a seal clad damsel. 
 Whose lashes quivered 'neath the gaze 
 Of every man that dared to raise 
 
 His eyes and look at mam'selle. 
 
 I later met this arch coquette. 
 
 Returning from her shopping, 
 Demure and innocent she seemed, 
 And yet a roguish twinkle gleamed 
 From optic gently dropping. 
 
 ii6 
 
What did I then, O evil men, 
 
 Who wickedly are guessing, 
 You don't believe a solemn oath, 
 / didn't (though by no means loath), 
 Now isn't this distressing"? 
 
 't3 
 
 (Attributed to) H. Clay Lukens. 
 Fehmary idth, 1882. 
 
 117 
 
AS TO EYES. 
 
 When sorrow casts upon the world 
 Her pall of ghastly, ghostly hue, 
 
 And when misfortune's darts are hurled. 
 Oh, give me laughing eyes of blue ! 
 
 Their coquetry would fain beguile 
 
 From sorrow's frowning face a smile. 
 
 When mirthfulness and laughter crown 
 The sports of banquet, song and dance. 
 
 Then would I choose the eyes of brown. 
 The earnest, truthful eyes; perchance 
 
 Their solemn glories would recall 
 
 My thoughts from levity and all. 
 
 But, ah, since melancholy, mirth 
 And dire misfortune every day 
 
 Walk hand in hand o'er all the earth, 
 'Tis red eye that's my choice, I say, 
 
 Too much of neither does it bring. 
 
 It sort of equalizes things. 
 
 ii8 
 
THE APRIL FOOL. 
 
 'Twas in the spring of '72 
 
 I first met Bessie, charming girl, 
 
 Who caught me with her eyes of blue 
 
 And hair of mellow golden hue, 
 That wandered into many a curl. 
 
 One night I asked her for my wife. 
 
 While comin' home from singin' school, 
 
 Protesting else my future life 
 
 Would be a blank and dreary waste 
 From which all sunlight were erased; 
 "Yes," answered then the pretty miss, 
 I stole a furtive, burning kiss 
 And called her, in a burst of bliss, 
 
 "My precious little April Fool." 
 
 'Tis now the spring of '83, 
 
 And we are married. Bet and I, 
 
 I will confess, 'twixt you and me, 
 
 She is not what she used to be. 
 My angel of the years gone by ; 
 
 And when I think of that sweet time 
 I took her home from singing school. 
 
 I feel like weaving into rhyme 
 
 119 
 
This bitter, weary, sad reflection, 
 Resulting from profound dejection : 
 When I went courting that fair miss, 
 And begged her grant me wedded bliss. 
 And sealed her answer with a kiss, 
 'Twas I who was the April Fool ! 
 
 April 2d, 1883. 
 
 120 
 
THE TWO MEETINGS. 
 
 Ah, 'twas a glorious autumn night 
 
 Full fifteen years ago, 
 The moon and stars were shining bright, 
 Bathing the hills in mystic light, 
 When robed in garb of snowy white. 
 My Ethel met me in the hall, 
 Responsive to my pleading call. 
 
 Now what did I or what did she 
 
 The world shall never know; 
 Not e'en the moon nor stars could see 
 Of all the world most happy we; 
 Oh, 'twas an hour of ecstasy; 
 We pledged our loves and lives and all. 
 When Ethel met me in the hall. 
 
 Ah, well, we met again last night, 
 
 ('Twas rather late, I trow) ; 
 Some how, I didn't feel just right, 
 (I may have been a little tight) 
 When clad in nightly robe of white 
 My Ethel met me in the hall 
 And braced me up against the wall. 
 
 121 
 
Now what did I or what did she 
 
 I'm not prepared to show ; 
 It may suffice to state that we 
 Had quite a little jubilee, 
 And I may say ('twixt you and me) 
 It is with pain that I recall 
 How Ethel met me in the hall. 
 
 February 24th, 1882. 
 
 122 
 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 You asked me of your mother, child, 
 Your mother whose fair form is dust. 
 Whose soul is with the saints, I trust, 
 
 Why, as you asked me that and smiled, 
 Methought I saw in your young face 
 A sweet reflection of her grace. 
 
 Oh, she was nobly, grandly fair. 
 Her eyes were as the heaven's blue, 
 Her hair was of a golden hue. 
 
 Her ruby lips beyond compare, 
 O child, your mother in her day, 
 'Mongst beauties held the beauties' sway. 
 
 And was she gentle, child, as thou? 
 Why wrench the arrows in my heart. 
 Why bid the burning tear-drops start! 
 
 O child, methinks I see her now. 
 Waiting down by the wicket gate 
 As years agone she used to wait. 
 
 Why do I weep? Who would not weep. 
 To think of how she waited there 
 Till she could grip me by the hair 
 
 And in her wifely fashion sweep 
 
 The garden walk with my poor frame ; 
 Patience was your sweet mother's name. 
 
 March 6th, 1882. 
 
 123 
 
SYMPATHY. 
 
 The tears streamed from his swollen eyes, 
 His sunken cheeks were pale as death, 
 And as he wept, his fevered breath 
 
 Was broken into moans and sighs. 
 
 "O sorrowing, chastened one," I cried, 
 "Tell me thy grief that I may fill 
 
 Thine ears with pity." He replied, 
 "Alas, sweet sir, my wife is ill!" 
 
 Ah, then adown my bearded cheek 
 The burning tears began to roll, 
 And sympathy possessed my soul 
 
 To such extent I scarce could speak. 
 "Unhappy man," at last I said, 
 
 "God shield you from the bitterest blow 
 That e'er can fall on mortal head. 
 
 The loss of her you worship so ! 
 
 "For oh! the dearest thing in life, 
 
 Vouchsafed to man from Heav'n above, 
 For him to cherish, is the love 
 
 Of one whom love hath made his wife." 
 "Nay," cried the man, "The howl I raise 
 
 Is not because I'm such a lover. 
 But oh ! because the doctor says. 
 
 My wife is likely to recover!" 
 
 March nth, 1882. 
 
 124 
 
so LONELY. 
 
 There's something in the good man's face, 
 
 It is very rare to see, 
 On his brow is throned a certain grace. 
 
 That tells us he is free. 
 Why these smiles and all this smirking. 
 
 Where once there was a frown ? 
 Oh, what strange influence is working ? 
 
 Ah, his wife is out of town ! 
 
 He was ne'er disposed to cavil. 
 
 And was limited in wealth, 
 And when he bade her travel. 
 
 To the seashore for her health, 
 She said, '^Won't you be lonely?" 
 
 Then he mournfully looked down, 
 "I shall miss you, dearest, only," 
 
 And his wife went out of town ! 
 
 Foolish woman, pray take warning. 
 
 From these lines so sadly true; 
 Though he writes you every morning 
 
 And swears he pines for you. 
 He's a giddy, gidd}^ masher, 
 
 And he's doing things up brown. 
 In a friskier way and rasher. 
 
 Since his wife is out of town. 
 
 June 2ist, 1882. 
 
 125 
 
A GOLDEN HAIR. 
 
 Only a golden hair 
 
 Found on my coat to-day, 
 Why should my lady stare, 
 Why wear an injured air, 
 
 Why should she say, 
 "Love, we must sever. 
 Farewell, forever?" 
 
 Curse on that golden hair 
 Found on my coat to-day! 
 
 However came it there. 
 
 By means of foul or fair, 
 I cannot say; 
 
 But this, I know, alack! 
 
 My lady's hair is black ! 
 
 January ^d, i88^. 
 
 126 
 
ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
 
 Only a woman's hair 
 
 Binding the now to the past, 
 Only a single thread 
 
 Too frail to last; 
 Only a woman's hair 
 
 Threading a tear and a sigh, 
 Only a woman's hair 
 
 Found to-day in the pie. 
 
 (Attributed to) W. B. Felker. 
 November 28th, 1882. 
 
 127 
 
THE FIDDLER. 
 
 Flip! Zip! Tweedle dee dum, 
 Nimble fingers and pliant thumb ; 
 Flip! Zip! Tweedle dee dee, 
 Why don't every one envy me? 
 Flip ! Zip ! Straight as a pin, 
 Fiddle nestling under my chin, 
 All the world's people. 
 
 And all that you see, 
 Can never make aught 
 
 But a fiddler of me. 
 
 (Attributed to) Emil Wolff. 
 November 28th, 1882. 
 
 128 
 
TO THE MAY FLY OF THE ANGLER. 
 
 Thou art a frail and lovely thing, 
 
 Engendered by the sun; 
 A moment only on the wing 
 
 And thy career is done. 
 
 Thou sportest in the evening beam 
 
 An hour — an age to thee — 
 In gayety above the stream 
 
 Which soon thy grave must be. 
 
 Although thy life is like to thee, 
 
 An atom — art thou not 
 Far happier than thou e'er couldst be 
 
 If long life were thy lot? 
 
 For then deep pangs might wound thy breast, 
 
 And make thee wish for death; 
 But as it is, thou'rt soon at rest, 
 
 Thou creature of a breath. 
 
 129 
 
TO MRS. LYDIA E. PINKHAM. 
 
 There is a little bird that sings, 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 I know not what his name may be, 
 I only know his notes please me 
 As loud he sings, and this sings he, 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 
 I've heard him sing on soft spring days, 
 
 "Sweetheart !" 
 And when the sky was dark above. 
 And wintry winds had stripped the grove, 
 He still poured forth those words of love, 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 
 And like the bird my heart, too, sings, 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 When heaven is dark or bright or blue, 
 When trees are bare or leaves are new, 
 It thus sings on and sings of you 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 
 What need of other words than these, 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 If I should sing a whole year long, 
 My love would not be shown more strong 
 Than by this short and simple song, 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 
 November 2d, 1882. 
 
 130 
 
THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 I was as proud a man and brave 
 
 As ever sailed the sea, 
 For I was born upon the wave 
 
 And it was home to me, 
 Till Jennie came and promise gave 
 
 My faithful, bonnie bride to be. 
 
 Then were we wed and ere a year 
 Like one sweet dream had sped, 
 
 A tiny angel doubly dear, 
 A hallowed joylight shed 
 
 Around our hearthstone far and near, 
 Our precious little golden head. 
 
 Oh those were happy times to me, 
 When, floating with the tide 
 
 Back to the shore, I used to see 
 Each night my bonnie bride 
 
 And little baby in her glee 
 
 A playin' at her mother's side. 
 
 Aye, forty years! an' here am I 
 
 A lowly fisher still. 
 IVe drank the cup of misery 
 
 Up to the very fill. 
 And they, they in the churchyard lie, 
 
 Up yonder on the hill. 
 
 131 
 
But oh! perhaps when I shall sail 
 
 That last cold ocean wide, 
 Mine eyes shall see, though fierce the gale, 
 
 My bonnie blue-eyed bride 
 Stand on the shore in yonder Leal, 
 
 With baby playin' at her side. 
 
 November 26th, 1882. 
 
 J32 
 
RAPTURE. 
 
 Fair sea, bright sunshine, bird of song divine, 
 
 I, too, may lose the tide, the Hght, the lay; 
 Others may win the kisses that were mine, 
 My night may be their day, 
 Yet though the soul may sigh 
 For precious things gone by, 
 I shall have had my rapture, come what may. 
 
 (Attributed to) W. H. Stapleton. 
 
 November 28th, 1882. 
 
 133 
 
LOVE. 
 
 "Oh, Winter Land," he said, 
 
 "Thy right to be I own, 
 
 God leaves thee not alone, 
 
 And if the fierce winds blow 
 
 O'er thy wastes of rock and snow. 
 
 And at thy iron gates, 
 
 Thy ghostly iceberg waits. 
 
 Thy homes and hearts are dear, 
 
 God's love and man's are here. 
 
 "Thy sorrow o'er the sacred dust, 
 Is sanctified by hope and trust, 
 Still, whereso'er it goes, 
 Love makes its atmosphere; 
 Its flowers of Paradise, 
 Take root in the eternal ice. 
 And bloom through polar snows." 
 
 134 
 
PARADISE. 
 
 Within each heart there lies apart 
 
 From all its cares and sorrows, 
 A paradise which knows no sighs, 
 
 A world of happy morrows; 
 A heaven of light, unknown to blight 
 
 Of winter, bleak and dreary. 
 Whose days are long and sweet with song, 
 
 Whose hours are never weary. 
 
 What matter though earth's pathways glow 
 
 No more with springtime gladness ? 
 What if each June has flown too soon 
 
 And left a look of sadness? 
 No real love so true will prove. 
 
 No tones one half so tender. 
 No lips so pure as those which lure 
 
 The soul to visioned splendor. 
 
 November 2yth, 1881. 
 
 135 
 
MEMORIES. 
 
 Do you remember, Maud, that night 
 We stood together, you and I, 
 
 And watched the mystic points of light 
 That gHttered in the vaulted sky ? 
 
 A veiling cloud drew back, a beam 
 From one effulgent star above 
 
 Enwrapped us in its glorious gleam, 
 The golden glowing star of love. 
 
 Beneath the influence of that star 
 My soul within its prison burned, 
 
 Sweet Venus pushed the gates ajar 
 And then the sweets of love I learned. 
 
 (Attributed to) Thomas M. Bowen. 
 
 December ist, 1882. 
 
 136 
 
TRUE LOVE. 
 
 True love is like the ivy green, 
 
 That ne'er forgetteth what hath been, 
 
 And so till life itself be gone, 
 
 Until the end it clingeth on. 
 
 What though the tree where it may cling 
 
 Shall hardly know another spring? 
 
 What thougJi its boughs be dead and bare ? 
 
 The twining ivy climbeth there 
 
 And clasps it with a firmer hold. 
 
 With stronger love than that of old, 
 
 And lends it grace it never had 
 
 When time was young and life was glad. 
 
 (Attributed to) W. H. Stapleton. 
 
 December Tst, 1882. 
 
 137 
 
ST. VAI^ENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 Though the bird flies far 
 And the fair flower goes, 
 
 The sweet of the year 
 Is set in the snows. 
 
 The wind o' the winter 
 It breaks into bloom* 
 
 And suddenly songs 
 
 Are sung in the gloom. 
 
 And winging hearts cross 
 And whisper together, 
 
 And a night and a day 
 It is perfect weather. 
 
 February loth, 1882. 
 
 138 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 O, Princess, what shall I bring 
 To offer before thy throne? 
 
 For I know of no joyous thing 
 That is not already thine own. 
 
 Youth and beauty and love, 
 
 Desirest thou more than these? 
 
 Lo, from the skies above 
 
 And from far away mystical seas, 
 
 All things radiant and rare, 
 All things tender and sweet. 
 
 Hasten, O Princess fair. 
 
 To fall in delight at thy feet. 
 
 So, Princess, what shall I bring. 
 When low I bend at thy throne? 
 
 "My heart for an offering," 
 
 E'en that has been long: thine own. 
 
 ^&> 
 
 February 14th, 1882. 
 
 139 
 
THE VALENTINE. 
 
 My valentine's a page of gold, 
 Upon it by the morning light 
 I trace new hopes and fancies bright, 
 
 So sweetly is the story told. 
 
 That old, old story, yet so new, 
 A little song of love, a voice 
 That bids my faltering soul rejoice, 
 
 A promise to be ever true; 
 
 love, sweet love, this honest heart 
 Unknown to coquetry or art. 
 
 Hath sworn fidelity to you. 
 
 And to my trustful heart I press 
 My valentine, with fond caress. 
 
 But still as sweetly as of old. 
 And now the long, long years have fled, 
 
 1 read the treasure sheet of gold. 
 What tho' my love, alas ! be dead 
 And as I read from yonder skies 
 
 An angel with a radiant crown 
 Comes to my lonely chamber down 
 
 And bids me dry my streaming eyes. 
 So in the soft declining day 
 I think of him who's far away. 
 
 Whose body in the churchyard lies. 
 And to my broken heart I press 
 My valentine with fond caress. 
 
 January 28th, 1882. 
 
 140 
 
A NEW YEAR IDYE. 
 
 Upon this happy New Year night, 
 A roach crawls up my pot of paste, 
 And begs me for a tiny taste. 
 
 Aye, eat thy fill, for it is right 
 
 That while the rest of earth is glad. 
 And bells are ringing wild and free. 
 Thou shouldst not, gentle roachling, be 
 
 Forlorn and gaunt and weak and sad. 
 
 This paste tonight especially 
 
 For thee and all thy kind I fixed. 
 You'll find some whisky in it mixed, 
 
 For which you have to thank but me. 
 
 So freely of the banquet take. 
 And if you chance to find a drop 
 Of liquor, prithee do not stop 
 
 But quaff it for thy stomach's sake. 
 
 Why dost thou stand upon thy head. 
 All etiquette requirements scorning. 
 And sing "You won't go home till morning" 
 
 And "Pvit me in my litte Bed?" 
 
 141 
 
Your tongue, fair roach, is very thick, 
 Your e3^es are red, your cheeks are pale, 
 Your underpinning seems to fail, 
 
 You are, I wot, full as a tick. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 I think I see that roach's home. 
 
 That roach's wife, with broom in hand, 
 That roach come staggering homeward and 
 
 Then all is glum and gloom and gloam. 
 
 January 2d, 1882. 
 
 142 
 
JANUARY 1st, 1883. 
 
 If you're waking, call me early, 
 
 Call me early, mother dear, 
 That I may be up and well prepared 
 
 To welcome the new-born year; 
 Set the alarm at nine, mother, 
 
 And call me at nine, my dear. 
 For I'm to receive this year, mother, 
 
 I'm to receive this year. 
 
 Here are my striped hose, mother, 
 
 Here are my ribbons gay. 
 Here are my lavender kids, mother. 
 
 Here is my white pekay; 
 Here is my princess basque, mother, 
 
 And here is the rest of the gear, 
 I'm so happy I cannot sleep, mother, 
 
 For I'm to receive this year ! 
 
 Have you got the jellies made, mother, 
 
 Are all the sweetmeats fixed? 
 Are the punch and the nogg prepared, mother, 
 
 And the champagne cocktails mixed? 
 I'm afraid there will be a hitch, mother. 
 
 When the guests are gathering here, 
 I tremble and cannot sleep, mother, 
 
 For I'm to receive this year. 
 
 143 
 
JANUARY ist, 1883. 
 
 Wake me early, mother dear, 
 
 Set the alarm for nine, 
 For I'm to receive, you know, this year, 
 
 Thanks to that San Juan mine; 
 And mother dear, let the lay-out be 
 
 Decidedly recherche; 
 For once, I'm determined to be on top 
 
 Of those Johnsons over the way. 
 So wake me early and don't forget 
 
 The rush will begin at two; 
 And I'll be heartily glad, you bet. 
 
 When the racket is fairly through! 
 
 144 
 
NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 'Twas but a month ago today, 
 
 'Twixt old year and the new, 
 I laid my pipe and pouch away. 
 
 No more to smoke or chew; 
 To round my resolutions fair. 
 
 And from all vices sever, 
 I vowed I nevermore would swear, 
 
 Not even hardly ever. 
 
 I felt so lonesome like, anon, 
 
 While pining for a smoke 
 That, brooding all my grief upon. 
 
 An oath was almost spoke; 
 An oath ! when I had just foresworn 
 
 All words that vicious be ! 
 Nay, rather than be tempted more. 
 
 Return, O pipe, to me! 
 
 And pondering on the habit vile 
 
 That threatened moral ruin, 
 I drifted with a bitter smile. 
 
 Back to my pouch and chewin' ; 
 So, of my resolutions, two 
 
 Have vanished in the air. 
 The third shall stick my lifetime through. 
 
 For, me, I'll not swear! 
 
 January 2pth, 1883. 
 
 145 
 
EASTER. 
 
 Arouse, O birds, the time is nigh 
 For omelettes and for poaches, 
 
 Lift up your anthem to the sky, 
 For Easter day approaches ! 
 
 Awake, O Shanghais, slim and tall, 
 And Bantams short and squatty, 
 
 And Cochins towering over all. 
 And Games so fierce and haughty! 
 
 Awake, O Brahma Pootrah bird, 
 And rend the wintry shackles. 
 
 And let your kittycaws be heard. 
 Your crOwings and your cackles! 
 
 Give us, O birds, a new-made lay, 
 Appropriate to the minute, 
 
 With nothing else, the shell away. 
 But what there should be in it! 
 
 Give us, O birds, so fair a lay 
 No groceryman may cozen, 
 
 A modest lay, once every day, 
 At living rates per dozen. 
 
 March i6th, 1883. 
 
 146 
 
AN EASTER SERMON. 
 
 "Fm glad that Easter Sunday's here," 
 
 Said Mrs. Henry Gray; 
 "M)^ bonnet new and other gear 
 
 I'll wear to church today; 
 A vein of glory will pervade 
 
 My hymn of praise and prayer, 
 For when my toilet is displayed, 
 
 How Mrs. Bliss will stare! 
 
 "I hate that horrid Mrs. Brown, 
 
 With all her quirks and smiles. 
 Of all the women in the town 
 
 She apes the coarsest styles; 
 She bought her bonnet 'way last spring 
 
 And wears it now for new. 
 And as for that old Thompson thing, 
 
 I vow I hate her, too ! , 
 
 "I hear Miss Jones, the cross-eyed cat! 
 
 Has bought a new pekay. 
 And terra cotta Paris hat 
 
 To wear to church today ; 
 And Helen White has got a dress 
 
 They say is just divine, 
 Come, Mr. Gray, and do you guess 
 
 It's half as sweet as mine? 
 
 147 
 
"There go those awful Billings girls, 
 
 They paint and powder, too, 
 They pad and wear cheap bangs and curls. 
 
 They do — I know they do! 
 You needn't laugh — I boldly say 
 
 And stake my honor on it — 
 I'll paralyze them all today 
 
 With my new dress and bonnet!" 
 
 March ipfh, 1883. 
 
 148 
 
SPRING. 
 
 The meads with green are garnished o'er, 
 
 The birds sing in the bowers, 
 And from the Broad Platte's further shore 
 
 We scent the budding flowers ; 
 Fair Cherry creek runs swift and clear, 
 
 The merry woodchucks drum — 
 O, season of the poet dear! 
 
 The picnic days have come. 
 
 The season of the year sublime, 
 
 When nature tunes her voice — 
 O happy vernal picnic time 
 
 When Sunday schools rejoice; 
 When little girls and boys go out 
 
 'Neath sylvan monarchs old, 
 And gaily dance and frisk about 
 
 And catch their deaths o' cold. 
 
 When sandwiches and buns are ripe — 
 
 Croquet and other games. 
 When stomach aches of every stripe 
 
 Steal over youthful frames. 
 When Chloe guards with watchful eyes 
 
 Her lover — jealous maid! 
 When Daphnis sits on custard pies 
 
 And prones where kine have strayed. 
 
 April lytk, 1882. 
 
 149 
 
MAY. 
 
 I love the May because it seems to me 
 So full of secrets and of whisperings; 
 Telling the heart in confidence of things, 
 Yet unaccomplished and mysteriously, 
 Like a fleet harbinger of victory. 
 With glov^ing, undefined prefigurings, 
 Reveals an opulence of spoils ; and brings 
 A present joy in v^hat is yet to be. 
 
 How like the far-off ringing of a chime, 
 
 The soft south wind; and each succeeding day, 
 
 Moved by this prelude of a sunnier clime. 
 
 Sings a new song and finds a theme more gay. 
 
 It is a gay, it is a hopeful time. 
 
 And this is why I love the month of May. 
 
 150 
 
THANKSGIVING, 1881. 
 
 Last March my mine panned out a fraud- 
 
 My wife eloped in May — 
 A fire broke out and burned my barn 
 
 And all the stacks of hay. 
 The hoppers cleaned my garden out — - 
 
 My cows took sick and died — 
 The horses got the pink-eye bad 
 
 And dropped on every side. 
 
 The bank suspended all at once — 
 
 The rust got in the rye — 
 A cyclone tore the wheatfield up — 
 
 And all the wells went dry; 
 The chickens sickened with the pip, 
 
 The hired girl ran off — 
 The children one by one took down 
 
 With croup and whooping cough. 
 
 And yet despite this luck, I went 
 
 Down to the grocery store 
 And for a turkey gobler paid 
 
 My last two dollars o'er. 
 I thought I'd kind o' celebrate 
 
 Thanksgiving. 'Pon my word, 
 A tramp broke in the house last night 
 
 And stole the plaguey bird. 
 
 November 21st, 1881. 
 
 151 
 
THE APPROACH OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 There is a dawning in the sky 
 Which doth a world of fate imply, 
 And on each casual passing face 
 A look expectant you may trace. 
 These signs the veteran turkey sees 
 And with a deep and mournful sigh, 
 He calls his numerous family nigh 
 And murmurs, pointing to the trees, 
 "Roost high, my little ones, roost high!" 
 
 November 13th, 1882. 
 
 152 
 
A GLORIOUS FOURTH. 
 
 A Denver patriot, proud and grand, 
 
 Leaned up against a bar — elate 
 And lordlike, waved his graceful hand, 
 And ordered goodly cocktails, and 
 Talked of the "Day we Celebrate." 
 
 "Oh, when we recollect," said he, 
 
 "Old Bunker Hill and Lundy's Lane, 
 
 We drink, our patriot dead, to thee!" 
 
 And singing thus of liberty. 
 
 He bids 'em "set 'em up again." 
 
 His eyes beheld poor Warren bleed. 
 
 While British lords supined at ease, 
 And Putnam, fresh from rural mead, 
 Dash down a bank on foaming steed. 
 And, "one more cocktail, if you please." 
 
 He spoke of Valley Forge and those 
 Who, hatless, bootless, in the snow. 
 
 Stood guard while old Boreas froze 
 
 Their patriotic ears and toes, 
 
 "Another glass? Well, here goes!" 
 
 153 
 
He talked of Allen, Wayne and Lee, 
 And ancient heroes by the score, 
 
 Of Boston harbor and the tea, 
 
 And tea reminded him that he 
 Inclined to liquidate once more. 
 
 What wonder then that, quaffing to 
 
 The memory of those martyred dead. 
 E'en as they lost their dear lives through 
 Their love of land so staunch and true. 
 This Denver man should lose his head! 
 
 Before another bar today 
 That Denver man will stand ; 
 
 O Judge, be merciful, we pray. 
 
 And let him go his rocky way 
 
 To bless the freedom of our land ! 
 
 July 5th, i88s- 
 
 154 
 
O TEMPORA; A FOURTH OF JULY 
 REFLECTION. 
 
 Oh, would I were inspired to sing, 
 In lofty, sole un-metered rhyme, 
 
 The glory of some valorous thing 
 That happened in the olden time. 
 
 Alas, that patriotism's dead! 
 Alas, that creatures of today 
 
 Are not as man upon whose head 
 
 Sweet patriotism's beams were shed 
 An hundred years ago. 
 Ah woe 
 
 'Tis not these times that way! 
 
 My theme's the dog, a pleasant cur 
 As ever trotted down the street, 
 
 Yellow his eyes, likewise his fur. 
 As mild a dog as you could meet 
 
 In a day's walk — but dogs today 
 Are not the dogs you used to find 
 
 Before brave Towsers had gi'en place 
 
 To a degenerate canine race, 
 An hundred years ago. 
 Oh no, 
 
 They are of the common kind. 
 
 155 
 
Why, in the days of Washington, 
 
 Where was the dog that thought to pale 
 
 At the suggestion he should run 
 A mile or two with his proud tail 
 
 Made fast unto an oyster can? 
 Why, that was simply glory then! 
 
 But now the dog's ashamed to drag 
 
 The can; and man forgets the flag. 
 An hundred years ago. 
 Not so, 
 
 So changed are dogs and men! 
 
 See how the dogling of today 
 
 Writhes, shies and tumbles to and fro 
 Adown the hot and dusty way. 
 
 And hark unto his yelp of woe 
 His broken hearted, plaintive cry, 
 
 Because a pail is to him tied! 
 Was it for this our fathers died 
 An hundred years ago? 
 No no ! 
 But time hath changfed us all. 
 
 'fe' 
 
 July ph, 1882. 
 
 156 
 
THE FIFTH OF JULY. 
 
 Sing not of patriots who are dead, 
 The yankee sires long passed away, 
 
 Bind up his throbbing, aching head 
 And sing the patriots of today! 
 
 Nor Washington, nor Lee nor Wayne, 
 E'er suffered pain as suffered they. 
 
 Pain in the head, in stomach pain. 
 These gallant patriots of today! 
 
 Not he who fills a soldiers' grave. 
 Who drove the British hordes away, 
 
 Who life and fortune freely gave. 
 Not he is patriot, we say. 
 
 But he who celebrates the Fourth, 
 As all good men at present do. 
 
 And then endures the after clap. 
 He is the patriot brave and true ! 
 
 The aching head, the stomach sour. 
 
 The dark brown taste, the trembling knees, 
 
 Oh, what are Revolution gore 
 And Revolution pangs to these! 
 
 July ^th, 1882. 
 
 157 
 
THE WARRIOR. 
 
 Under the window is a man, 
 
 Playing an organ all the day, 
 Grinding as onty a cripple can, 
 
 In a moody, vague, uncertain way. 
 
 His coat is blue and upon his face 
 Is a look of highborn, restless pride, 
 
 There is somewhat about him of martial grace 
 And an empty sleeve hangs at his side. 
 
 "Tell me, warrior bold and true. 
 
 In what carnage, night or day. 
 Came the merciless shot to you. 
 
 Bearing your good, right arm away?" 
 
 Fire dies out in the patriot's eye. 
 
 Changed my warrior's tone and mien, 
 
 Choked by emotion he makes reply, 
 
 "Kansas — harvest — threshing machine !" 
 
 April 1st, 1882. 
 
 158 
 
THE SURVIVOR. 
 
 In August, Nineteen Fifty-two, 
 
 A hero old and gray, 
 Who, years before had worn the blue 
 
 In many a gory fray. 
 Received the homage of his land 
 
 For deeds of valor done. 
 For he remained of all his band, 
 
 The last surviving one. 
 
 Our children's children's children swept 
 
 From hillside and from plain. 
 And, crowding 'round the old man, wept 
 
 To hear him tell again 
 The stories he so loved to tell — 
 
 Of battles lost and won — 
 How armies rose and cities fell 
 
 And great exploits were done. 
 
 One arm was lost in Tennessee, 
 
 Another in Missouri, 
 And then a third while fighting Lee 
 
 With patriotic fury ; 
 Another still at Corinth went — 
 
 What cares he for his arms 
 While his beloved land was rent 
 
 With war and war's alarms. 
 
 159 
 
One leg in old Kentucky lay — 
 
 A second leg lost he 
 As merrily he limped away 
 
 With Sherman to the Sea. 
 What were two legs for him to lose, 
 
 On fields that reeked with gore? 
 He laughed away his fit of blues, 
 
 And lost a dozen more. 
 
 Of Richmond and the Wilderness 
 
 The hero loved to tell — 
 Ten thousand battles more or less. 
 
 The counterparts of hell; 
 Of dying men and women's tears. 
 
 And graves no one shall know — 
 Traditions of the dreadful years — 
 
 The years of long ago. 
 
 Ah ! though we now derisive smile. 
 
 Our children's children then 
 Will, wondering, hear his stories while 
 
 They bless this best of men; 
 And when his life at last is o'er 
 
 God grant His blessings too — 
 For he was one of those who wore 
 
 The dear, the glorious blue. 
 
 July 24th, 1883. 
 
 160 
 
THE MILITIAMAN. 
 
 He revels in scenes of blood and gore, 
 Where the terrible bomb is hurled; 
 
 He slaughters the foe and he calls for more, 
 And he wears his mustache curled. 
 
 All into the midst of the fight he flies, 
 Where the smoke makes sunlight dusk; 
 
 He loves to listen to dying cries. 
 His favorite scent is musk. 
 
 His sabre gleams like a shooting star, 
 
 He is full of martial oaths; 
 His constant talk is of blood and war. 
 
 He wears ten-dollar clothes. 
 
 January 22d, 1882. 
 
 161 
 
THE KANSAS VETERAN. 
 
 The old man's face was creased with care 
 
 And drooping was his head — 
 "Why have you such a languid air 
 
 On this proud day," we said. 
 "Alas, I am a Kansas man" — 
 
 "No more," we joyous cried, 
 "To Kansas and the Kansas men. 
 
 Our doors are open wide. 
 
 "Our hearts are widely open too, 
 
 For Kansas in the fight, 
 And Kansas men all wore the blue 
 
 And battled for the right; 
 So welcome, veteran, to our arms 
 
 And to our hearthstones, too, 
 Now tell us of the war's alarms 
 
 And bloody times you knew. 
 
 "And do you on your body bear 
 
 Grim-visaged ghastly scars? 
 And do you on your person wear 
 
 The finger-prints of wars? 
 Oh, tell us sir that we and ours 
 
 May bless you brave and true. 
 Who in our country's darkest hours 
 
 Marched forth and donned the blue." 
 
 162 
 
The Kansas veteran smiled a smile 
 
 And o'er the counter bent, 
 And quaffed a deep libation while 
 
 We gazed in wonderment. 
 "I come from Kansas," with a sigh 
 
 He then went on to tell, 
 "I am no soldier man, but I 
 
 Have garden truck to sell." 
 
 July 24th, 188 S- 
 
 163 
 
Mestern IDerse* 
 
McBtern Der^e* 
 
 FORMERLY OF KANSAS. 
 
 Is it you, old pard, with your whitened hair 
 An' your rugged beard laid on your breast, 
 
 And your pale eyes sot in a deathly stare, 
 That's taking your last and lonely rest 
 'Mid the snow-capped Rockies? 
 
 I knowed him, sir, when his eyes was clear. 
 When his face was smooth as a smilin' girl's. 
 
 When his limbs was as fleet as the frightened deer, 
 When his head was covered with nut-brown curls, 
 'Twas a long, long time ago. 
 
 He was with Jim Lane, a han'some lad. 
 And we done our likeliest — him and me — 
 
 An' it's many a narrer chance we had 
 Along the border, but what cared we. 
 In them days down in Kansas ! 
 
 167 
 
When the war came on, then me and Jim 
 Saddled our horses and rode away, 
 
 And fit for the Union — me and him — 
 Till all unsullied out o' the fray 
 We come with Kansas. 
 
 Is it you, old pard, with your frosted hair. 
 
 An' your crawny beard swep' down your breast, 
 
 An' your brave eyes fixed in a ghastly stare, 
 That has laid down here on the icy crest 
 O' the snow-capped Rockies? 
 
 S'posin' we hide his furrowed face 
 
 Under that yonder moanin' pine; 
 And on the stone that marks the place. 
 
 We'll carve naught else but the simple line, 
 "Formerly of Kansas." 
 
 March loth, 1883. 
 
 168 
 
THE PIONEER. 
 
 Fill up your glass, O comrade true, 
 With sparkling wine that cheers. 
 
 And let us drink a bumper to 
 The sturdy pioneers; 
 
 The honest men, the women fair, 
 Who, years and years ago. 
 
 Had steady hearts and heads to dare 
 Deeds we may never know 
 Nor page in history show! 
 
 They had their uses then, and now 
 They have their uses too, 
 
 For oh ! they live to tell us how 
 In eighteen sixty-two 
 
 The summer was the hottest time 
 That ever scorched our state, 
 
 And then, with earnestness sublime. 
 They hasten to relate 
 Tales vast to contemplate; 
 
 And speak of bitter wintry woe! 
 
 Why, mercy sakes alive! 
 There fell a fifteen foot of snow 
 
 In eighteen sixty-five ! 
 Three foot of water in the Platte 
 
 Was frozen ten foot thick, 
 And, seeming not content with that. 
 
 Each man and wife and chick 
 
 With rheumatiz took sick! 
 
 169 
 
And should we smile ? The years gone by 
 
 With martyr lives are strewn ; 
 We're gaily treading, you and I, 
 
 The path which they have hewn, 
 Hewn from the desert and the mine, 
 
 Posterity to cheer, 
 I^et's toast them in the sparkling wine, 
 
 Drink to the mem'ries dear ! 
 
 Drink to the pioneer ! 
 
 January 2pth, i88^. 
 
 170 
 
ATMOSPHERIC DECEPTION. 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast 
 As through the streets of Denver pass'd 
 An Englishman who raised on high 
 This feeble but suggestive cry, 
 '^The Foothills." 
 
 He queried of a man he met 
 "How far unto the foothills yet?" 
 The man looked up and deeply sighed, 
 "Some thirty miles, sir," he replied, 
 "To them Foothills." 
 
 The Englishman in spirit groaned, 
 "Well, I'll be blowed," he sadly moaned; 
 "It must be in the atmosphere. 
 It don't look more'n a mile from here 
 To the Foothills." 
 
 Next morning on the blistered ground 
 The corse of that poor wretch was found, 
 From Denver thirty miles away. 
 And still as far again, they say, 
 From the Foothills. 
 
 August 1 2th, 1881. 
 
 171 
 
A COLORADO SAND STORM. 
 
 See the madly blowing dust, 
 
 Oh! the dust! 
 How it revels in the gust, 
 How it covers with a crust 
 Of tenacious, gritty must 
 
 Ev'ry object in the street. 
 It is monarch of us all 
 When it rises up, we fall. 
 
 When it comes. 
 
 When it hums, 
 Ev'ry kind of business flags, 
 Ev'ry branch of business lags. 
 
 And it gags 
 
 As it snags 
 Ev'ry class of trade afloat. 
 It is death to eyes and throat. 
 
 For it kills 
 
 As it fills 
 Ev'ry eye and ev'ry throat. 
 
 Oh, the dust, dust, dust! 
 Yet it's useless to complain, 
 Intercessions are in vain, 
 
 172 
 
But it's far from being just 
 We should suffer so with dust, 
 Since the city is not bust, 
 
 Oh, the dust, 
 It is here, it is there. 
 It is flying everywhere ! 
 How it permeates the air ! 
 
 Oh, the dust! 
 
 How it's cuss'd. 
 
 November 6th, 1882. 
 
 173 
 
THE DROUTH. 
 
 The meads are parched, the earth is hot, 
 The sun is blazing in the sky. 
 The brooks that babbled once are dry, 
 Dead are the flowers, or drooping sick, 
 The fragrant flowers we loved to pick, 
 
 The pansy and forget-me-not. 
 
 The kine are panting in the glade. 
 The cowboy sweats in angry mood. 
 Because his flocks can find no food ; 
 The lambs in helpless misery 
 Ivoll on the baked and dusty lea. 
 
 And vainly pine for drink and shade. 
 
 And in this city, once our pride. 
 We see what ne'er before was seen. 
 Our trees no longer fresh and green; 
 The grass is withered up and dead. 
 And by the fire which burns o'erhead. 
 
 Each irrigating ditch is dried. 
 
 Boreas, from thy arctic cave. 
 
 Blow up a cool, refreshing gale! 
 Bring Zephyrus and Hesp'rus, too. 
 Each bearing hail and rain and dew, 
 
 The liquid element we crave. 
 
 174 
 
Or else this Colorado plain, 
 
 Once green with verdure will be turned 
 Into a desert, bleached and burned ; 
 This fairy portal to the hills. 
 Once watered by a thousand rills. 
 
 Will fade away through dearth of rain ! 
 
 January loth, 1882. 
 
 175 
 
WINTER IN COLORADO. 
 
 The snow lies deep upon the ground, 
 The birds sing sweetly in the trees, 
 
 The scent of roses all around 
 Is borne upon the icy breeze. 
 
 Upon each irrigating stream, 
 
 The skating youth indulge in play, 
 
 While women folks, like fairies, beam 
 In summer hats and white pekay. 
 
 The plumber taps the pipe that's froze, 
 And tears up ceiling, side and floor. 
 
 While round about the ice-man goes 
 And leaves his chattels at our door. 
 
 This man with frozen hands and feet 
 Is hurried off and put to bed ; 
 
 Another, prostrate by the heat. 
 
 Wears cabbage leaves upon his head. 
 
 Thus speeds the winter in our state 
 A batch of contradictions rude; 
 
 And we assign our varying fate 
 To this peculiar altitude. 
 
 November jd, 1881. 
 
 176 
 
DECEMBER, 1881. 
 
 Up to the blue and cloudless skies, 
 That bend from east to western peaks, 
 And have not changed for weary weeks, 
 
 I vainly turn my anxious eyes. 
 
 And in those skies I see the glow, 
 Of summer or of wakening spring, 
 Their smiling countenances bring 
 
 No faint suspicion e'en of snow. 
 
 Upon the soft and balmy air 
 
 I hear the birdling's joyful trill, 
 And by the purling mountain rill 
 
 The flowers are blooming sweet and fair. 
 
 The buds are bursting on the trees. 
 The blades of grass begin to start, 
 And oh, I feel it in my heart, 
 
 There isn't going to be a freeze ! 
 
 Why is it I alone am sad 
 
 When all the rest of earth is gay? 
 
 Why do I weep my soul away 
 While other women folks are glad? 
 Alas, mine is a bitter life, 
 
 My only hope, my only trust, 
 
 Is in a freeze, or in a bust, 
 I am an humble plumber's wife. 
 
 December 2pth, 1881. 
 
 177 
 
TO AN UNDERSHIRT. 
 
 Thou thing of ruddy, rosy redness, hail ! 
 
 With all thy prickly fuss to irritate. 
 For thou dost laugh defiance at the gale 
 
 That fain would shake 
 
 And with its bluster quake 
 Our corporosities well girt, 
 
 By thy delights that militate 
 'Gainst every ill, O flannel undershirt. 
 
 We choose thee red before we do thee white, 
 
 Not that the red is warmer or more fair, 
 Not that the red is comlier to sight. 
 
 But spite of dust 
 
 And coal and smoke and must. 
 The red defies appearances of dirt; 
 
 So then we choose thee red and wear 
 Thee next our hearts, O goodly undershirt ! 
 
 178 
 
A WILD WESTERN PROTEST. 
 
 A Boston scholar roundly swears 
 
 By all the gods above, below, 
 That we must put on modern airs 
 
 And let our Greek and Latin go. 
 Forbid, O Fate, we loud implore, 
 
 A dispensation harsh as that; 
 What ! wipe away the sweets of yore. 
 
 The dear ^'amo, amas, amat!" 
 
 The sweetest hour the student knows 
 
 Is not when pouring over French 
 Or twisted in Teutonic throes 
 
 Upon a hard collegiate bench ; 
 'Tis when on roots and kais and gars 
 
 He feeds his soul and feels it glow. 
 Or, when his muse transcends the stars 
 
 With "Zoa mou, sas agapo!" 
 
 So give our bright, ambitious boys 
 
 An inkling of these pleasures, too, 
 A little smattering of the joys 
 
 Their dead and buried fathers knew; 
 And let them sing, while glorying, that 
 
 Their sires so sang long years ago, 
 The songs, "Amo, amas, amat," 
 
 And "Zoa mou, sas agapo." 
 
 July 6th, 1883. 
 
 179 
 
UTAH. 
 
 Bowed was the old man's snow-white head, 
 A troubled look was on his face, 
 
 "Why come you, sir," I gently said, 
 "Unto this solemn burial place?" 
 
 "I come to weep a while for one 
 
 Whom in her life I held most dear, 
 
 Alas, her sands were quickly run. 
 And now she lies a sleeping here." 
 
 "Oh, tell me of your precious wife. 
 For she was very dear, I know, 
 
 It must have been a blissful life 
 You led with her you treasure so?" 
 
 "My wife is moldering in the ground. 
 In yonder house she's spinning now. 
 
 And lo ! this moment may be found 
 A driving home the family cow ; 
 
 "And see, she's standing at the stile, 
 And leans from out the window wide. 
 
 And loiters on the sward awhile. 
 Her forty babies by her side." 
 
 i8o 
 
**01d man, you must be mad !" I cried, 
 "Or else you do but jest with me; 
 
 How is it that your wife has died 
 And yet can here and Hving be ? 
 
 "How is it while she drives the cow 
 She's hanging out her window wide, 
 
 And loiters, as you said just now, 
 With forty babies by her side?" 
 
 The old man raised his snowy head, 
 "I have a sainted wife in heaven ; 
 
 I am a Mormon, sir, he said, 
 
 "My sainted wife on earth are seven." 
 
 March loth, 1882. 
 
 181 
 
WUN LUNG AND GIN SUNG. 
 
 On the gentle Wun Lung had Dame Nature bestowed 
 All physical charms in great wealth, 
 
 'Twas first out in 'Frisco she made her abode 
 But she came to our town for her health. 
 
 The genial Gin Sling kept a laundrying shop, 
 The which entered Wun Lung one day, 
 
 Beholding whom, Sling's heart went flippety-flop, 
 And in turn Lung's heart went the same way. 
 
 In the blandest of voices he said, "Be my bride 
 And I'll load you with kindness and wealth," 
 
 Wun Lung hung her head and with blushes replied, 
 "Wasn't marriage she wanted but health." 
 
 "O, pigeon toed beauty, with hair like the night 
 
 And eyes that for brightness excel 
 The glow of the stars, it would be my delight 
 
 To make you both happy and well. 
 
 "You shall sing while I wash ; while I iron, you sleep, 
 And the doctor shall call thrice a day. 
 
 And I as your husband and lover will keep 
 Every care and vexation away." 
 
 182 
 
Well, she married Gin Sling, and as to the rest 
 Of our story! What else could it be 
 
 Than she does the washing — that's easily guessed. 
 While the sleeping and singing does he! 
 
 February i8th, 1882. 
 
 183 
 
THE COLORADO SPRINGS BELLE. 
 
 In Colorado Springs did dwell 
 
 Once on a time a dashing belle, 
 
 Whose name was Hannah Hunniwell, 
 
 A blooming, buxom lass was she. 
 
 And she was sweet as sweet could be, 
 
 So all the fellows did agree; 
 
 But Hannah Hunniwell was vain, 
 
 That fact, alas ! was all too plain, 
 
 For Hannah laid uncommon stress 
 
 Upon the vanity of dress — 
 
 A weakness of her sex, we guess. 
 
 She had a lovely sealskin sacque 
 
 That often graced her comely back. 
 
 And sealed her doom at last, alack ! 
 
 For when the wintry winds did blow, 
 
 Prognosticating ice and snow. 
 
 Unto her trunk did Hannah go 
 
 And straight she hauled the sealskin out, 
 
 And with premonitory flout. 
 
 She put the noisome moths to rout. 
 
 "Now blow, ye winds," quoth Hannah ga)^, 
 ''So long as in my sacque I may 
 Go gallivanting all the day !" 
 
 184 
 
Alas, the poor, misguided child ! 
 
 The sun appeared, the tempest wild 
 
 Was lulled into a zephyr mild, 
 
 Then Hannah waxed uncommon pale 
 
 And wailed a great and grievous wail 
 
 To see her pet ambition fail. 
 
 Much to her family's dismay. 
 
 She stayed at home day after day. 
 
 And as she stayed, she pined away, 
 
 And still the weather milder grew. 
 
 The gentle south wind balmy blew, 
 
 And warmed the people through and through; 
 
 And while all other folks were glad. 
 
 Poor Hannah Hunniwell was sad. 
 
 Or what was sadder yet, was mad, 
 
 And so one calm, soft eventide. 
 
 She pressed her sealskin to her side, 
 
 And with a hollow sob, she died ! 
 
 The chattering gossips love to tell 
 The fate of that vain foolish belle. 
 Who loved her sealskin sacque too well. 
 
 185 
 
A KANSAS CITY ECHO. 
 
 I sing of beauty and the swell, 
 Who loved not wisely, but too well, 
 
 The old, old story. 
 She was a farmer's belle, in truth, 
 And he an operatic youth 
 
 In tights and glory. 
 
 Their love was not unmixed with pain, 
 The lady's brother had a vein 
 
 Of humor merry. 
 He found, by chance, a billet-doux, 
 And, smiling, quoth : "This youth is too 
 
 Preliminary." 
 
 With that he sought the trysting spot, 
 The air was comfortably hot. 
 
 Begetting dizziness. 
 And just at hand a fair array 
 Of clubs and other missiles lay. 
 
 In case of business. 
 
 But why prolong the tale of woe. 
 Of how he interviewed that beau. 
 
 In sport athletic; 
 And bore upon him like a gust. 
 And trailed his lithe form in the dust, 
 
 Unsympathetic ? 
 
 i86 
 
No more will this fair maid, they say, 
 Pursue the tenor of her way 
 
 In delectation; 
 No hope has he to ring the belle. 
 Which only sounds for him a knell 
 
 Of separation. 
 
 August idthj 1881. 
 
 187 
 
CUPID AT MANITOU. 
 
 I've been at the Springs for a merrisome while — 
 
 And oh, need I tell you the rest? — 
 Why my soul lights mine eyes with an eloquent smile, 
 
 As a little bird sings in my breast ! 
 Her face, like the lilies, is modest and fair, 
 
 And her orbs with an ecstasy glow. 
 And cute little bangs straggle out of her hair — 
 
 She's a darling young belle from St. Joe. 
 
 We met on the foothills — the usual way — 
 
 I was hungry and footsore and weak. 
 But my pangs disappeared like the night before day. 
 
 And the hot blushes mantled my cheek. 
 Ah, it's many a maiden with radiance rare, 
 
 I've met in my walks to and fro, 
 But with never a maid that presumed to compare, 
 
 With the beauteous young belle of St. Joe. 
 
 I am going to Leadville to print and to write, 
 
 With a little bird's song in my breast. 
 But I'll hie to the Springs every Saturday night 
 
 And woo that sweet bird in her nest. 
 'Neath the glorious stars and the sad visaged moon. 
 
 While the zephyrs are whispering low, 
 I will sit in the soughing and gloaming and spoon — 
 
 Oh, I'm mashed on the belle of St. Joe. 
 
 (Attributed to) C. C. Davis. 
 
 August i6th, 1881. 
 
 188 
 
THE BROWN TRAGEDY. 
 
 Old Obadiah Goshen Brown 
 
 Not many years ago, 
 Owned half a Massachusetts town — 
 
 Was awful rich, you know ; 
 And being somewhat sick and blue. 
 He thought he'd visit Manitou. 
 
 Arrived and fairly settled there 
 With all his traps and things, 
 
 He praised the clear and bracing air, 
 Likewise the Soda Springs, 
 
 And feeling frisky, quoth "I think 
 
 I'll to the bar and buy a drink." 
 
 Alas when came the time to pay 
 For that small drink, poor Brown 
 
 Saw all his fortune fade away — 
 His bonds, his stock, his town. 
 
 His bank account and all the rest 
 
 Of earthly pelf that he possessed. 
 
 He signed a quit-claim to it all 
 Then to the foothills hied — 
 
 "I will complete my dreadful fall 
 By perishing," he cried. 
 
 With that he made a fatal pitch 
 
 Into an irrigating ditch. 
 
 August 2^dj 1881. 
 
 189 
 
THE CACTUS. 
 
 "Bring me, my love, at twilight hour, 
 Some token of your love," she said, 
 "Which shall its fragrance 'round me shed, 
 
 A little boon, a tiny flower." 
 
 Oh, had my sweetheart asked me more, 
 I had not groaned as then I groaned, 
 I had not moaned as then I moaned. 
 
 My heartstrings had not pulled me sore. 
 
 For, oh ! I see on every hand 
 
 Nor roses, violets of blue. 
 
 Nor daffodils of varied hue, 
 Only a vast expanse of sand ! 
 
 Alas, and not a flower I see 
 Upon this Colorado plain, 
 I sigh and sigh and sigh again, 
 
 "My love can have no flow'r from me." 
 
 Stay, yonder is a modest sprout, 
 A cactus in the barren soil. 
 She hath contrived by sturdy toil 
 
 To spread her shrivelled roots about. 
 
 190 
 
What better token of my faith, 
 
 Could I unto my lady bear 
 
 Than that maimed foundling sprouting there, 
 That spawn of vegetation's wraith? 
 
 My love is like a cactus plant, 
 
 Elsewhere weak loves may bud and bloom, 
 
 But in this wild, this sandy tomb. 
 Mine be the sturdy love, God grant. 
 
 191 
 
THE TWO SLEEPERS. 
 
 I know two sleepers, one is there 
 
 In yonder house on yonder street, 
 She is my lady, fine and fair. 
 
 And she is lost in slumber sweet; 
 In dreams she dreams perhaps of me, 
 
 This sleeper whom I love so well. 
 And wonder where her love may be, 
 
 Sweet dream ! I pri' thee do not tell ! 
 
 The other sleeper is at rest. 
 
 Near yonder chair upon the floor, 
 White is its smooth and pulseless breast. 
 
 It represents six bits or more. 
 By whom 'twas dropped, I cannot say, 
 
 But, lest its owner woo it back. 
 Please, partner, kick it round this way. 
 
 That I may nip it for my stack. 
 
 May 2ist, 1883. 
 
 192 
 
DEATH OF THE COW-BOY. 
 
 How strong the cow-boy is in death, 
 How strives he with the reaper grim ! 
 How writhes each sturdy, supple limb, 
 
 What life is in each dying breath ! 
 
 His eyes have still the haughty gleam, 
 The flash of mingled pride and scorn. 
 They had at early yester' morn, 
 When he saw us and we saw him. 
 
 Come plunging through the swollen stream 
 And drive his heifers from our corn. 
 
 Oh, who hath done this dreadful deed, 
 Hath in an evil moment slain 
 This dashing hero of the plain. 
 
 This idol of the mount and mead ? 
 
 Oh, hath some jealous Indian chief 
 Waylaid this warrior of the ranch ? 
 Or hath som.e envious churl, perchance, 
 Conceiving honest combat vain. 
 
 Wrought all this tragedy and grief. 
 By shooting ere he could advance ? 
 
 193 
 
He died as cowboys died before; 
 A bottle struck him on the head, 
 He tottered, stumbled, fell and bled 
 
 A quart or two upon the floor. 
 
 'Twas Biddy Looney struck the blow 
 That caught him just above the ear, 
 He'd kissed her once and called her dear 
 
 And then (in sorrow breathe it low) 
 He'd scorned her pleading cry for beer ! 
 
 December loth, 1881, 
 
 194 
 
PIKE'S PEAK'S PHILOSOPHIC BURRO. 
 
 I stood upon the peak amid the air — 
 
 Below me laid the peopled, living earth ; 
 Life, life and life again was everywhere, 
 
 And everywhere was melody and mirth, 
 Save on that Peak and silence brooded there. 
 I vaunted there myself and half aloud 
 
 I gloried in the victory I had won. 
 Forsaking earth and earth's bewildering crowd 
 
 I'd climbed the steeps, despite the rocks and sun 
 It was a feat that really made me proud I 
 
 And as I brooded thus my burro brayed ; 
 
 I turned, a tear was in the creature's eye, 
 And as I looked, methought the burro said, 
 
 "What brought you up, good sir, this mountain 
 high? 
 Was it your legs or mine the journey made? 
 There is no peak as high and steep as Fame's, 
 
 And there be many on its very height. 
 Who strut in pride and vaunt their empty claims, 
 
 While those who toiled with sturdy, honest might 
 And placed them there, have unremembered names !" 
 
 December ist, 1881. 
 
 195 
 
THE MUSTANG. 
 
 A cow-boy o'er the prairie wide, 
 Upon a mustang staunch and true, 
 Thro' cacti, wet with morning dew, 
 
 In search of roving cattle hied. 
 
 Of all the cow-boys, fierce and wild. 
 The fiercest, wildest boy was he, 
 And as he skimmed the dusty lea, 
 
 He looked like nature's petted child. 
 
 Far out across the weary plain. 
 He cast his eager, flashing eye. 
 And saw a heifer, lean and spry, 
 
 Fast heading towards a field of grain. 
 
 Into his foaming mustang's side 
 
 He plunged his spur, and with a moan 
 The mustang bucked, despite the groan, 
 
 "Ha, ha ! Ho, ho !" the cow-boy cried. 
 
 Again it bucked — this time with care — 
 And ere that cow-boy guessed the cause 
 Or knew where in the world he was, 
 
 He shot into the startled air ! 
 
 196 
 
The probabil'ties are, we ween, 
 
 He's still going up or coming down, 
 For ne'er in country or in town 
 
 Has that there cow-boy since been seen. 
 
 And that was eighteen months ago. 
 The mustang waits upon the plain 
 For his belov'd to drop again 
 
 And give him just another show. 
 
 November ^th, 1881. 
 
 197 
 
TO EMMA ABBOTT. 
 
 Before thou earnest, O creature fair, 
 The stars were diamonds in the sky, 
 Yet now, at night, ah, tell me why 
 
 I see no stellar diamonds there? 
 
 Before thou camest the pretty trees 
 Coquetted with the gentle kiss 
 Of zephyrs ; now they seem to miss 
 
 The dalliance of the amorous breeze. 
 
 Before thou camest, the western sky 
 Was all aflame with golden light. 
 And now, I wot, perpetual night 
 
 Hath mantled o'er the realm on high. 
 
 Before thou camest, on yonder hill 
 The lark sang sweetly to his mate ; 
 And now, in vain we watch and wait 
 
 To see his flight and hear his trill. 
 
 The stars are jealous of thine eyes. 
 The lark is jealous of thy song, 
 Thy glorious hair, so fair and long. 
 
 Hath waked the envy of the skies. 
 
 198 
 
The wanton zephyrs love to kiss 
 The rosy velvet of thy cheek, 
 And blushes play at hide and seek 
 
 With them, what ecstasy is this ! 
 
 Ah, with the music of thy voice, 
 The wondrous beauty of thy grace. 
 Make this thy lasting living place. 
 
 Thy country's pride, our people's choice ! 
 
 September dth^ 1881. 
 
 199 
 
EMMA ABBOTT'S BABY. 
 
 Thy skin is of a scarlet hue, 
 
 Thou hast a shadow of a rose, 
 Thine eyes are milk and water blue, 
 
 Ten tiny dimples are thy toes. 
 Why wrinklest thou thy fuzzy face? 
 
 Why squirmest thou, as if in pain ? 
 Has some sharp pin got out of place. 
 
 That thou dost whoop thy wild refrain? 
 
 Thou smellest like a pan of clabber, 
 
 And squallest like an hungry calf; 
 And yet they understand thy jabber. 
 
 Thy mother and her meaner half. 
 And yet, perhaps, the time will be, 
 
 When thou shalt fill a lofty place, 
 A tenor soaring up to C, 
 
 But just at present you are bass. 
 
 (Attributed to) W. H. Bush. 
 September 8th, 1881. 
 
 200 
 
TABOR AND ABBOTT. 
 
 The Opera House — a union grand 
 
 Of capital and labor — 
 Long will the stately structure stand, 
 
 A monument to Tabor. 
 
 And as to Emma, never will 
 Our citizens cease lovin' her. 
 
 While time lasts shall her name be linked 
 With that of the ex-Governor. 
 
 Because of its grand Opera House, 
 
 Our city's much elated. 
 And happy is the time that Em 
 
 The structure dedicated. 
 
 For many a year and many a year 
 Our folks will have the habit 
 
 Of lauding that illustrious pair 
 Tabor and Emma Abbot. 
 
 (Attributed to) R. W. Woodbury. 
 
 September 8th, 1881. 
 
 201 
 
EMMA ABBOTT'S KISS. 
 
 To the capable critic it's clear, 
 That Abbott's a daisy Lucia, 
 
 But somehow we miss 
 
 That world renowned kiss 
 And that harvest of hugging, oh, dear! 
 
 September 8th, 1881. 
 
 202 
 
THE SMILE AND BIRD. 
 
 Once on a time St. Peter wept — 
 
 And Peter's tears are tears of worth — 
 
 Because while he awearied slept, 
 
 A smile slipped out from Heaven to earth. 
 
 Moreover, had a heavenly bird — 
 Of all the birds in realms on high 
 
 The sweetest songster ever heard — 
 Eluded Peter's dozing eye. 
 
 "Alas, alas!" St. Peter cried 
 
 In tones that spoke his anguish sore, 
 
 "Where have my precious treasures hied 
 That I enjoy their sweets no more?" 
 
 Hush blessed Saint ! They're with us here — 
 That heavenly smile is Abbott's face, 
 
 And with its influences near, 
 
 We'll feel and own its heavenly grace. 
 
 And that dear bird, which, loved the best. 
 Made angels joyous with its note. 
 
 Hath found a home and built a nest 
 In charming Abbott's beauteous throat. 
 
 Smile on, O smile! Sing on, O bird! 
 
 We know — we feel thy heavenly worth I 
 The smile that's seen and song that's heard 
 
 Make second heaven of our earth. 
 
 September 8th, 1881. 
 
 203 
 
EMMA ABBOTT. 
 
 The murmur of some waterfall, 
 
 Heard far adown some sylvan way, 
 Where southern winds and flowers play 
 
 And grasses wave and sweet birds call; 
 
 The vague, strange voices of the night. 
 That send their sombre echoes through 
 The fragrant paths, adamp with dew. 
 
 To meet the fresher morning light; 
 
 The plaint of waves, the rustling leaves. 
 The fresh, sweet music of the trees 
 When the tone master of the breeze 
 
 A newer, sweeter number weaves; 
 
 The tender tones of grass and flowers, 
 The melody of sun and sky. 
 The dear old story, that won't die, 
 
 Of summer sounds and summer hours; 
 
 Sweet are they, yet more sweetly thrills 
 Thy clear, strong notes, that hold them all, 
 The murmur of the waterfall, 
 
 The sea, the flowers, the birds, the hills. 
 
 September nth, 1881. 
 
 204 
 
JOSEPH WILSON. 
 
 Joseph Wilson — half past one — 
 Hanky-panky — lots of fun. 
 
 "Cash my chips — got to go — 
 Baby may be sick, you know." 
 
 Boys all make a dreadful kick, 
 Want to have the General stick. 
 
 All in vain — adieux are said — 
 Quits about six bits ahead. 
 
 St. James Hotel — half past two — 
 General in an awful stew. 
 
 Found the baby wide awake 
 With an awful stomach ache. 
 
 With the baby in his arms. 
 Filled with harrowing alarms, 
 
 Sweating, too, at every pore, 
 Joseph Wilson walks the floor. 
 
 Thinks of Hanky-panky then. 
 Wishes he were back again. 
 
 January 2 2d, 188^. 
 
 205 
 
RETURN OF THE EDITORS. 
 
 How changed they are in form and face 
 Since last we saw them take the train 
 
 Bound for a distant naughty place 
 Beyond the river, hill and plain. 
 
 Why, then they were as fresh and gay 
 As lambkins frisking on the lea, 
 
 But as we welcome them to-day 
 
 We wonder how such change can be. 
 
 Their eyes are sunken, bleared and red. 
 Their cheeks are ghastly, pale as death, 
 
 Their lips are bloodless as the dead, 
 A dark brown odor is their breath. 
 
 They totter for they cannot walk, 
 They grimace, for they cannot smile, 
 
 They sputter (for they cannot talk) 
 Like dreary mental wrecks the while. 
 
 Was it for this we sent our pride. 
 Our brilliant Colorado Press, 
 
 Down to the lake's tumultuous side 
 For sucker waters to caress ? 
 
 206 
 
We gave them men, and lo! we find 
 They send us back a driveling crew, 
 
 Sans all they had of meat and mind. 
 And oh ! what's worse, sans money, too. 
 
 207 
 
A MEXICAN BALLAD. 
 
 There was a Greaser bold and staid, 
 Don Gomez del Gomazza, 
 
 Who loved a gentle Greaser maid, 
 The Donna Frontpiazza. 
 
 Don Gomez rode a mustang- proud, 
 And wore a bloody slasher, 
 
 Of all the gallus Greaser crowd, 
 He was the giddiest masher. 
 
 Don Gomez once was tempted sore, 
 Despite of law and order. 
 
 To glut his greedy thirst for gore 
 And cross the Texas border. 
 
 "So fare you well, wee lady fair, 
 The pretty little Donna;" 
 
 In vain she tore her raven hair. 
 Her Gomez was a goner. 
 
 Then hied he to the Rio Grande 
 With Yankee hordes to battle ; 
 
 He crossed into the promised land 
 And went to stealing cattle. 
 
 208 
 
And then with more than royal pluck, 
 He did his pleasing duty, 
 
 And, meeting with uncommon luck. 
 He started home with booty. 
 
 But oh! the Yankees fierce and strong, 
 While marching out to battle 
 
 Beheld Don Gomez come along 
 Adriving them there cattle. 
 
 They gathered in the festive steers, 
 And snagged the gallus Greaser, 
 
 And with a round of hoots and jeers 
 They hanged him to a tree, sir. 
 
 Loud wailed the Greaser maiden fair, • 
 
 The Donna Frontpiazza, 
 Once more she tore her maiden hair 
 
 For Gomez del Gomazza. 
 
 February 12th, 1882. 
 
 209 
 
A SPANISH FANDANGO. 
 
 Around the sawdust ring there rode 
 
 A comely circus rider, 
 Alfonso's cheeks with pleasure glowed 
 
 Whenever he espied her. 
 
 In sooth he owned he was no churl 
 And couldn't see the harm in 
 
 Tomfooling with this pretty girl — 
 The Senorita Carmen. 
 
 "The queen I fear is up to snuff — 
 
 I pri' thee don't defy 'er," 
 Advised a certain courtier gruff — 
 
 Don Jesus H. Maria. 
 
 Alas the king was gone too far 
 For sober second thinking — 
 
 He tipped the girl a tra-la-la 
 With multifarious winking. 
 
 Then did the queen, Alfonso's bride. 
 Wax straightway hot as fire, 
 
 And call the courtier to her side — 
 Don Jesus H. Maria. 
 
 2IO 
 
"Oh, take me from this dreadful place," 
 
 The lady 'gan to bellow, 
 "I'll look no more upon his face — 
 
 The horrid, nasty fellow!" 
 
 "But stay, woman, the king hath eyes, 
 
 And cannot help admire," 
 In palliation then replies 
 
 Don Jesus H. Maria. 
 
 But no, she was of stubborn mind, 
 So scorning "ifs" and "maybes". 
 
 And leaving king and court behind. 
 She sloped with both her babies. 
 
 Then made the court a vast ado — 
 Loud wailed the royal sire — 
 
 And long repined the courtier, too, 
 Don Jesus H. Maria. 
 
 July loth 1 88^. 
 
 211 
 
THE DENVER MARINER. 
 
 I am a jolly Denver tar, 
 
 Upon the Platte I sail — 
 I sniff the breakers from afar 
 
 And court the screeching gale. 
 I climb the mizzenmast by night 
 
 And heave the bobsail down — 
 Beyond I see the harbor light, 
 
 Hard by my native town. 
 
 The cactus clings unto my hair, 
 
 As in the briny gloom 
 I climb the narrow gangway stair 
 
 To furl the foretop boom. 
 The hawsers creak and anchors groan, 
 
 The rainclouds deck the sky, 
 With many a shrillsome shriek and moan 
 
 The sea gulls flutter by. 
 
 My sweetheart is a fisher maid. 
 
 On yonder shore she stands. 
 With hopes my ship is not delayed, 
 
 She lingers on the sands. 
 With my brave bark upon the sea 
 
 And her whom I behold. 
 Where is the man who would not be 
 
 A Denver sailor bold. 
 
 August 2/th, 1882. 
 
 212 
 
THE DENVER LIFE BOAT. 
 
 The good ship ''Buttered Sandwich" sailed, 
 
 Adown the briny bay ; 
 The summer sky above was veiled, 
 
 With smiles and cloudlets gay, 
 While underneath the azure sea 
 
 In solemn grandeur rolled. 
 As on her course right merrily, 
 
 The ''Buttered Sandwich" bowled. 
 
 But scarce a league away had sailed, 
 
 When Captain Cornbeef came, 
 And stood upon the deck and hailed 
 
 The gallant mate by name, 
 "Behold," he muttered, "yonder cloud. 
 
 That broods o'er Boulder's shore. 
 Mayhap it is our winding shroud. 
 
 Leastwise, it grieves me sore." 
 
 213 
 
The maintop splintered like a stick, 
 
 While o'er the waves afar, 
 Were mingled fast and scattered thick, 
 
 Full many a beam and spar. 
 
 Oh 'twas a dreadful, dreadful night! 
 
 Upon the slimy deck 
 The passengers in demon fright. 
 
 Bemoaned the awful wreck. 
 The men rushed here, the women there. 
 
 The captain and the crew 
 Crouched by the bulwarks in despair. 
 
 Of what to say or do. 
 
 When lo! just as the ship careened 
 
 As if about to sink. 
 All o'er the rail a sailor leaned, 
 
 And wildly cried, "I think 
 I see a lifeboat come this way, 
 
 Manned by a sturdy boy," 
 Then hope succeeded dire dismay, 
 
 And fear gave way to joy. 
 
 Aye, in his honest little yawl, 
 
 A youth pulled out from shore. 
 Unto the wreck and took them all, 
 
 Three hundred souls or more. 
 Back to the beach, where safe on land, 
 
 The passengers and crew. 
 Took the small hero by the hand 
 
 And told him "Good for you !" 
 
 214 
 
No sooner had these words he said, 
 
 Than did the tempest burst. 
 Upon the good ship's fated head, 
 
 And each man knew the worst. 
 Some poets sing of heroes who 
 
 Toil in the eastern main. 
 To bring wrecked passengers and crew 
 
 Safe back to land again. 
 But Colorado poets are 
 
 To all such baubles stoic, 
 For here the seas are wilder far 
 
 And heroes more heroic. 
 
 June 5th, 1882. 
 
 215 
 
MORNING. 
 
 The sun cometh up in the Orient sky, 
 
 Dispensing his warmth over prairie and glade, 
 His beams Hghtly dance on the cot where I lie 
 
 And kiss my soft hand on the coverlet laid, 
 Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze. 
 And the flies gamble aimlessly over my nose. 
 
 The lark soars aloft from his nest in the tree, 
 And sings a fair song to his mate on the hill. 
 
 His music comes in through the lattice to me, 
 And my soul, all responsive, amens to his trill. 
 
 Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze. 
 
 And the flies make a feast on my ten tiny toes. 
 
 The chambermaid armed with her dustpan and 
 broom 
 And wearing an eye that is pregnant with gore. 
 Expresses a yearning to make up my room, 
 And plays a sonata on key-hole and door. 
 Vain the sun's winsome smiles and the lark's soft 
 
 appealing, 
 The flies make their flight to their lairs on the ceiHng. 
 
 August loth, 1881. 
 
 216 
 
MAUD MULLER. 
 
 Miss Muller, so the gossips say, 
 Flirted in quite a shameless way ; 
 
 But Maud, with a laugh, pronounced it fudge, 
 Yet we caught her wink at the ratty Judge. 
 
 And the Judge, but we mention this sub rose, 
 Blushed up to the roots of his bulbous nose. 
 
 Still, he craned his neck and in passing by, 
 Gave a sinister wink with his dexter eye. 
 
 Quoth Maud to herself, as on she passed, 
 "I have his royal nibs in tow at last; 
 
 "My mother shall wear a sealskin sacque. 
 My pa swing out in his broadcloth black; 
 
 "My brother shall sip his whisky skins. 
 And my sister revel in gay breastpins !" 
 
 Quoth the Judge as he sauntered listless on, 
 "She's a rattling gyirl; you bet Fm gone; 
 
 217 
 
"No doubt my last wife's ma will kick, 
 And my heirs cut up the very Nick; 
 
 "And tho' Fve known her a short, short spell, 
 You bet I'll have her in. spite of — " well 
 
 No matter his word, 'twas short and stout. 
 And the name of a place that's now played out 
 
 According to Beecher, Alack! for all. 
 
 The maid and the Judge ne'er wedded at all; 
 
 For he passed in his checks from too much gin, 
 And the maid grew long and lank and thin. 
 
 And eke, as her chances glimmered away 
 She ceased to flirt and began to pray. 
 
 God pity the maid and pity the Judge, 
 
 And these days of twaddle and bosh and fudge ; 
 
 For of all sad words from a heart bereft, 
 The saddest are these, "You bet I'm left.'* 
 
 218 
 
Iparobies, Etc 
 
Ipato&ie0, jetc^ 
 
 THE COVENTRY LEGEND. 
 
 There was a wife in Coventry 
 Whose name was Mrs. Brown, 
 
 Her husband was a hightoned bird, 
 The Mayor of the town. 
 
 He did misuse the people so, 
 
 It raised an awful storm, 
 Till Mrs. Brown declared she would 
 
 Inaugurate reform. 
 
 The old gent said he'd yield him to 
 The prayers of Mrs. Brown, 
 
 If she would ride upon a mule 
 All naked through the town. 
 
 She quick did let the people know. 
 The promise of old Brown, 
 
 And they unto their houses hied, 
 While she rode through the town. 
 
 221 
 
But one old rooster, bald and grey, 
 
 Upon his knees went down, 
 And peeped out through the keyhole at 
 
 The disrobed Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Straightway his eyes fell out, and he 
 
 Forever more was blind, 
 And ever after lived a life 
 
 Detested by mankind. 
 
 But always to his dying day. 
 
 That ornery rooster bald. 
 The sight of glowing Mrs. Brown 
 
 With unfeigned bliss recalled. 
 
 222 
 
REALITY TOO UTTERLY-QUITE. 
 
 Ah, bring me the sunflower and Hly, 
 Let me live in the glorious sight; 
 
 Though Philistines say it is silly, 
 It is really too utterly-quite. 
 
 Let me twine, let each member contorted 
 Show visions aesthetic and bright; 
 
 What is art if we are not distorted 
 And really too utterly-quite? 
 
 Let the dull-faced green be my raiment, 
 Relieved by no touches of light. 
 
 We'll talk not of tailor's repayment, 
 For we're really too utterly-quiet! 
 
 If aesthetic perfection you long for. 
 And wish for a bask in the sight, 
 
 In the Park we go in rather strong for 
 We're really too utterly-quiet! 
 
 "Quite too too !" you hear the words muttered. 
 Ah yes, the thing here is quite right, 
 
 Man and woman are thoroughly "uttered" 
 And are really too utterly-quite! 
 
 (Attributed to) Col. John Arkins. 
 
 August 28th, 1881. 
 
 223 
 
WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 I met a doctor rolling up 
 
 His wild and fireful eyes, 
 His lofty brow was clouded o'er 
 
 With an impression wise; 
 Quoth I, "Pray tell me, if you please. 
 
 Why roll your eyes to heaven?" 
 "Alas," he answered with a sigh, 
 
 "It is because we're seven!" 
 
 There's Bliss and Barnes and Hamilton, 
 
 And Agnew, which makes four, 
 And Woodward, Baxter and myself. 
 
 Thank God, there ain't no more! 
 We've fooled around for forty days. 
 
 And yet, so help me heaven. 
 We haven't done a bit more good 
 
 Than if we were not seven !" 
 
 One says, "It is," another, " 'Taint," 
 
 While I claim it's pyaemia. 
 And as we dose and fool around. 
 
 The outlook's growing dreamier ; 
 And as the nation's pray'rs go up 
 
 With one accord, to heaven. 
 Each doctor has a different scheme. 
 
 For we, good sir, are seven. 
 
 August ipth, 1881. 
 
 224 
 
IN RE SPRING. 
 
 Whereas, on sundry boughs and sprays, 
 Now divers birds are heard to sing. 
 
 And sundry flowers their heads upraise, 
 Hail to the coming on of Spring ! 
 
 The songs of the said birds arouse 
 The memory of our youthful hours, 
 
 As young and green as those said boughs. 
 As fresh and fair as those said flowers. 
 
 The birds aforesaid, happy pairs. 
 
 Love 'midst the aforesaid boughs enshrine, 
 
 In household nests, themselves, their heirs, 
 Administrators and assigns. 
 
 O, busiest term of Cupid's Court ! 
 
 When tender plaintiffs actions bring; 
 Season of frolic and of sport. 
 
 Hail! as aforesaid, coming spring. 
 
 (Attributed to) Judge G. G. Symes. 
 April 2yth, 1882. 
 
 225 
 
I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS. 
 
 I cannot sing the old songs 
 
 I sang long years ago, 
 And yet I cannot say I'm sad 
 
 That time hath changed us so, 
 For when I used to sing those songs. 
 
 My Papa blankety blanked, 
 And Mama took me on her knee 
 
 And I, alas! was spanked. 
 
 November 2pth, 1882. 
 
 226 
 
THE SAME DEAR HAND. 
 
 The bells ring out a happy sound, 
 
 The earth is mantled o'er with white, 
 It is the merry Christmas night. 
 
 And love, and mirth, and joy abound, 
 
 And here sit you and here sit I — 
 I should be happiest in the land. 
 For oh ! I hold the same dear hand 
 
 I've held for many a year gone by. 
 
 It is not withered up with care — 
 It is as fresh and fair to see — 
 As sweet to hold and dear to me 
 
 As when with chimes upon the air, 
 
 On Christmas nights of years ago 
 I held the same dear little thing. 
 And felt its soft caresses bring 
 
 The flushes to my throbbing brow. 
 
 Ah, we were born to never part — 
 This little hand I hold to-night. 
 And I — so with strong delight 
 
 I press it to my beating heart. 
 
 And in the midnight solemn hush, 
 I bless the little hand I hold — 
 In broken whispers be it told — 
 
 It is the old time bob tail flush. 
 
 December 2^th, 1881. 
 
 227 
 
WINTER JOYS. 
 
 A man stood on the bathroom floor, 
 While raged the storm without, 
 
 One hand was on the water valve, 
 The other on the spout. 
 
 He fiercely tried to turn the plug, 
 But all in vain he tried, 
 
 "I see it all, I am betrayed, 
 The water's froze," he cried. 
 
 Down to the kitchen then he rushed. 
 And in the basement dove. 
 
 Long strived he for to turn the plugs, 
 But all in vain he strove. 
 
 "The hydrant may be running yet," 
 He cried in hopeful tone, 
 
 Alas, the hydrant too, was froze, 
 As stiff as any stone. 
 
 There came a burst, the water pipes 
 And plugs, oh, where were they? 
 
 Ask of the soulless plumber man 
 Who called around next day. 
 
 November ist, 1882. 
 
 228 
 
LOST CHORDS. 
 
 One autumn eve, when soft the breeze 
 Came sweeping through the lattice wide, 
 I sat me down at organ side 
 
 And poured my soul upon the keys. 
 
 It was, perhaps by heaven's design, 
 That from my half unconscious touch. 
 There swept a passing chord of such 
 
 Sweet harmony, it seemed divine. 
 
 In one soft tone it seemed to say 
 The sweetest words I ever heard. 
 Then like a truant forest bird. 
 
 It soared from me to heaven away. 
 
 Last eve, I sat at window whence 
 
 I sought the spot where erst had stood 
 A cord — a cord of hick'ry wood. 
 
 Piled up against the back yard fence. 
 
 Four dollars cost me it that day. 
 
 Four dollars earned by sweat of brow, 
 Where was the cord of hick'ry now? 
 
 The thieves had gobbled it away ! 
 
 229 
 
Ah ! who can ever count the cost, 
 
 Of treasures which were once our own, 
 Yet now, hke childhood dreams are flown, 
 
 Those cords that are forever lost. 
 
 June 8th, 1882. 
 
 230 
 
ARABI BEY. 
 
 I am flying, Egypt, flying. 
 
 And it's likely I shall fly 
 Till I can't fly any farther, 
 
 For I do not care to die. 
 I'm so stifled by the desert 
 
 Sand my lungs can hardly wheeze, 
 And I'm feeling mighty shaky 
 
 In my stomach and my knees ; 
 Not a bite of camel's sirloin. 
 
 Nor a drop of camel's whey, 
 Not an orange or banana 
 
 Has passed my lips to-day. 
 For I'm flying, Egypt, flying. 
 
 And my present purpose is 
 To keep on flying till I know 
 
 I am safely out of this. 
 
 From Alexandria's marble halls 
 To Bing Whang's cots of clay 
 
 From Snicker Eli's sandy plains 
 To Cairo's tufted walls, 
 
 From Thump-el-Hi ttem's lordly site 
 To Sneeza's royal halls 
 
 231 
 
And still the bloody Britisher 
 
 Comes prancing up behind, 
 With a threat to tear my inwards out 
 
 And strew them to the wind! 
 Do you wonder, Egypt, wonder, 
 
 With my army round. me dying, 
 That I'm flying, Egypt, flying 
 
 And propose to keep on flying? 
 
 September 13th, 1882. 
 
 232 
 
ODE TO THE PASSIONS. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 Before the gods, 'tis said she sung. 
 And instruments of every kind 
 She brought to please the godlike mind. 
 
 And first the Fiddles, great and small, 
 With tightened strings and resined bows, 
 Surprised and charmed the Olympians all. 
 With solemn, sad adagios. 
 
 Then rushed anon with throbbing tones 
 The train of tremulous Trombones, 
 Now swelling like a tropic gale, 
 Now lulled into a whiffling wail. 
 The gods all wept, the gods all smiled. 
 By starts were soft, by fits were wild. 
 
 With quiet mien and modest grace. 
 The Hurdygurdy came apace, 
 
 And groaned a grind. 
 So sweet and tremulous of kind. 
 Fair Cytheraea hid her face. 
 And as the echoes filled her ears, 
 She smiled serenely through her tears. 
 
 And went it blind. 
 
 233 
 
Next came the Cymbals, full of fire, 
 And, with a fierce and brazen ire. 
 
 They smote a smast! 
 The frightened gods surged to and fro, 
 Dumbfounded by the blaring blow. 
 
 And all aghast, 
 Back they recoiled — the demons passed. 
 
 But thou, O Flute, with murmurings low. 
 Call' St back the tears into their eyes, 
 And Juno, mute with glad surprise, 
 Binds fragrant fillets round her brow, 
 While Father Jove — no critic he — 
 Exclaims, in honest, burly, glee, 
 
 "Waal, waal, I swow!" 
 Thy tones are like the waterfall, 
 Or nightingales' seductive call. 
 
 Thou art a warbler fair ! 
 And Bacchus waves his golden hair 
 With pleasure when thy strain begins, 
 And, rising on the ravished air, 
 
 He shakes 
 Ten thousand odors from his whisky skins. 
 
 November 6th, 1882. 
 
 234 
 
ODE TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Maecenas, thou of royal line, 
 Friend, comrade, patron, too, of mine, 
 Some men there be whom horrid wars 
 And blood and gore and ghastly scars 
 And horrors of the naval fight 
 Or civil slaughterings delight; 
 And some upon the changing seas 
 Before the gentle, favoring breeze. 
 Delight in merchant ships to sail. 
 Nor dread the calm nor fear the gale 
 But bearing wealth across the main. 
 Return with riches home again; 
 And others, those of plastic mold, 
 Exchange their principles for gold. 
 The wily politician taught 
 In lying arts, with record fraught 
 With rank corruption, thieving lust. 
 Who's ne'er content with honest crust, 
 But prone to lie and prone to cheat. 
 He fawns about his prince's feet 
 Till some fat office is at hand. 
 And then he cheats and robs the land. 
 Let these disport them as they may. 
 
 235 
 
But I, throughout the livelong day, 
 
 Nurture the spark of heavenly fire, 
 
 Invoke the muse and strike the liar; 
 
 Skin up and down the winding street. 
 
 Pump items out of those I meet, 
 
 Record the murders, runaways. 
 
 The fights, the thefts ; and every phase 
 
 Of life in country or in town 
 
 I jot upon my tablets down; 
 
 Three flights of stairs, three times a day 
 
 I upward wend my weary way ; 
 
 From early morn till dewy night 
 
 I write and toil and toil and write. 
 
 And yet Maecenas I would choose 
 
 To thus pay worship to the muse. 
 
 Let others glory in the sea, 
 
 Fd strike my head against the stars, 
 No forum, tented field for me, 
 
 Fd run my face before the bars! 
 
 236 
 
THE FATE OF TOMATO KAHN. 
 
 Old Ragbag Bey, a venerable man, 
 
 Arose one morning and to his servant said, 
 "Send hither, slave, my son. Tomato Khan, 
 
 If, by the Prophet's beard, he's out of bed." 
 Tomato Khan responded in all haste. 
 
 And, kneeling on the earth before his sire. 
 Kissed thrice his feet, and clinging to his waist, 
 
 "Why hast thou called?" respectful did inquire. 
 
 "Mush Allah !" cried the old man in a breath, 
 
 Our country is in dire complaint, I see. 
 On every hand is desolation, death, 
 
 And she demands a sacrifice of me. 
 From Am el Telba unto Goghar's wall, 
 
 From Batra's palms to Ondig's sandy plain, 
 I hear the roll of drum, the trumpet's call, 
 
 The clash of arms and war's intense refrain. 
 
 Bind on this scimeter, my son, and go 
 
 This day to Goghar on thy fiery, dauntless steed. 
 Join thou the army of the Faithful, show 
 
 Thy zest for Allah in thy country's hour of need ! 
 Tomato Khan bound on old Ragbag's sword. 
 
 His love, the fair Amirie, begged him stay. 
 In vain the maiden wept, in vain implored. 
 
 Tomato Khan strode on his vengeful way. 
 
 237 
 
He did not die, as Ragbag hoped he might, 
 
 Nor as Amirie thought a warrior should, 
 He did not perish on the field of fight, 
 
 No Christian hands are reeking with his blood. 
 Kicked by a mule, he fell at Sneez-el-Snuff, 
 
 A cheap, Arabian mule, a vulgar beast. 
 He faintly murmured, "Allah ! this is rough !'' 
 
 And then the throbbings of his sick heart ceased. 
 
 So, for his country died Tomato Khan, 
 
 A youth equipped for great, chivalric scenes. 
 Dead by a mule, a martyred, glorious man, 
 
 A patriot, since the end doth glorify the means. 
 A mausoleum hath old Ragbag built, 
 
 x\s tribute to Tomato Khan's brave deeds. 
 At morn, at night his bitter tears are spilt. 
 
 The fair Amirie wears a widow's weeds. 
 
 June soth, 1882. 
 
 238 
 
THE JAFFA AND JERUSALEM R. R. 
 
 A little double iron track, 
 
 A station here, a station there, 
 A locomotive tender tank, 
 
 A coach with patent swinging chair; 
 A postal car and baggage too, 
 
 A platform of the Miller make. 
 With buffer, duffer, chain and spike. 
 
 And nobby automatic brake. 
 Such is the pride of Orient hordes. 
 
 And Syria's brightest modern gem, 
 The railroad train that snails along 
 
 'Twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. 
 
 Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, 
 
 The engine when it rings its bell ! 
 Beware, O camel, when you hear 
 
 The whistle's sharp and warning swell! 
 And native of the holy land. 
 
 Unused to modern travel's snare. 
 And soothed by guileful taffy talk. 
 
 The awful peanut boy beware ! 
 Else, trusting to his words and wares. 
 
 Thou mayst have reason to condemn 
 The style of trade that's fashionable 
 
 'Twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. 
 
 239 
 
And when, oh when the bonds fall due, 
 
 How vexed and wroth will wax the state, 
 From Nebo's Mount to Nazareth, 
 
 The cry will sound, "Repudiate." 
 From Hebron to Tiberias, 
 
 From Jordan's banks unto the sea. 
 Will swell the chorus, loud and long, 
 
 Against that " monopoly," 
 
 The horny handed shepherd swain. 
 
 Oppressed by bonded stratagem. 
 Will curse that corporation line, 
 
 'Twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem ! 
 
 June 2ist, 1882. 
 
 240 
 
JAFFA AND JERUSALEM R. R. TROUBLES. 
 
 Ben-Ali-Sneezer, late one afternoon, 
 
 Met Sheik Back-Gammon on old Horeb's mount, 
 
 And thus he in the language of the East, 
 
 His multifarious hardships did recount : 
 
 "O Sheik, I bow me in the dust and mourn. 
 
 For lo! whilst browsing on the fertile plain, 
 
 Two of my choicest heifers — fair and fat — 
 
 Were caught in limbo and were duly slain 
 
 By that infernal pest of recent birth. 
 
 The half-past eight accommodation train." 
 
 Then quoth the Sheik : "One of my white lambs. 
 Which I did purpose soon to drive to town. 
 While frisking o'er the distant flowery lea, 
 Was by that selfsame fatal train run down. 
 Now, O Ben Ali! by the prophet's beard. 
 What are we ruined shepherd folk to do? 
 Suppose we take our troubles into court. 
 You swear for me and I will swear for you; 
 And so, by mutual oaths, it's possible 
 We may most hap'ly pull each other through." 
 
 241 
 
Ben-Ali-Sneezer some months after met 
 The Sheik Back-Gammon, and inclined to sport, 
 The two sat down upon a cedar stump 
 To talk of their experience in court. 
 Ben-Ali quoth, "Them cows was thin as rails, 
 Now that they're gone, it's mighty glad I am!" 
 Back-Gammon said, "Now that the judgment's paid, 
 I don't mind telling you the slaughtered lamb. 
 So far from being what you swore in court. 
 Was, by the great horned spoon, not worth a ." 
 
 242 
 
A PASTORAL. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 How sweet to sit at noontide's hour, 
 
 Beneath the lilac tree, 
 And watch the slowly budding flower 
 
 And sing, O Spring, of thee. 
 Trot out, O Tityrus, my flute, 
 
 Hand o'er my tuneful lyre, 
 Unhand the throttle of my flute. 
 
 Lead out the shepherd choir. 
 And let the ewes and lambkins stand 
 In dumb surprise on every hand. 
 While all the hills and valleys ring. 
 With our apostrophe to Spring. 
 
 Tityrus. 
 
 Wilt thou, O Virgil, tip us a stave 
 In the plaintive Ionic, or in the lively 
 Manner of the swift-footed iambic? 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 On a barren rock with thee, O Tityrus, 
 Born into the world, else wouldst thou know 
 That neither does it please me to sing praises 
 Nor invoke in the gentle Alcaic nor the 
 Choriambic heptameter catalectic. 
 
 243 
 
Tityrus. 
 
 Sing then, I pray, in the dialectic trimeter. 
 Or the jo3^ous iambic dimeter, the staid 
 Pherecractic or the suicidal Sapphic. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 Youth be shut as to your prattling mouth. 
 My lyric is not attuned to such as 
 Dactylic, tetrameter a posteriore, 
 Adonic, iambic, dimeter hypermeter, 
 Acephalous Choriambic tetrameter, 
 Glyconic, Ionic a minore minor, 
 Alcaic, Dactylico iambic or 
 Archilochian heptameter. 
 
 Tityrus. 
 
 In what manner of flowing verslets 
 Will thou, the poet, breathe the song? 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 In the sardonic, sulphuric gasmeter, 
 
 In the smooth carbolic Celtic diameter, 
 
 The chronic, laconic cataleptic. 
 
 The muriatic acidic or the mellifluous 
 
 Diabolic paregoric — but look! 
 
 The shadows on the hills grow larger and 
 
 The sun fades in the horizon, O Pueri 
 
 Sat prata rivos biberunt, vale. 
 
 March 2/th, 1882. 
 
 244 
 
A PASTORAL. 
 
 O, Tityrus, as you sit beneath 
 
 The shade of yonder budding bay, 
 
 And on the wierd, profound trombone, 
 Pip' St thou thy sweet bucoHc lay. 
 Behold the Berkshire lambs at play ; 
 
 Behold the Southdown cattle feed, 
 And gaze upon the browsing swine. 
 
 And calmly view the Durham steed 
 Cavorting 'mongst the maiden kine. 
 Ah, would that such a lot were mine ! 
 
 No cares, no sorrows, ills nor woes 
 Consume thy soul as through the day 
 
 Thou pip' St upon thy mild trombone 
 The shepherd's sweet ecstatic lay. 
 And watch the grazing herds at play. 
 
 Ah, would, dear Tityrus, that I, 
 A poet, not a shepherd born. 
 
 Could rest supine beneath the shade 
 And pipe upon the shepherd's horn. 
 And keep the cattle from the corn. 
 
 February isth, 1882. 
 
 2AS 
 
POLITICAL RHYMES. 
 
 Some Bosses were playing with a mule, 
 
 One cold November day, 
 The mule's still there, with upraised leg. 
 
 The Bosses, where are they? 
 
 Smash up and Clatter ! 
 
 Great guns how they scatter! 
 
 The tail wags the dog no more ! 
 
 The people have reason to like the sport 
 
 Though many a Boss' heart's sore. 
 
 November 15th, 1882. 
 
 The statesman introducing bills 
 
 Is not the creature to adore, 
 For they are dreary, senseless ills, 
 
 And he a very stupid bore; 
 But he is sensible and wise, 
 
 (As all the poor reporters learn) 
 Who rises in his place and cries, 
 
 " 'Ster Speaker, move you we adjourn!" 
 
 January i8th, 188^- 
 
 246 
 
POUTICAL RHYMES. 
 
 Sing a song of sick men 
 
 And bosoms full of pain, 
 But it is a nasty thing 
 
 To be caught in the rain. 
 If one can't swim and it's a Flood 
 
 Every state a loss! 
 Isn't this a pretty dish 
 
 To set before a Boss ! 
 
 Sing a song of caucus, 
 
 Senatorial pie; 
 Six or seven candidates 
 
 And none of them are high ; 
 While the caucus wrangles 
 
 O'er the precious prize, 
 Along comes a dark horse 
 
 And nips it 'fore their eyes ! 
 
 January 4th, 188^. 
 
 247 
 
RANDOM VERSE. 
 
 Now what in the world shall we dioux 
 With the bloody and murderous Sioux 
 
 Who sometime ago 
 
 Took his arrow and bow 
 And raised such a hellabelioux ? 
 
 A maiden once ate a cucumber 
 
 And then she lay down for. to slumber; 
 
 The next thing she knew 
 
 Up to heaven she flew, 
 Her casket was made of new lumber. 
 
 A darling young fellow named Day 
 Prints the Solid Muldoon, at Ouray; 
 
 When folks pay their back dues, 
 
 He's as mild as you choose, 
 When they don't, there's the devil to pay. 
 
 August i6th, 1881. 
 
 248 
 
RANDOM VERSE. 
 
 A certain young lady at Golden, 
 Once sought her best beau to embolden, 
 By observing, "Don't you 
 Think one chair's 'nuff f'r two?" 
 And now when he calls, she is holden. 
 
 'Tis strange how new newspapers honor 
 The creature thatt's called prima donna; 
 
 They say not a thing 
 
 Of how she can sing. 
 But talk of the clothes she has on her. 
 
 The beautiful belle of Del Norte, 
 Is reckoned disdainful and horty, 
 Because during the day 
 She says, "Boys keep away," 
 But she yums in the gloaming like forty ! 
 
 August 24th, 1881. 
 
 249 
 
RANDOM VERSE. 
 
 A beautiful young man at Saguache, 
 Once courted the charming Miss Sauche, 
 
 But when she was wed 
 
 To another, he said, 
 "My life is a horrible bauche." 
 
 August 24th, 188 1. 
 
 In Leadville a certain girl's bonnet 
 Has four yards of ostrich plumes on it, 
 While her sister, poor thing, 
 Wears a red rooster wing. 
 And that is the cause of this sonnet. 
 
 August 25th, 1881. 
 
 A dashing young cowboy named Gus 
 Got involved in a serious muss. 
 
 With a party named Berringer, 
 And drawing his derringer 
 He tapped him for laudable pus. 
 
 November 13th, 1883. 
 
 250 
 
THE PUNSTER GOES BUGGY RIDING. 
 
 "Suppose," he said, in accent soft, 
 
 ''A fellow just like me 
 Should axle little girl to wed, 
 
 What would the answer be?" 
 
 The maiden drops her liquid eyes, 
 Her smiles with blushes mingle, 
 
 "Why seek the bridle halter when 
 You may love on, sur, cingle?" 
 
 And then he spoke, "Oh, be my bride, 
 
 I ask you once again; 
 You are the empress of my heart, 
 
 And there shall ever rein! 
 
 "I'll never tire of kindly deeds 
 
 To win your gentle heart, 
 And saddle be the shaft that rends 
 
 Our happy lives apart." 
 
 Upon her cheeks the maiden felt 
 The mantling blushes glow. 
 
 She took him for her faithful hub, 
 To share his wheel or whoa! 
 
 January 15th, 1882. 
 
 251 
 
AN ORTHOGRAPHICAL FANCY. 
 
 With tragic air, the love lorn heir 
 Once chased the chaste Louise; 
 
 She quickly guessed her guest was there 
 To please her with his pleas. 
 
 Now at her side he kneeling sighed, 
 
 His sighs of woeful size, 
 "Oh hear me here, for lo! most low 
 
 I rise before your eyes. 
 
 "This soul is sole thine own, Louise, 
 'Twill never wean, I ween. 
 
 The love that I, aye e'er shall feel. 
 Though mean may be its mein." 
 
 "You know I cannot tell you no," 
 The maid made answer true, 
 
 "I love you aught, as sure I ought, 
 To you 'tis due I do !" 
 
 "Since you are won, O fairest one! 
 
 The marriage rite is right, 
 The chapel aisle I'll lead you up 
 
 This night!" exclaimed the knight. 
 
 January 20th, 1882. 
 
 252 
 
A NAUTICAL LOVER. 
 
 A boy named Mann once fell in love 
 With pretty Bella Taylor, 
 
 And having found his stern to speak 
 He boldly did a sailor, 
 
 "Oh let me honey-bee your bow 
 I anchor for your favor, 
 
 Nay, 'twould be barber-ons to spurn 
 So fond a little shaver/' 
 
 Bell gave a little aft to hear 
 The ringing words he tolled, 
 
 And then she gave a little keel 
 And he was forced to hold. 
 
 "Your words are sound I plainly sea, 
 And I'd shoal little sense, 
 
 If I did not in kindly mood 
 Return your love in tense." 
 
 November 4th, 1882. 
 
 253 
 
VA. AND GEO. 
 
 Young Miss Va. Smith reed. 
 
 Attention to a marked deg. 
 From a young gent, named Geo. 
 
 As by these vs. you shall see. 
 
 He sought her Co. one kt., 
 Determined to no longer wt., 
 
 "Behold I wp., at yr. feet, 
 
 This inst., let me know my fate." 
 
 Va. hung her pretty head, 
 
 "If Hon. yr. purpose be, 
 And if you'll be obdt.. 
 
 There's no obj. I can see. 
 
 "But 1st you must consult with pa," 
 She softly lisped, her blushes through, 
 I've Sr. Gov.," he cried, 
 "& i. e. why I came to you." 
 
 He took that gal. to his lap, 
 
 A M. times or more he kiss'd her. 
 
 The brave deserve the fair; if he 
 
 Had feared to woo, he'd sure have Mr. 
 
 October ^ist, 1882. 
 
 254 
 
 «T» 
 
THE POET LOVERS. 
 
 {Strophe.) 
 
 The flame of love Burns in his heart, 
 
 O maiden Young and Gay; 
 And now that he is Scott at last, 
 
 Should you keep Pope away? 
 
 If there Cling any Prior claim, 
 Hume may most freely speak, 
 
 Aha, the rosy blushes fly 
 
 Swift to your dimpled Cheke. 
 
 Say, Shelley go away from here 
 
 Without a word from thee? 
 Speak not at Talbot give some sign. 
 
 However Smollett be. 
 
 {Ante Strophe.) 
 
 My spirit, erst so Sterne, will yield. 
 
 Thou seest it in mine eye, 
 Steele up your nerves and you shall be. 
 
 Most happy Byron by. 
 
 255 
 
"No Moore, my heart would fain relent!" 
 
 The blushing maiden cried; 
 He Locke-d her in his arms and pressed 
 
 Her to his Akenside. 
 
 (Apostrophe.) 
 
 All Hale, we cry, unto the bride. 
 
 The bridegroom, brave and Bright; 
 
 And may their lives be Fuller joy 
 For they will wed this Knight. 
 
 November sd, 1882. 
 
 (the end.) 
 
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