%^'.1ri ^'-^'Oi^ '3: cmm¥^B:S€M LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ®^p. - ©0pi|rtg^t !f u. Shelf. .Sii"! UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/buckeyelandbohennOOshad i^R /^v^^--%,^.f-<^ ^- PHOTO BY WEYRICH. BuckeyeLand AND Bohemia, — o — * * BY * Wm. Henry Taylor Shade. ^ * * * -x- HILLSBORO, OHIO. 1895. THE LYLE PRINTING CO. f«;=:=> ^nf^ COPYRIGHT 1895, BY THE AUTHOR. This volwine is printed in a limited edition of six hundred copies, of which this is ■ ' No . Il2ra^.5>^ Cu ^ TO CHARLES H. COLLINS, LAWYER, POET, AUTHOR, TO WHOSE KINDLY ENCOURAGEMENT ITS EXISTENCE IS LARGELY OWING, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULL Y DEDICA TED BY THE AUTHOR. INSTEAD OF A PREFACE. **Few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the air and never touches the earth ; it is only once in many ages a genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last forever; but still there are gome, as delightful, perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we might gratefully inhale, without calling upon them for a brightness and durability be- yond their nature." — Lalla Rookh. Filled with the dreams that no fool's wealth can buy, Clad in our rags, fed on our crust of bread, We'll sing our songs, nor tell the reason why, Bless God for rhymes and journey toward the dead. — W. J. Henderson, BuckeyeLand and Bohemia. WHEN ROVE WUZ A PUP. Sence Rove wuz a pup 'pears like it hain't been Two minntes. Wlien Bill bruiig 'im home frnin Montrose A sneakin'r setter pup never wuz seen — All draggled an' wet, 'ith mud on his nose, Frufu diggin' fur muskrats down ther' by the crick, His tail 'tween his legs like he 'spected 'er kick — Remember how maw said she know'd he wuz sick When front o' the fireplace he curled hisself up — Ah, me, but the ciianges sence Rove wuz a pup ! When Rove wuz a pup ther' wuz leaves on the trees; Ther' wuz singin' o' birds an' hummin' o' bees; Ther' wuz larks in the medder and roses abloom — Right in through the winder an' over the room Somehow ther' seems wafted the fragrance o' hay ; The richness o' August, the perfume o' May; The sweetness o' love an' its gladness an' cheer When memory pictures that halcyon year — When, springlike, her treasury, bubble n up. Brings back that old summer when Rove wuz a pup ! 10 THE COUNTRY NEWSPAPER. The old country weekly — how dearly I love it! From crisp city daily I quick turn aside To read its quaint ''leader,'^ the he iding above it, A hoary-haired editor's joy and his pride ; Its columns of locals in which all the doings Of kinsman and neighbor so tersely are told ; The births, deaths and accidents, weddings and wooings; The sheriff's sad notice of lands to be sold ; Its crude correspondence; some villager's caper; Its tritely told stories of sorrow and joy — They all may be found in the country newspaper — The old country paper I read when a boy. WFIEN GRAN'PAP LIT HIS CORNCOB PIPE. When gran'pap lit his corncob pipe how quiet all things grew Within the semicircle as around the hearth we drew Our hick'ry-seated, home-made chairs and waited for the tale That always followed that event; not oft did gran'pap fail To fight again, and yet again, the wars of long ago ; To trail the Indian ; hunt the bear ; there in the back-log's glow He lived again his boyhood days. What memories, rich and ripe. Wake at the mention of the hour when gran'pap lit his pipe. For gran'pap was a pioneer; his honest, willing hand Had felled the trees and made a home within a new-found land. He had an endless stock of yarns— a million more or less — The history of his early life within a wilderness, And when sometimes he quite forgot and told some story twice No one objected ; no, nor when he'd chance to tell one thrice ; n For tales like his ne'er lose their charm — the stories of the type That gran 'pap used to te!l us as he smoked his corncob pipe. Oh, good old man, who long hath slept tliesleep that bringeth rest — A patriarch unto a tribe tliat e'er will call you blest — Could you come back and join the group around the roaring blaze And tell, as in the long ago, those legends of ihe days When strong with youth and hardy toil you trailed the forest through, How would that group, though changed with years, do honor unto you ! And trembling hands, 1 think, gran'pap, away warm tears would wipe As you'd draw your armchair to the fire and light your corn- cob pipe. ENCOURAGEMENT. What pilgrina oVr life's «tony way. Beset by sorrow and d«-8p^ir And grief that seems too great to bear Finds not the darkness turn to day And all his pathway fringed with bloom As, smiling on him through the gloom. Defying time, and tide and space, He sees a loving, hopeful face, With wealth of tawny tresses crc»wned And by love's fancy circled round With aureole as if divine — A face like thine, sw^eetheart, like thine ! 12 ESCAPE. Through the transom streams no light ; No noisy callers are there to-night; A flutter of crape upon the donr Warns them away from Forty- four. No songs are heard ; the blinds are down ; Lying at rest in her finest gown Is ''Marguerite.'^ The eyes of jet Are closed ; the smile is gone ; and yet Men there are who will never forget The wondrou-' witchery of a smile Such as a sorceress of the Nile Might envy, and, forgetting war A Koman lose an empire for — And those lustrous eyes (no other two Such eyes were known on *'the avenue") And the gloom-dark curls on the olive brow So still and cold and bloodless now — And the luscious lips — her fatal dower Were these — o'er men had magi(! power. Oh, who would have cared or dreamed or guessed That 'neath the laces upon her breast Was a broken heart that longed for rest — A w^oman's heart with its hopes and fears — That those beautiful eyes were the home of tears V And yet somebody remembers well When ''Marguerite" was simply Nell; When roses red and blossoms white — But why recall it now? To-night An erring girl, by all forgot Except by those who shared her lot - '^Ruby" and "Maude" and "Genevieve" And "Pearl" and "Hazel" — no others grieve— ESCAPE. 13 111 the parlor dress she called her best Lies at rest. Throngh the transom streams no light ; No noisy callers are there to-night; A flutter of crape upon the door Warns them away from Forty-four. A PROTEST I'm gittin' most consarned tired o' seein' stair-step rhymes, And if the poets keep it up, I wisht they would sometimes Just change 'em round a little bit; now, would it be amiss, Instead o' havin' stair-step rhymes, To Run 'Em Down Like This? [ offer the suggestion, seekin' neither blame nor praise ; And as the rule is dog-gone pore that doesn't work both ways, If that se<^ms incompaterble with true poetic bliss. 0^ a. There's nothin' to prevent 'em runnin' P Of course, it's barely possible the stair-step style is best; Leastways, that it's appropriate must reely be confessed, For fortune doesn't always smile ; she sometime frowns, his verse ups like life poet's is of and And the full downs. 14 REGRET. The goldenrod and thistle Are bronzed and sered now ; Chill winds of autumn whistle 'Twixt leafless vine and bough ; Sadly sweet September Lingereth o'er the earth ; Brightly the glowing ember Shines on the rural hearth ; The forest trees are turning From green to gold and red, And, parent branches spurning. Drift over the path I tread ; Floating upon the breeze A cloud of thistle down ; Wierdly rustle the trees And the cornfields ripe and brown. And my heart is sad with a great regret, My heart is sad and my lashes wet — 'Tis Nature's requiem symphony For a summer that ne'er will return to me. REFUGE. Upon your breast, As drifting bark on billowy sea A crimson rose does rise and fall — A rose that well may envied be, Since sorrows and temptations all In vain their keen shafts aim at me When pillowed, swet^t, at true love's call, Upon your breast. 15 DADDYISM Though gran'pap rarely made remarks and never wuz no wag, He us^^d ter hev a savin' when he'd hear a feller brag 'Bout his fambly an' conne-tions, an' a tt llin' who they wuz Like these codfish aristocrats aroun' hure ailus does — A savin' that 'twuz gospel truth as shore's you're born ; **Y(»u'll ofi'en find a nubbin on the finest stalk o' corn " He wuzn't much on cnssin' ; 'pear'd like he never swore 'Less it wuz necessary; but a dozen times or more, When some young sprig without no sense deserved a mild rebuke Fur tellin' how his great gran'pap's wife's cousin wuz a dook, I've heerd him say : **Your ancesters wuz so-and-so, it's true ; But what folks now'days want ter know is, who the h — 1 are youV" In all these years that's past and gone I've saw a heap n' life — Its sunshine and its shadders, its peacefulness and strife — And when I see folks put on airs and stickin' up their yeers As though their blood is indigo, I want ter say : ''Who keers Who your gran'dad's relations wuz? Fur shore's you're bc-rn They've grow'd a runty nubbin on their fambly stalk of corn.'' THE HERMIT BEECH. Away from its fellows its boughs were spread By the brook in the meadow land, Where we would lie, in the days gone by, By balmiest breezes fanned, Watching the minnows dart and turn — Happier who than we ? Far from the wood it proudly stood, A patriarchal tree. We climbed 'mid its branches, drooping low, 16 THE HERMIT BEECH. And swung 'neath its waving leaves, Where all day long, with cheerful song, The robin its coy nest weaves. 'Tis one of childhood's pictures That ruin will never reach, And memory ever will fondly turn To the grand old hermit beech. THE OLD 8T0NE CHIMNEY. Gray guidestone pointing to the past. Grim monument to other years, Unmoved by winter's icy blast, Oblivious to summer's tears, I lean upon the garden fence And bare my head in reverence ! The stones that formed the homestead walls Are piled about in shapeless heaps 'Neath which the timid lizard crawls And over which the spider creeps ; The ingleside, where grandsire smoked His pipe of peace, is hid by weeds; The garden path is densely choked With growth 'neath which the rabbit feeds. Where now the merry girls and boys That gathered 'round the ruddy blaze ? Where the ambitions, where the joys. That were their own in those old daysV Grim relic of the long dead past. Thou, too, wilt wear away at last ; Beneath the creeping ivy vine Which garlands green those walls of thine A sad inscription do I see, This one word— mutability. 17 ESTAJM.ISHmG A PRECEDENT The CasstowD fair wiiz simply great; fur miles and iiiiles around Ther' wuzn't left a single soul as didn't lu^ar the sound When number nine, by Doggett's band, woiit floatin' on the air? Fur everybody, most on earth, wuz at the Casstown fair. Old Kernal Reuben Green wuz judge and starter all in one, An' when he called the trottin' race you'd orter seen the fun ; For everybody know'd 'twould be an' inteiestin' race — A purse o' jest three hundred plunks lent int'rest to the case. The pigs an' sheep an' garden truck an' punkins wuz furgot ; The quarter stretch wuz crowded with the most excited lot 0' people that I ever seen ; jest now, a-lookin' back, I seem to see them trotters comin' out ther' on the track. Ike Larkin entered Nancy Pranks, by Pollock, out o' Flirt- He thought she wuz the finest mare that ever pawed up dirt — An' bets wuz made at ten to one that if she didn't balk That race would jest be pie for her — she'd win it in a walk. Among the other entries made wuz one by Hiram Day, From Possum Trot, 'twuz Gin'erl Grant, an old, flea-bitten gray, That everybody pooh-poohed at an' said it wuz a sin To bring out such a poor old nag as stood no show to win. "They're off!" You'd ort a seen 'em go; the people yelled like mad ; I'll bet a more excitin' race Latony never had; That old flee-bitten Gin'erl Grant jest struck a mungrel gait An' kept the lead plumb through the heat— the others all wuz late. A gittin' past the flaggin' post, a-ceptin' Nancy Pranks- She come in second, blowin' hard an' sweatin' on the flanks; 18 ESTABLISHING A PKECEDENT. "The gray boss wins," said Kerurtl Green ; said Ike, "You make m^^ sick ; The gray boss run— he didn't trot;' you'd orter heerd him kick Then Kernal Green got fiirhcin' mad; says be, "Don't talk to m^- ; It mav have been his hind legs run the hull durned way,'^ says he ; "But his foreleiTS kept trotun' like the very h — 1, I say His forelegs wins the money ; the decision's fur the gray !" Ike swore an' '^uss'd an' r'ared aroun' an' made an awful bluflf, But Kernal Green stuck to his word an' Hiram got the stuff, An' it has went on record that a boss can win the pot In a trottin' race with two good legs as don't furgit to trot. THE END OF THE SEASON. Now do we part to seek home and rest. Some to the orient, some to the West ; Some will to Gotham go and there Traverse the pave of the classic "square ;" Others will sail o'er the saline sea — Old Ohio will do for me ! Some, perchance, of our strolling band May meet no more till the last, last stand. Yet vi^ho can tell? So in cheerful grasp our hands we'll clasp As we say farewell. 19 THE ROAD P^ROM LONG AGO TO NOW. Where now my comrades of the day When 1, a schoolboy, knew not care — Companions of my childivsh play, With iiappy hearts and brown feet bare, Who shared the master's praise or wrath? All, all are gone. And yet, somehow, There recollections strew the path That leads from Long Ago to Now. ^Vhat, \ears? It seems to me but weeks Sin<*e we enjoyed our boyish sports — Went swimming in the self-same creeks ; Together built and stormed snow forts ; Or sat together on the load That ever bless'd our scythe and plow — Their lonely graves but dot the road That leads from Long Ago to Now And there is one enshrined spot Along the patiiway from the past With tenderest recollections fraught That round them somber shadows cast. How warm her clasp that parting day ! How sweet the faintly whispered vow ! With flowers that memory strews the way That leads from Long Ago to Now. ANOTHER VIEW. A proverb says the rolling stone No coat of moss will gather; But vAhat of that? I freely owni That I, for one, would rather Just keep a-rolling, ever free — None of your moss-back life fc»r me, 20 A 8WEET, SAD STORY. One day, some thirty years ago, A fair youth leaned upon his hoe Between the rows of growing corn That glistened with the dews of morn ; The birds sang in the woodland near, Where crystal-bright a ])rook ran clear; And just beyond, not far away, The meadow waved its wealth of hay ; Red roses by the orchard fence, Where bushes grew &o tall and dense, A fragrance cast upon the air That drifted o'er the corn-field there. Althrough the mists had scarce begun To fade beneath the morning sun. The farmer boy in silence stood — His face bespoke no cheerful mood. 'Twas but last night he'd told sweet Nell A tale she knew, indeed, full well ; He'll ne'er forget her eyes, so bright They shown that moonlit summer night. When at a neighbor's paring bee They strolled beneath a friendly tree ; And he had boldly asked her there To share his joys and sorrows where For year on year their folks had wrought, An unpretentious life their lot. Now, Nell, coquette-like, sad to say, Had never meant her answered ''nav." ,© A SWEET, SAD STOriY. 21 And that tells why or- this fail' morn Tom leaned upon his hoe forlorn. "There's naught for me to live for now," He said, and stroked his sunburned brow ; It may have been that hot tears fell For pretty, fickle, cruel Nell. His youthful heart was broken then (Such things occur with full-grown men.) ''She'll see me Jie'er again," he said, "And when she hears that I am dead May she recall the night we parted She careless, cohl ; I broken-hearted." So when the sun had sunk away, And d immer grew the light of day, He passed the creaking farmhouse door, Whose threshold ne'er would see him more. A moment's pause to rest his eyes On pantry shelves sway-backed with pies, Then through the gate, past orchard wall O'er which in autuntn, the pippins fall ; Then down the road he took his way Nor stopp'd until the East grew gray. V At last I have him walking well Away from farmhouse home and Nell. Adown the road my lad has irone. The East grows krray with coming dawn 22 A SWEET, SAD STORY. But serious trouble fronts me now, And brings a frown unto my brow — 'Tis this : must he be sent afar To bravely die in a bloody war, While reckless leading on the way To cannon's mouth in furious fray? Shall leaden missile tunnel through His heart and stain his coat of blue? And shall he die right where he falls His thoughts of Nell — not of cannon balls? Or, when his coat is old and torn, x\nd his army brokans badly worn, And he is huni^ry and sick with pain. Shall I have Nell nurse him to life a4.ain? Or shall I free him from war's alarms By lettiui^ him die in Nellie's arms? (Of course I could easily fix it in rhyme To have Nell arrive in the nick of time.) Or might he not in lands afar, Win fame and fortune in the war, And homeward come a General grand, With gold in pocket and sword in hand, To havoc play with heart of Nell, And how he saved the land to tell? Then wed Nell's rival — a hateful thing. Who neither could play, nor paint, nor sing? * «- ^ * ^ 4f es This is long enough now to bring me pelf, Sweet reader, just end it to suit yourself. 23 TWO TRUTHS. The mirrors glisten, the scene is gay, Bright the room as a summer day, Though all without is drear and chill And darkness hangs o'er vale nivl hill, And the patter of feet in ceaseless rush Is heard outside in the winter slush His hat is silk and his ulster long; He calls for a drink and hums a song; He fills his glass — and drains it, too, Just after saying: ''A toast to you, Oh, sparkling wine, so rich and rare, You make of the sot a millionaire !" A vagrant stands away but a pace, A haggard look on his bloated face. He hears; then, raising his glass up, so. Watching its sparkle come and go, He speaks : "And though he says it not. You make of the millionaire a sot !" WITHOUT THY SMILE. Without thy smile Full cloudy is the sunniest day ; Without thy smile The brightest skies are dull and gray ; The birds sing only sad refrains ; In balmiest night the starlight wanes And only darkest gloom remains. Without thy smile. 24 AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE. 'Tis Christmas eve ; long shadows fall As slowly in the roseate west rhe red sun sinks ; and over all There broods the calm of perfect rest. How sweetly peaceful all things seem ! And as the evening light grows low, I sit before the fire and dream Of Christmas eves of long ago. There was a springtime in my life When hope was strong and friendship true Now all is changed; the cruel knife Of sorrow cut them through and through. How sweet those bells ! I hear them yet A-ringing o'er the star-lit snow- Ah, somehow I caa not forget The Christmas eves of long ago ! Oh, why should not my tears downfall Since happiness a stranger waits To greet me — if, alas, at all — Beyond death's dark, mysterious gates? But till the fates at last decree That I must lie beneath the snow^ This day will memories bring to me Of Christmas eves of long ago. WILLIAM PROPOSES. There's a very old proverb which goes on to say That where there's a will there^s always a way ; Sweet maiden, with joy life's cup w^ould I fill — You show me the way and I'll furnish the Will. 25 AWAY OFF. ^They're off! They're off !" Away they go— I wonder why my heart beats so ! I've got a cinch ; I've backed that bay For all that I in', sobbin' gal had time ter mention dianks, And added, in a whisper like, that ended in a moan ; ''I used ter have a little gal, just like her, o' my own." Old Whiskers died out there that trip, a sentence on his head. And not a soul in all the world to care that he i\'uz dead ; But I know lots o' goody-goods, 'way up in text and creed, Who might a learnt a lesson from that one unselfish deed. 28 THE MOSS THAT COULDN'T LOSE. He said he'd take a sherry flip And added that he had a tip Straight from the stables that was good As winter wheat; and that he would Let me in on the deal ''The news,'' Said he, ''is right; that hoss can't lose." '' How can he lose ? A fool can see That he will win hands down," says he. "Why, such another leadpipe play Won't come along for many a day. Just stick a pin there ; them's my views ; I got it straight — that hoss canH lose." Why longer make the painful taleV I played the nag that couid not fail To come in first. Oh, what a fix ! He wasn't even one, two, six. Hereafter, when I bet, I'll choose A horse that stands a show to lose. ON THE STAGE AND OFF. After the play The villain wept Beside a couch where an infant lay — (The villain who drove a woman wild. Who killed a father and stole a child) Wept and watched till dawn's dull grav Fled before the light of day, Then knelt beside that couch to pray. This ere he slept, iVfter the play. 29 FATE The fast express goes whirling by The siding where the way freight stands Lazily clouding the suninaer sky With its smoke. With grimy hands I wipe the sweat from my sun-tanned face, Wondering, murmuring, " Is there use In livinjj', if for life my place Must be upon a red caboose?" She is the president's daughter — fair, Fawn-like and faultless as e'er was known ; Mines of gold in her wavy hair; Cheeks like roses, May-tin, e blown. Only a glimpse — the fast express Disappears through the canyon gate — She is the president's daughter — yes, I am the brakeman on the freight. Such is the way of life, I guess — Such is life and such is fate — She rides by on the fast express — 1 am the brakeman on the freight. The fast express to the eastward goes — I to the west with my work and woes. NOT A GOOD SADDLE HORSE. On reflection, I think I'd like a canter through the park The idea makes me happy as a lark — I would stride my prancing bay, And upon him ride away Did I have one — well-a-day ! But wdiat fun in riding, pray, On reflection? 30 THE HACKWARD LOOK. A sulleD, sunless stretch of sky ; A church yard gray in eveniDg gioaiii ; A steeple 'round which swallows fly ; A pasture o'er wliich cattle roam ; A group of gnarled forest treer^ ; A })air of fragrant, dipping pines; A breath of autumn stirnng these ; A rustic fence u'er-grown with vines; A nioss-vvrapt gravestone here and there; A nook where ehier busht s wave; A liiliock, sodiess, brown and bare— A sodless, urnless, new-made grave. Beyond all these life's vistas slope Hack, back to childliood's x\ ready, Where sorrow captive was of hope And otdy joy was yet to be; Where, dreaming of the bye-and-bye No vision came that was not bright — A backward glance : A sunless sky ; A sodless grave. Now conaes the night, SHOOTING THE CHUTES. We were shooting the chutes — and Polly was pretty, Not fairer the flowers that blow on the lea ; With a face that might readily call forth a ditty And hair like a sunset tln^own back from the sea. Her eyes and her lips, they were visions of glory ; Her voice seemed an echo of Pandean flutes; And Polly — but hold, I'm astray from my story — T believe I remarked we were shooting the chutes. SHOOTING THE CHUTES. 31 We were shooting the chutes ; the band was a-phiying ; The inyrin.l lights (hmced in faticiful ways; The snmnier-night air was reminder of Maying, 'Mid wihiwood and meadoA^ in long agone days; And Polly was pretty — ifideed, I am willing To say I was proud as a boy with new boots, And finish nay story? Of course ; well, 'twas thrilling — What liappened the night we were shooting the chutes. We were shooting the chutes; like flashes of lightning We sped down the incline, while close by my side Sat Polly — and, well, it was really fright'ning, So Polly clung to me. Forgetting her pride She threw her arms 'round me. I see you have guess'd it — Love's army enlisted a pair of recruits ; My arm 'round her waist, right bravely I press'd it — Oh, grand is the pastime cali'd shooting the chutes ! MOODS. What's the use? I am, oh, so tired of tryinir. What's the use Of struggling on when dying Would leave no more ties to sever And bring peace and rest forever — Dry the tears that vain endeavor Brings to eyes full tii-ed of weeping- Eyes that only close in sleeping But to open on the morrow On another day of sorrow, No more links to be thus broken 32 MOODS. As my heart is; nor words spoken To give pain — no more regretting — No more pining — no more fretting — No more dearth of longed-for petting- No more penance of forgetting — What's the use V II. What's the use Of sorrowing and sighing? What's the use Of giving up? Keep tryintr — Still is left some glint of dadness To offset life's share of sadness, Love's regret and passion's madness. Though no gfentle hand now blesses As of yore with its caresses, Worry not. Time swiftly stealing Bv us, graciously is dealing Glad content, the heart-sick healing. Try again, new courage taking — Dawn, and not your heart, is breaking. Even now doth radiant morning Gild as gold the gray, adorning Like a queen the orient, scorning Gloom. With wonted iridescence Shines the sun. With effervescence, As of yore, life's wine will bubble. Bringing sweet surcease of trouble. There is lots of use in living — In forgetting — in forgiving — Lots of use. 33 BELL OF THE KEARSARGE. (), bell of tlio Kearsarge, your echoing clangor Will still find it^ wa\ s to the ends of the world Where place can be found tor oar pennant to hang, or Our beauteous star-jevvel-d flag be unfurled. No foeman could silence you; lead was as laughter — You sarig back defiance in resonant bars; Your tongue will yet tell, in the endless hereafter, The pluck and the prowess oi Uncle Sam's tars. On Roncador reef the deck is decaying That brave Yankee sailors so gallantly manned; With masts and with rigging' the blue waves are playing; The keel is a ruin on far desert strand ; But, bell of the Kearsarge, your echoing clangor W ill still find its way to tlie ends of the world Where place can be found for our pennant to hang, or The folds of "Old Glorv" were ever unfurled. THE RANCHER'S DAUGHTER. When over the mesa hang clouds of night, And snow in the corral is drifting wdiite, Inside these wills the fire burns bright, And the rancher's daughter sits in its light — What matters though outside hang clouds of night? The rancher's daughter is tall and fair — As the rose her cheek, as yold her hair — xAnd the blaze in the corner, with cackle and flare, Is cold compared with the warm heart there — And the rancher's daughter is tall and fair. The rancher's daughter is seventeen Or thereabouts ; and as sweet— I mean 84 THE rancper's daughter To say she's pnrty as any queen — Purtier gal I've never seen — And the rancher's daughter is seventeen. The rancher's daughter is dear to me ; And, though my roujj^hness is plain to see, ' I — whoa! Gosh durn it, friend, T be Talkin' too much ; but some day we Are goin' to hitch, for she's dear to me. AFTER THIRTY YEARS. A low grassv mound ; a moss-covered stone ; A garhind exposing the legend : ''Unknown." Long years hath the angel of peace hovered low From hills of the northland o'er-covered with snow To plains of the southland o'er-laden with bloom, Where fairest of flowers grow wild o'er his tomb. Forgotten are hatred and bitterness now, For yesterday's saber to-day is a plow ; The earthworks are leveled ; aye, fiber and grain Have grown, lo, these years, where a dark crimson stain Marked the spot where his life blood was given away In the fore of the fight — in the front of the fray ; The deep lines by wheels of artillery traced In b^ood-softened soil long since are effaced; And footprints that enemies left on the mold Are lost 'neath the harvest field's surfeit of gold ; While fragrances born of the beauteous bloom Blow soft as an incense above his proud tomb. A low grassy mound ; a moss-covered stone ; A garland exposing the legend : "Unknown." McCLELLAN'S FAREWELL. • THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, IN NOVEMBER, 1802. Along the army's (iravvn up front McOlellan rides to bid adieu; Of deep emotion not a sign Betrays the heart beneath the bhie. His aides are L'aHoping beside — One of the vvorki's historic groups — Along the lii-e they quickly ride, Leave-taking of the gallant troops. As past the lines they proudly dash The troopers see them with a sigh. Thnir glittering blades a»)d bayonets flash Salutes as he and staff ride bv. He does not see a tattered sheet That flutters in the autumn breeze; He passes by on charger fleet — But — hold the battle flag he sees. Now, quickly wheeling, l)ack they go; They halt before the flag; and there He doffs his cap before it low, While cheer on cheer breaks on the air — Then, rides away — the colors flap — And to this day his soldiers tell How^ brave McClellan doffed his cap The day he bade his troops farewell 36 IN THE APACHE COUNTRY. « Sand HFid sage brush ; beyond, the mountain Outlined clear 'gainst the western sky ; Sand and cactus; beyond, the mountain Reachi!ig unto tiie heavens high ; Over the mesa a pathway winding; Dim in the sand a 'graven trail ; Molten the sun ; the dust is bliadiuif ; Lost o'er the echoless wastes a wail. Under a sage- bush a trooper lying — Under a snge-clump, .^ickly green ; Low on the sand a troo]>er dying— Pierc'd his breast by a missile keen ; Saiid and cactus ; beyond, the mountain ; Echoless wastes ; a pray'r ; a sigh ; Sand and sagebrush ; beyond, the mountain Outlined white 'gainst the pale, blue sky. TEXAN AUTUMN. PASTORAL. A warm sun beating on a sandy plain ; A mock -bird singing in the chapparal ; A mesquite grove, whence, o'er and o'er again, An answering call; Tufts of brown grass, rustling dryly ; Wild prairie flowers, fragrant, fair ; (Each at a blushing sweetheart nodding slyly), Scenting the air ; On yon gray knoll with naught to dread, A rabbit in a grass-thatched nest; A feeding herd, with lazy aimless tread ; The wind at rest ; TEXAN AUTUMN. 37 A flock of noisy blackbirds ; aphiintive soiiir, Sad, flute-like aud ol love, In boundless space ethereal lonjjj — A cooing dove ; Here and there a cruel cactus growing ; Leaves red and golden, tinting scatter'd ti-ecs ; Adown the vale a tep»id streamlt-t flowing — The cowboy's these ! A SOISTG OF BOHEMIA 0, rose of Cathay^ how sweet your perfume ! Your dew-jeweled petals how beauteously rare ! How rich the deep blush that lives in your bloom, As proudly you nod in the warm summer air! A dream of enchantment you bend o'er my way — Beholding, I covet you, rose of Cathay. 0, beautiful emblem of passion, I fain Would grasp you, unheeding the thorns and the pain ; Beside you Bohemia's pine sprig looks cold As dull, beaten bronze beside glittering gold But alas for your splendor, proud rose, you will die ; In dust of the pathway, their fragrance all fled, Neglected, forgotten, your red leaves will lie To be spurned, with the dust, 'neath the gardener's tread Be twig from the pinelands my emblem alway — To fleeting your charms are, frail rose of Cathay. 38 BY YOUR COUCH LAST NIGHT. As 1 knelt by your couch last night, my pet — By your couch as you slept 'neath the low, dim liuht- You breathed and your bosom heaved ; and yet So pale your cht^ek and your brow so white That r paused a moment and bent above Your sweet, fair form with an awful dread; Then 1 kissed your lips as you slept, my love, And thanked the gods you were not dead. For there came to my heart a sudden pain With thoughts of the bitter tears I'd weep When they might be useless tears. Refrain Then I could not; and from your sleep I woke you to know that you lived, my own; To kiss again the soft red lif)S Whose nectared sweets are mine alone — (Ah, I clung as the bee which honey sips From rich red rose and clover bloom ; I held you close to my earnest heart And saw^ your smile dispel the gloom And all forebodings bid depart) To know that I did not dumbly gaze On a lifeless form supine and white A-doomed to remember these happier days And their honeyed wealth of love's delight. How warm your cheek and your clasp, my pet! And the pain in my heart j^ave way to joy When I knew that you lived and were mine. Regret May be to the gold of my life alloy , But not that I ever have turned from you — That I've ever forgotten your arms so white And again I swore to be ever true As I knelt by your couch, my own, last night. 39 ROSIN A V0KK8 We loved you well, Rosin. i Yokes ; The rare perfection of your art, The rarer goodness of your heart, Endeared you to us lon^ ago — W^e loved you well and told you so We'll not forget your cheery face ; Your wavy curls ; your winsome yjrace ; Your singing of ^"Js 'art w«s true To Poll ;" and with the weeping dew That irently falls upon your grave Our tears will fall. The ocean wave May roll between your land and ours, But what of that? Affections flowers We sadly, reverently lay Upon your new-made grave to-day ; And deep, sincere emotion chokes Our voices as we speak your name — ''AH speak to praise you, none to blame'' We loved you w^ll, Rosina Yokes. HEARD IN HEAYEN. For dreary months she had patiently lain A suflerer on the couch of pain. The weary, shorten'd breaths came fast, Each thought by watchers to be the last. Patient the sufferer lying low, Struggling to live, yet longing to go. A dear voice, destined to speak no more, Only requested: ''Open the door." But waiting angels heard the prayer In heaven ; for it was wafted there. 40 HEAKD IN HEAVEN. And the beautifal gates were open'd wide That she might rest on the other side. When w^e hav^e done with this vale of tears ; When we have finished its lonely years ; When we depart for the unknown shore, May angels stand ready to open the door. FAITH. The pathway from yon garden gate Leads straightway into paradise. vSmile not ; for whn can fathom fate Or see the truth with faithless eyesV But, that my words are true I wot ; Its joys I've tasted o'er and o'er — You only see a rustic cot Upon a bleak and wind-swept shore. Beyond that gate (it seems to you) The cold snow lies in cheerless drifts ; Look as you may, no rays break through The clouds to light their murky rifts ; You ran not see the flowers that bloom — That mock the wind and scorn the snow That smile at sorrow, laugh at gloom, And put to flight despair and w^oe. Oh, infidel, scorn not the truth — For, wondrous far beyond belief Love's miracdt's e'er fleeting youth Is borne away by Time, the thief! So do not laugh and jibe, I pray — For who, indeed, can fathom fate? Ah, paradise is mine, I say, 'Tis just beyond that garden gate ! 41 A MEMORY. As twilight fades and darkness comes To pall the sinking, dying day. Doth something come to seek me out Amid the gloaming's somber gray ; Though winds of summer gently blow, Or though the earth be wrapt in snow, At morn, noon, eve, where'er I go, Cometh a memory The roaring grate may blaze and burn, Its roseate glow be warm and bright ; But day on day, with each return, And eve on eve, with sunbeams' flight, Recalls, as though a whispered tale. Eyes filled with tears and sweet lips pale, That are — alas ! that hearts are frail ! — Only a memory. THE FEMALE COMPOSITOR. To be a very swift typesetter Was Mary Ellen's one desire, And soon the foreman said that better Work than hers none could require. She did not think herself a joker, And peddle painful puns around ; She did not learn to be a smoker Or chew tobacco by the pound. Sweet and prim, I'd have you know it, Said she, as she tossed her locks : ''Satan, take this slug and throw it Into yonder sheol box " 42 ENCHANTED. Heside you, Earth a realm elysian seems ; Beside you, Fairies whisper rosiest dreams ; Strangely sweet enchantment lies In the azure of your eyes ; Pleasure lives and sorrow dies Beside you. Beside you, Cares and troubles disappear ; Beside you, Songs of paradise I hear. Naught to me were loss or gain, Naught w^ere sunshine, naught were rain, Could I ever more remain Beside you. HOPE'S MESSAGE. 'Mid the eternal snows That hood the mighty mountains of the West, Which grim and ghostlike pierce the wintry air, I wandered aimlessly, with troubled breast, Craving oblivion, and the dreamless rest That seemeth given only to the dead. When pinions rustled, and Hope, beside me, said That thou wert mine ; and blest Not more with warmth the tropic plain. Where blossom-laden breezes blow. Or chimner corner where doth rural swain Grow ruddy in a roaring wood fire's glow, Than I, alone upon the mountain there, 'Mid the eternal snows. 43 CASPAR COLLINS. Far out toward the border, where the Platte's dull \vatei\s flow, And o'er the broad, sun-swept savannahs prairie flowers grow ; And where the winds in wailing sighs still sound his funeral knell, There is a spot ol" sacred earth where Caspar Collins fell. 'Twas in the old Eleventh that young Caspar wore his straps, x\nd in those weary western wilds he dreamed of fame ; per- haps Of coming days of blessed peace, when he might cease to roam, And meet again the lov'd ones in the old Ohio home. A braver soldier never lived ; no braver fired a shot, Or better bore the duties hard that fell unto his lot; No duty was too hard for him when his it was to do — A more heroic soldier's blood ne'er stain'd its country's blue. 'Twas in July in '65, a scorching summer day. His scouting party sought the fort. Young Caspar led the way Along the cheerless prairie trail until his small command Exhausted reached the grim stockade, theji rested on the sand. The Cheyennes sv\ armed the prairie then; one grew^ behind ea(^h stone, And Carnage o'er that region reigned, upon his reeking throne. The troops were few and sore-besieged^ their red foes none too few. And death seemed grimly grasping for the little band in blue. A long, slow, white-topped wagon-train was yet upon the plain ; To succor it seem'd but to fall beneath the arrows' rain, When spake a young lieutenant : "Colonel, shall those men die. And we — within their very sight — to save them never try V" 44 CASPAR COLLINS. With blanched face the vet'raii turn'd. Far o'er the parched plain x41J circled round by ^^avage, the teamsters were. "In vain," The Colonel said, "'twould surely be to try to aid them there, And from my little, v^eaKen'd force no troops have I to spare." *'l can not see them perish thus," th«^ young man answered ttien ; Give me but twenty volunteers and I will save those men." His (hieftain sadly shook his head, and said: "Take my men V No ! Who goes will ne'er return alive from yon relentless foe." "Your men are fresh," young Caspar said ; "but if ihey don't then I And my poor, tired Eleventh boy to save that train will tjy. Attention! Mount !" — they waited not ; the brazen bugle rang ; Upon their tired and goaded steeds the fearless troopers sprang. The pond'rous gates swung open wide; the brave men pass- ed without And onward but to death and fame, with many a ringing shout. Once driven back, again they rode to certain death the way. A charge more grand was never made than that led forth that day. Ko armor'd knight of ancient time did fiercer fighting do Than that bold boy of Buckeyeland in braidless blouse of blue ; 'Twixt sword and shot with savatre blood the scorched sands ran red E'er gallant Caspar Collins 'mid the prairie grass lay dead He died on duty's altar as die the true and brave ; His little band ne'er liv'd to greet those whom they fought to save CASPAR COLLINS. 45 Tlie record of a hero's death and charge most nobly grand, On liistorv's scroll must be inscribed to that immortal band. Out where the grim Cordilleras raise many a snowy peak, Once, with a voice all tremulous, an old scout ceased to speak ; And o'er his bronz'd fact^ stole a si^di methinks I 3et can see As he finish'd. It was all too true, the tale he told to me. Far out toward the border where the Platte's dull water flow, And o'er the prairies' vast expanse do sweet wild flow 'rs grow, The wandering winds yet wierdly chant a hero's funeral knell, Above the hallow'd, sacred spot where Caspar Collins fell. HAUNTED. You hear me laugh and eee me smile And think you that never a care I know, But my life is as cold and dull the while As winter's dress of ice and snow. My mind is not with the laughing throng, VI y thoughts are leairue on league away ; On Time's slow tide I float along Through sleepless night and weary day. For I am haunted. A ghost? Ah, no! Ghosts see I none, And goblins would be a relief, indeed, For there isn't one of 'em under the sun To which I would uay the slightest heed Spirits I scorn — they're as naught to me — But I'd never envy the gayest rich ; Could I, alas, forget that she Is such a winsome little witch Bv whom I'm haunted. 46 AT EVENTIDE. Awa}^ Down Low The winter sun is sinking And leaving me as lonely as a fellow well can be ; All my blesvsings quite forgetting I am fretting for a petting, Such as in those happy evenings you bestc-wed on me ; There is Vvinking, there is blinking, when your lover gets to thinking Of a darling little sweetheart who is many miles away ; And he misses most the blisses of your honeyed, loving kisses, When the radiant queen of evening greets the drowsy king of day — When the spirit of the breezes seizes heartstrings as it pleases, Af^.d trums a love-lorn melody of long, long ago — Oh ! I'm weary, life is dreary, and 1 long so for you, dearie. When the winter sun is sinking Away Down Low. THE ECHO. The sailor lad sings a merry lay — A merry lay he sings — A song of a cottage for away ; A song of a coming happy day, And many other things ; But the burthen of his sonsr so gay — Of the song he gaily sings — Is '*The sailor lad he loves a lass," And answers an echo : *^Alas! alas!" 47 IN A PAVVNSFIOP. [Medals and decorations won in the Crimean campaign by a member of the famous Light brigade were recently sold by a New York pawnbroker, who had for years held them as pledges for money loaned. — Daily Paper.] Mute relic of valor, o'l-rdriven with dust- Pledged here for a pittance that purchased a crust — Corrosion slow gnawing your surface of bronze, As sorrow, a-mocking his meek orisons, Gnawed into his breast in the long agone past. And fed on his heart till 'twas broken at last. Oh, can you remember how proudly you hung On that breast when your hero was handsome and young— In charge and in bivouac his heart's only shield, And proof of his prowess on many a field ? Oh, can you forget how, when bright on his breast, A cheek was press'd to youV Ah, sweet was the rest A maiden found there w^hen, his campaigning o'er, A valiant young Briton returned to the shore Of his childhood and love ! How holy the tear With which she anointed you ! Many a year Has pass'd since that season of hallowed joy When the lassie he loved met a bold soldier boy And clung to him close, while a fervent love kiss Translated them both to a heaven of bliss. 'Twixt that and the pawnshop — alas, could you tell Your story of sorrow 'twould surely compel A tear for your fate. A tale would I hear Of a gallant old soldier who never knew fear, Neglected and hungry, vain pleading for bread — A wrinkled old veteran, friendless— and dead. 48 ''WHEN OTHER LIPS." "When other lips and other hearts, '^ A little maiden sweetly sings, And through the. stately manor halls The childish voice in echo rings. The touch that wakes the slumb'ring chords Within the old piano there Is gentle as the love-lorn words That wed so well the plaintive air. Sing on, sweet maid ! Thy tender theme Finds ready echo in my breast — A fitting adjunct to the dream In which with truest love I'm blest. When hearts that love are leal and true And beat to rythm of constancy, What harm could one sad ballad do. Though sung through all eternity? l'envoi. What harm, indeed ! Ah, useless tear That glistens for the days of old, Melt quick away. Full many a year The other lips their tales have told ! 49 "I'M SORRY YOU'RE GOING AWAY " "I'm sorry you're going away," she s lid. Her voice was lo^v and she hun-r her head, While a thrill in my heart bade me beware The danger I knew to be lurking there But where is the man who warning heeds In such a case till his poor heart bleeds? Who is there who does not underrate The arrow of Cupid until to late? Her brown eyes fell and her cheeks grew red ; "I'm sorry you're going away," she said. Oh, years that cruelly intervene The present and that hour between, Put me again wh^re I stood that night — Let me clasp her hand ; let the soft firelight Glow on her cheek and her brow so fair ; Let her lean on my heart ; let me stroke her hair ; Let me kiss herlips as I kissed them then, Over and over, and yet again, And she should never have cause to say To me: ''I'm sorry you're going awav." CONFIDENCE. When I am far away I shall not fear ; Though lonely night and day Never a tear ; Midnight chime and morning dew, Noonday sun and ocean's blue Speak good words to me of you When I am far away. 50 VULNERABILITY. The riveted steel ot his armor shone bright Ln the sunlight of morn, as a gallant young knight Rode forth to the crusades, his plumes waving white O'er the Saxon-light curls of his helmetted brow, And he laughed as he said: ''Who harmeth me now Must needs be a god " And he vowed him this vow : "Whose lance my prevail 'gainst this breastplate of steel His slave will I be; before him will kneel And serve him forever in woe and in weal.'' In fiercely fought combat full many a blow That breastplate withstood, and its silvery glow Paled not 'neath the sunlight, while freely did flow The blood of the Mussulman. Many a lay He sang to his armor: "You shield me alway From Saracen lance ; no arrow, 1 say, Can pierce you and bury its barbs in my heart," All vainly he rekconed ; too late a keen smart Found place in his bosom with (,'upid's swift dart. But tru^^ to his promise, the warrior brave, Knelt low to Love's archer, thus speaking; "I crave The precious permission to be but thy slave, Your arrow hath riven my breastplate of steel, And true to my promise before you I kneel," xlnd Love he served ever in woe as in weal. 51 MY ROUTE-BOOK. In my o:rip-snck I've a treasure Stovv'd mid other jewels there That I look at when I've leisure, And it drives away my care. As my thread of yarn unravels YouMl discover that it is But a record of my travels Since I went "into the biz." Think the faces T remember! Ah, each memory it recalls Flashes up like soft fann'd ember — Lon^ night runs — hotels — and halls ! — This I leave future ages (I have nothing else to leave) — Hut, let's glance into its pages; (It were childish here to grieve.) This is where I joined one ''party ;" This shows where it "busted up ;" This, where Mam'selle Moriarty Lost her blooded poodle pup ; Here I "caught onto" the minstrels; Jay ville — where I made a hit ; Here I licked a ''nigger singer;" Here he licked me ; — here I quit. Thus for hours can I look throught it — Thus for hours its pages scan ; And, although I shouldn't do it Almost cry — although a man. Yes, old route-book, you're a treasure, Others can't your value tell. Oftentimes you bring me pleasure ; Sometimes pain — alas! as well. 52 MY ROUTE-BOOK. Years and years we've been together Through life's fair and stormy weather. And while yet I quaff lifers cup I will love and keep you whether Time falls heavy or hs feather 'Till the final call: ''All up !" VALENTINE. Love's festal day 1 fondly hail, O, sweetheart mine, with youthful glee ! 'Tis then in Fancy's barge I sail Adown Life's stream, fair one, with thee. The winged years have come and flown And mingled sorrow oft with mirth; And yet my love no change has known — I live for thee, sweetheart, alone. And on this day I fain would pay My modest tribute to thy worth. Too fair art thou for verses ready-made And in the windows of the shops display'd ; Their hearts and cupids are imaginary — So yellow, red or blue, and common, very. And, since unfit such homage for thy shrine, I thought to send a real heart with mine. But vain the wish, dear love Why, wouldst thou know ? I had but one. And now send none. Because I gave it thee long years ago? 53 UNDER THE OLD FLAG. fSUGGESTED BY A PICTUKE OF THE SAME TITLE.] Under the dear old flag once more — Under the starry flag That has waved o^er the Nation's army From Lookout's cloud-wrapt crag. Ah ! Tears must start as I look at it; What memories it recalls — That sheet of bunting torn with shot And shells and cannon balls Under the dear old flag again, With its crimson bars and white, And stars that gleam in an azure sky So gloriously bright. Under the same old flag again, Proudly my bosom swells ; T'was under that flag once long ago That we first heard victory's bells ; Begrimmed with dust and powder stains — A soiled and tattered rag — 'Twas at the front of every fray, Our loved and honored flag. Under the dear old flag again That has waved from Lookout's crag, And when I must go 'twould be sweet to die, Under the same old flag. 54 THE LAST LINES. Upon ray pen the readj^ ink At least a dozen times has dried, And to commence that note I think As many times I've vainly tried. I've ruined many a snowy page, Yet can not scrawl the words I^d like ; I've sat and studied, now, an ao:e — I guess my brains are on a strike. But "if at first you don't succeed," My thumb-worn schoolbook used to say, "Try, try again." I really need Just such advice as that today. So here it ^oes; I'll see if she Can snub me ail the time ; I'll dare To write and say she can't — that's me ! — And let her go — I will 80 there ! I've written : "These will be the last Lines I shall ever pen for you, Thc'Ugh I shall ne'er forget the past Sweet days I thought your heart so true. The weary years will come and go And to forget you 1 will try. I've vowed to never see you ; so Those lines will be my last. Goodb\e." And now to send it. Well, I'm half Afraid at last to let it i:0. I fancy now I here her laugh At what I've said — she'll laugh I know ; Or will a quiver come to play Upon those lips so cherry red? And could her smiles be chased away By anything that I have said V THE LAST LINES. 55 Will those dark eyes, so angel bright (That once to me were, oh, so dear!). Be, as are mine now, as I write, Dimmed with a bitter, scalding tear? Will she, as 1 do, choke a sob? Indeed, I'd give a world to know — And would her pretty temples throb Thai I, bad boy, have wiitten soV What have 1 done? Well, sure enough I've torn that letter into bits ; To tell the truth 1 meant a bluff — 1 could not think of playing quits. I'll call and fix things up tonight (By Jove, I guess I'v« changed my mind I) And those lines — if she treats me right — Will be the last lines of their kind. KEQUIES VENIET O waiting soul, Sweet rest will come. The clangint' bell a knell will toll; The cares that form this mundane life, Its myriad sorrows and its strife ; Its aches of heart, of hand, of brain ; Its hopes uufructified, its pain. Will cease at last and eyes that weep Will close their lids in dreamless sleep. The clatigiiig bell a knell will toll And rest will come, waiting soul. 56 A FORTUNATE FLOWER. Violet, That pales the roses — Violet, Each glance discloses Rich simplicity. Before you Floweret ne'er so beauteous. O'er you Kisses linger. I adore you, Violet Yet were you the plainest child Of some nook in forest wild. Ignorant of tender care, Nurtured by the rain and dew. Dallied with by wanton air. Canopied by heaven's blue, Or the vine-hung branches green Waving proudly free between, Not less dearly would I love you, Not less warm the lips above you, Violet. Other ne'er so sweet before you — Lucky violet ! She wore you ! 57 THE GRAVE IN FHE FOREST. Alone in a forest I vvalkM one day — A forest in the ^Vest — Where vines grew thick and dead twigs lay And d^nse green leaves o'erspread the way Where solitude so grim, yet grand, Held sway with solemn, beauteous hand, And winds so wierd my temples fan n'd, I feared to pause and rest. And on I walk'd in the lonely wood That hid the setting sun ; And grander grew the s«:litude. As father stiil I dared intrude. My uncheck'd thoughts ran wild and free, And Melancholy walked with me By mountain stream and rock and tree Ere yet the day was done. Behind we left the measured sound Of the Willamette's flow, Until we stood beside a mound Amid the briars that grew around, And 'neath the grass so greeji and wild, By weary traveler undefiled. Whose hand it was the rude earth piled I did not — do not — know. Above the head that slumber'd there — Drooped low a mountain rose ; No column pierced the balmy air; No sculptured urn held flowers rare ; No mourner trimmed the grass so rank That grew^ upon the long heap'd bank. Beneath its blades wild flowers sank In nature's soft repose. 58 THE GRAVE IN THE FOREST. "Who slumbers here," I musing said, "In lonely, far-off West It matters not Sleep, unknown dead. With blossoms sweet above your head ! What matters your name to the world or meV I'll think you a wanderer, brave and free. And written upon your grave I see Words most beautiful: 'Rest' !" 1 sadly turn'd and backward trod Through forest ot the West ; And weary footsteps press'd the sod — Still with the onward rush they plod. Oft I remember the lonely grave Above which Oregon branches wave And which spoke to me of nothing save Boon we sigh for — Rest. 59 JIGGERED. She's as cunning as a rabbit Is my dainty ingenue — And she has a cunning habit (Which 1 don't mind telling you) She knows everything as "jiggers" — Mary Jones, cats, canes and toddy, Everything and everybody, Trousers, horses, dogs and niggers Are by her translated ''jiggers." When she feels inclined to say In her artless, elflike way : ''Papa's socks will soon fit Willie," She could never be so silly As to rashly mention those Useful garments known as hose. But of speech rings in some figures And for ''socks" she uses "jiggers." How to stop it I have figured, But must give it up — I'm jiggered ! A SLAVE TO HABIT. When I was a little chap 1 fairly used to revel 'Mid the types and presses, for I was a printers' devil. Soon I learned that I must often, with a wheezy bellows. Blow the dust from out my case, as did the other fellows. There the habit grew on me ; and though I'm now a poet. Salary days I draw my "dust," then straightw^ay go and "blow" it. 60 RECOMPENSE. Let poets rave o'er last good-byes And lips that meet \a hen paths diverge ; Oi thrcbbirg hearts and tearful eyes That tell how inward tempests surge ; Time was 1 thought such tales were true, But 'twas not thus with me — and you. Your passioned clasp was warm ihafc night As any clasp the poets sing; The twinkling stars were just as bright; Your kisses full as sweet. The sting Still rankles deep when I recall That night Do you remember all Y Yet, after all, I do not care — Our little, romance-fraught affair Ends not without its brighter side, To- wit : Although I have no bride My circumstances might be worse — The story, hammered into verse And sold at such a price per line Will funds provide to pay for wine My wounded, aching heart to cheer (Unless, forsooth, I stick to beer). Ah, who a somber cloud can find That is not, somehow, silver lined? Ill is the wind that does not blow Somebody good. By gosh, that's so ! 61 RESIGNATION. Good-bye, sweet hope, for aye farewell, TooloDg I've sony:ht to cherish thee ; My aching, empty heart can tell How very much thou wert to me. For me no more thy rays will shine- Some hearts must break — then why not mine? Good-bye, dead hope ; sweet hcpe, good-bye ; No tears have I for thee to shed ; No foolish moisture dims my eye — For what are tears, since thou art dead V 1 too, could die without a sign — Since hearts must break, why should not mine? Rest, buried hope; come not to haunt The heart thy falsity hath slain ; Come not to laugh and jibe and taunt, But in thy sealed tomb remain. Death lurks beneath such sweets as thine — Some hearts must break — then why not mine? THE PLUMED KNIGHT. Upc-n his bier Fittingly spread his Nation's banner — Red as the sunrise of hope ; White as the angel of purity ; Blue as the sky that met his heavenward glance ; Upon it, then, his shield and coat of mail That many an erstwhile enemy's arrow swerved ; His sword and spear And visored helmet, With the proud plume that ever waved In the front of his country's battles. 62 A FLIRTATION. You were such a little one — Such a dainty, frail flirtation — Born of folly and of fun — Fed on faithless admiration — Ended now e'er well begun — Such a very little one ! Thoup^h you're not the passion grand— (Which is out of fashion) yet, Since the time is come to part I'll admit you've touched my heart And I leave you with regret. Everything must have an ending (Foolish tears with smiles are blending- Never mind — I'll soon forget — Strange how much a heart can stand !) Adios, 1 kiss your hand, Cherished little passionette. 63 TWAS BUT A DREAM. Methought I saw, the other night, A wildly cheering crowd Which homaire did nnto a man Of lordly mien and proud, Who condescended now and then To smile upon the throng As he trod upon the roses VVhich his path Wvz're, strewn along. There were lawyers, savants, preachers And inventors there galore ; So many really famous men I'd never seen before Indeed, I saw that in the crowd, (Their lustre somewhat dim) Edison and the airship man Their hats took off to him. My curiosity aroused I asked the haughty one : ''Who art thou? Prithee tell me, And why this homage done ?'^ When with a pitying glance at me He proudly said: '*I am Inventor of a car door The brakeman can not slam !" Then was I 'wakened by a jar That drowned the engine's scream ; The brakeman had pass'd through the car- Alas, 'twas but a dream ! 64 GEORGE WILLIAM CHILDS Correct the proof ; It reads: ''The printer's friend " Correct the proof, Since not aloof From any one who needed aid This good man stood ; his ready hand Dealt charity o'er all the land ; His many generous gifts betrayed The kingly greatness of his heart ; A king in wealth he played his part As would have graced a regal chief And in all hearts a real grief Not very often known holds sway That one so kind lies dead to-day. The printer will his service lend To make a change he needs must own Is surely due, since he alone Is not the only mourner near The noble benefactor's bier- Correct the proof ; It should read : "Everybody's friend." 65 "TAPS." The rippling river flows along beneath the summer moon ; Hush'd now the direful cannon's roar; the night-bird's dreary cnne ; Green boughs soft sigh above me; wierd winds {)lay on my brow All else is still as death itself, my comrade's dying now Within his coat of threadbare blue he thrusts his bronzed hand And says: ''I'm on tiie march, old friend, toward the un- known land. I want these buried with me." "It shall be so," I say, As I look upon his treasures — two tresses — gold and gray. The soft white clouds float slowly by the moon, now sinking low ; The tireless river still rolls on in grand, perpetual flow ; I hear : "You'll, tell them, comrade true, I had no fear ot death ; Tell mother dear I spoke of her unto my dying breath ; And tell the girl I love so well I would not have her weep — That 1 but did my duties well, then gently sank to sleep ; You'll send my saber home to themV" "Yes, Jack, old boy," I say, As tears fall down in torrents on tresses gold and gray. The form in blue before me is chill and silent now ; The damp of death is on his face, and marble white his brow He will not rise at bugle call or sullen cannon's roar — For him the reveille will sound upon another shore. And now a cadence floats above the field o'er-strewn with dead, Where echoed but at twilight hour full many a warlike tread — It is a far, faint bugle call — or 'tis dream, perhaps — That bears to me those knell-like notes — the soldier's re- quiem — taps. 66 ''HERE'S TO YOU, TOM MOORE!" Here's to you, Tom Moore ; wiiene'er I am gay, So are you ; and when care finds a home in my breast, You cheer me with proverb and promise by day, And your melodies hill me, at nightfall, to rest. And when my poor heart loved as other loved never, You spoke for me what my own tongue could not speak ; Your words clothed the thoughts, which, how great the en- deavor, Were murmured alone by the tears on mv cheek. Whene'er heavy-hearted, des[)ondent, and w^eary, Soft chords from your harp find their way through the gloom That pall-like hangs low o'er a pathway full dreary — ^. pathway full dreary that leads to the tomb. Your faithfulness proving you ever are near me; Your friendship, as stanch, Tom, come woe as come weal. And softly you whisper, to comfort and cheer me ; "Earth hath no sorrow that heaven can not heal." f)7 WHERE WE WENT A-SWIMMING. Along the vanish'd years I gaze To boyhood's day ; and see A viiie-vvreathe(i fence ; a grassy bank; A waving old elm tree Whose boughs droop over water That laughed and sparkled so When, in the suQin.er twilight, W^e used to swimming go. When manth d wer«- the golden fields In evening's })urp]e fold, And sparkling dew-drops settled o'er The meadow and the wold ; When the farmer's patient horses Had to pasture plodded $low, Oft we gather'd there in rapture — There we used to swimming go. How delightful ! How refreshing! As we strok'd the cooling waves Sweeter not to we young farmers Fount where daintiest naiad laves. Whip-poor-W'ill's quaint music lulling; 81owly floating with the tide ; Dashing, splashing, kicking, diving. Paddling, racing side by side. Glorious pastime ! How we lov'd it ! Happy theme of days gone by ! To recall its joys supernal Brings the moisture to my eye. 'Tis the same old elm that's waving O'er the water to and fro — Scarcely changed that cosy haven Where w^e used to swimming go. 68 WHEEE WE WE^T A- SWIMMING. I could ask no kindlier favor Than again to frolic there In the sparkling, laughing water — In the fragrant summer air; Than to tread the bank so grassy ; Hear the twittering birds siug low, At that paradise of boyhood Where we used to swimming go ! LOVE'S AMBUSCADE. O, love hath reared a favorite shrine, Where tryst at eve the country lovers; 'Tis there love's agents all combine And near-by Cupid ever hovers The trysling place a woodland lane Melodious made by birds a-singing Sweet madrigals; e'er hill and plain The echoes, fairylike, a-riui^ing; Soft breezes fresh from fields of grain, A wealth of richest fragrance bringing ; The cricket's never-ending tune ; With silvery radiance a-shining Through leafy boughs a glorious moon ; All these their myriad charms combining — All these — a night in beauteous June — Two hearts for love's enchantment pining — Unseen upon the perfumed air Within bow-string drawn sly Cupid hovers- Lovers forces lie in ambush where Do tryst at eve the country lovers. 69 ONLY A bRAKEMAN. Awful the shock when the engiDes met; All was terror, coDfusion, diu ; None who saw it vvill e'er forget The picture that daylight ushered in. Shattered fragments of iron and steel, Splintered wood and battered brass Mingled with broken rod and wheel And someone's blood stained the wayside grass Someone's body, all crushed and torn, (■overed with wound, bereft of breath, Was found 'neath the wreck ; the jacket worn Told how a brakeman had met his death. Someone wept when the news was borne ; Someone mourned o'er the mangled dead, In line of duty from someone torn — Yet ''only a brakeman," the papers said. Sadly they buried him 'neath the sod, Then took the crape from the cottage door ; Over a grave the roses nod — The grave of a brakeman whose run is o'er. 70 SUSPICION. Envied — blest — The stamp she press'd Upon the corner of my letter- That is, I guess'd So ; and, at best, Did anyone know any better? Thinking this. My pretty miss, Whose praises bards might well have sung, You know 'twas bliss For me to kiss The favor'd stamp that touch'd your tongue But, ah ! A shadow falls athwart That ray of joy so bright — oh, horror ! The mere suspicion chills my heart — Perhaps the old man stamped it for her ! 71 REX EST MORT. The king is dead. A funeral p^ll Upon a nation casts its gloom. Within the 'blazoned palace wall Reigns now the silence of the tomb. Around a bier do courtiers mourn ; Bells toll and many a prayer is said ; In wliispered tones o'er Spain is borne The direful news: The king is dead. The king is dead. On foaming steed He never led a bloody charge. He never saw his subjects bleed In battle on their monarch's barge. But when the pestilential air Spread pain and sorrow o'er the land — And death — Alfonso, too, was there, To lend a ready helping hand. The warrior monarch lives in fame And myriad throats his praises sing But full as great Alfonso's name His grateful subjects mourn their king. All honor to the knightly man Who bares his breast in rightful strife, But greater far the king who can Be full as brave in daily life. 72 THE POPULIST. "It's wonderful how |:iopular sh^'s ^ittin' ev'r3^where/' Said Captain Jasper Wayback as he reined his sorrel mare Beside the deacon's carryall to tell him of a trip To Hiawatha. "Ah/^ said he *'weVe ^ot 'em on the hip; The populists is bound to win ; 'pears like a reg'lar boom Is sweepin' over all the land Old parties read their doom As shore's you're a livin' man We're campin' on their trail — With Mary 'Lizabeth to lead there ain't no word like 'fail' Why, out in Kansas City, sir, and in St. Louis, too (I stopped off there to see my darter Ann as I cum' through), They're goin' wild about her; why, I m ready to aver In both o' them are cities they jist fairly worship her. It showed as plain as plain can be that these had times'll cease To see on nearly every house a sign which says *FOR LEASE." AN OLD TIMER TALKS. It happened in Nebraska, In a little, lonely town, Where, gazin-;r o'er the prairie Until the sun went down, You could not see a single knoll ; Sod houses, just a few ; And gray clouds of a stormy sky Obscured the heaverily blue. The show — 'twas not a big affair — Got in town late that day; And business -Ah, I see you're 'on' — The boys weren't ve-ry gay. The manager had ceased to smile — His troubles were too much — The secret spring youVe heard about Was stranger to his touch. We put up at the one hocel — And 'twas a 'yaller' place — Kei>t by an aged pioneer With wrinkled, kindly face. Whose dame was cook and chambermai(] A 'coon' did general work ; The three in turn were seen behind The register, as clerk. Among the jays that hung around There was a likely lad Whose form was stout and chubby, But whose face was pale and sad. I'd say he was 'bout eleven, and A bright young chap was he, Though we might not have noticed it Had nothing happened — seeV 74 AN OLD TIMER TALKS We chewed ; then got the stage ia shape — 'Twas not a stage at all — I mean that we hung our curtains in One end of a chairless hall ; And then by^getting some planks and keys (Procured with *'comps,'' you know) We found ourselves in readiness To give^our bloomin' show. ^Ve always got a kid or two To help around the stage ( When I look back to that lonely night All's plain as a printed page) And on this night we got the boy Who looked so quite forlorn — The same one that had followed us Up town that very morn. There weren't many in our gang, Eight people formed the band — Our man who walked the rope was good — The finest in the land. We stretched his wire as usual, Though prospects seemed quite blue Then stood outside the gloomy hall And played the blue book through. At last^a guy or two went in, But, my ! they came so slow That for a while we had great fears That there would be no show. But when the hour of eight rolled 'round The hall was nearly full And the manager he was the same way, too, A good one, ain't it, cull? AN OLD-TINKR TALKS. 75 We never failed to please the jays ; We did it that night, too ; But everything had been attached We found when the show was through. And wdiat the deuce could next be done I'll own 1 didn't know, But 'tw^as a case of 'hustle' None had a place to go. The 'trouper' must be up to snuflf ; We straightway gave a ball, As soon as the show was over, Right there in the self-same hall. We charged two bits a couple But dancers there were few, And when the last of them had gone What else was there the to do? *Twas no use whining o'er it, We'd all been th^re before, So we laughed and joked while the creditor As sentinel guarded the door. I played some tricks (»n that kid, you know. And the gang stood 'round the while And laughed ; while the boy w^ould feebly try To keep on his face a smile. Our 'human serpent' did a trick. And said : "Do that, young man," He tried and failed, then said with pride "But then my sister can," And when we laughed at \^hat he said His blue eyes opened wide His dirty fists next sought his eyes And that yountr fellow cried. 76 AN OLD-TIMER TALKS. We didn't expect him to do tliat, Nor meant to sorely tease, And Song-aud-Daure says : ''why, what's this? Now, don't cry, Johnny, please; What's up young fellow V tell us all ; Say, w^hat's the racket now?" Then spoke some other cheering words, And stroked the throbbing brow. The young chap told his story ; His folks were very poor; He'd only his mother and sister And these, he told us more, Lived down at the town of Kt^arney A hundred miles or so; He wanted to make some money, And ''couldn't he join the show?" Not a bite he'd eaten that long, long day — I soon can tell you the rest — Pight there we proved a human heart * Lives in a show^man's breast. We 'benefitted' him at once — Dressed in a 'queer' clown suit He turned flip flaps and somersaults And stood on his head, to boot. The gang cried out a ' bravo !'' He took a strong encore, And in response he tried a jig. Though he'd never tried it before, And then McGlone passed round his hat — A battered, glossless tile — And every sucker with the troupe Chipped in from his meagre pile. AN OLD-TIMER TALKS. The boy was tickled 'must to death. And well do I recall The tace of the waiting creditor At the other end of the hall, As he put a dollar in the hat And said; ''Well, I'll be blamed!— Wouldn't thought that of a showman — Gentlemen, I'm ashamed "To think the way I've acted — Hight now I'm a different man ; Go take your traps and do your best And pay me when you can I know the best of people Are likely to get stuck" — And as he opened the door he said : "Good bye; I wish you luck !" To make it short: The landlord said He needed such a boy, And £o he was adopted And 'tis a souice of joy For me to look back to those days As this o'er- true yarn [ tell And remark — I'll see you later — There goes the dinner bell ! 78 WIDOWHOOD. I wait for the boatman ; the night air is chill And raindrops are sullenly falling; The stars all are hidden ; the night bird is still ; The river's sad murmurs my yearning ears fill ; With a sigh for the touch that will ne'er again thrill I wait for the ferryman's calling. I gaze o'er the water and nothing I see ISave dim lights amid the gloom shining. They waver and struggle as if to be free — They waver — they struggle — Oh, what can they be ? They pale and they brighten— but come not to me Who waits for the boatman, repining. It is not the dread of the journey, I own, That pain in my sad heart is keeping ; I heed not the raindrops the cold wind has blown Upon my tired face ; T keep back a moan Because I am waiting alone — all alone — While others have crossed and are sleeping. 79 CAMILLE.! The heartless world kuows little what you feel When you at last are all alone — alone — It wots not of the memories that steal Upon the heart above which jewels shone Only an hour ago Now, in the dark, You drift as castaway from some frail bnrk And see no aid Your doom you m irk, Camille What hope poor ^irlj is yours V Some wound ne'er heal The cruel world don't let them. It will spurn You evermore. Your friends are friends in weal Aside from you they yet will coldly turn, And you alone your throbbing brow will hold And ask in vain their erstwhile lavished gold — Ask and be spurned, when you grow old, Camille Into the path that leads where sweet bells peal Who tries to turn your weary, wayward feet? Poor child of fate ! your direful doom they seal, Then tell of heaven and of salvation sweet. Who of airthese would sit beside you ? Who of these saints would not deride you V They think it is enoUiJ:h to hide you, Camille. 80 THE OLD SWEET SONG. Thy theme is old as earth itself— All history's pages do Dot tell Of time when Cupid— winged elf — Did not his willing victims fell. ^The scroll of time hath never shown The day that did not feel thy beams And many a favored soul hath know^n The bliss that through thy soft glance fleams. Thy theme divine, so sweet, so true, riiough old as time is ever new ! For age on age since earliest time The bard to thee hath tuned his lyre And sung thy praise in simple rhyme And glowing, classic words of fire. And still the poets sing thy praise— A w^orld still listens to eacli note — And echoes many a heart the lays That from the harp inspired float. For though so old. Love, good and true, Thy honeyed tale is ever new ! Unworthy of thy song my voice — Unworthy I to lisp thy name — Enough it is, and I rejoice, To feel within my heart thy flame. Let others court the muse for thee. And worship with their harps more grand, Glad am I e'en thy slave to be- To feel the magic of thy wand. Yet fain Td sing, O, goddess true, Thy old sweet song forever new ! O, what would we poor mortals do Without that old song ever new ! 81 THE COASTER. I. This Qian who with a smiiing face And merry, ringing laugh, And bob-sled following behind, Doth pause and give you chaff About the coasters gliding down The hill of beaten snow% This is the merry, merry man Who would a-eoasting go. II This man with bandage o'er his eye, Who walks with crutch and cane, With arm in sling and patched-up nose, Who moans as if in pain, Who swears when asked about the hill— The hill of beaten snow — This is the merry, merry man Who would a-coasting go. 82 WHEN LIBERATI PLAYED. When me and Kuhnel Slaughtah and The kahnel's brother Bill Were 'tendin' fed'ral cohtlast Apreel Down at Louieville The kuhnel says to me and Bill : *'l motion that we go And pass aw^ay an hour or two A-takin' in some show " Then I remarked a ballet show A propter void would fill, And so did Kuhnel Slaughtah and The kuhnel's brother Bill. And so we all went down the street And bought three parkay cheers — First stoppin' in to have a drink Or two at Rassinier's. We found we'd struck a concert ; not A reg'lar show at all — And Bill he made a motion that We up and leave the hall. But after some discussion we Desided that we'd stay, When the usher told us Signor Liberati was to play. The signor brought his bugle out — It looked like real gold — Then turned to his musicianera And waved a stick as bold As if he was a brigadier- Soon we were glad we strayed By chance into the theatre Where Liberati played. WHEN LIBERATI PLAYED. 83 The first piece was chuck full of notes Tliat run all up and down, And made me think of Morg Adair, The bugler in our town ; And after he had finished it Folks clapped until the dome Of that hall shook. And then he gave Us "Old K-ntucky Home " But still they wouldn't let him go. They kept a-wantin' more — I wondered how on earth he kept His lips from settin' sore- He played us '*Bonny Bessie," Oh, The music that he made ! I never will forget the night That Liberati played. And then he struck up "Dixie," And as the pure notes swelled, I got right up upon my cheer And yelled, and yelled, and yelled, Until the echo seemed to shake The whole of Louieville — And so did Kuhnel Slaughtah and The kuhners brother Bill. There's nothin' like a simple theme To reach a person *s heart And bid from out their slumbrous cells Sweet sentiments to start ; The pure impressions made that night From mine w^ill never fade — 'Twill thrill whenever I recall How Liberati played. 84 BEREFT, There is gold in the sunbeam; the fountain at play Reflects all its splendors in colors most gay ; The robins are piping their songs in the trees, And the fragrance of blossoms makes heavy the breeze- The fragrance of blossoms and roses so red— What are these to the mother whose baby is dead? 85 I CUT THE CARDS. With profuse apologies to tlie author of 'T Cut the Corn."] 1 cut the cards; the other fellow deals; Adown the passageway there softly steals The languorous music of a dago band ; 1 hold four kings — a very goodly hand — Hi:;! raking in the pot the game retards — I only cut the cards. The gilded gan.bling joint in which I sit I-'or court of richest nabob well is fit ; I see a tawny waiter serving drinks With countenance as stoic as a sphinx ; The stuff he serves would kill at forty yards — I only cut the cards. I only cut the cards — a triflinjj: spell After I ante up. It does beat — well, Trade will keep up. It really is a sin How some fool chumps their boodle will blow in By Jove ! The theme is worthy of the bards — I only cut the cards. To give to stanza four the proper boost A fair-haired maiden must be introduced ; Likewise, a lover for her. Understand That in this game they right here take a hand. Thanks — don't mind if I do. Here's my regards — I only cut the cards. To make this pretty parody complete Somebody must be slain. I can't be beat At killing folks in rhyme. I boldly dare To kill 'em oflf in gobs. I do not care How red with gore my verses — do I, pards? I onlv cut the cards. 86 OPPORTUNITY. Fair, tall and limber-limbed, behold, she waits Beside the stony path o'er which I wend My anxious way, and gaily indicates By beckoniniiS and smiles my jouriiey's end. By signs slu- tells me that the joys I seek Await me there. With energy anew And hope's fresh flush upon my faded cheek, 'Mid cruel thorns and noxious weeds and rue I struggle on that I may call her mine E'er she depart as oft she hath before ; That full into my own her e> es may shine ; That 1 may clasp her close, all sorrows o'er. But w^hen I reach the spot whereon she stood No answering word or tou«*h is mine to know ; All echoless, from gray and lonely wood Cold, cheerless, cutting winds upon me blow. I weep as I recall her many charms And fold, ambitioriless, my empty arms. THE ALL SIGHT CLUB. Oh, the All Night Club is an all-right club Tliat meets — no matter where — With its Faitiiful Fool or its Daffy Dub Or its Chief Champ in the chair. Whichever it be his word is law — Be he Fool or Chump or Dub— VVht-n it polishes up its loving cup Look out for the All Night Club. There's an Outer Guard and an Inner Guard, Though neither has much to do ; There's the Potent Prince and the Piggly Par( And the Beggarly Bugaboo; Tliere's th?- Mighty Mick of the Mystic Mug And the Lovable Lord of Luck — \Vhen he reports to that gang of sports His duty's to chase the duck. Then here's a health to the All Night Club Tliat meets — no matter where — With its Fool and Chump and Daffy Dub And its Chaser Away of Care No trumpet flourish marks its meet Nor drum with rub-a-dub-dub, But when it digs up its loving cup Look out for the All Night Club, 88 CLEAR THE TRACK. When the train of truth pulls slowly out It has the right of way ; All trains that it may chance to meet Are doomed to wreck and dire defeat. Once started truth caunot turn back, And truth has started— clear the track ! When you see the train of truth pull out- No matter what men may say — 'Twill never stop. When it seems to sleep ^Tis rolling along. Though the way be steep 'Twill reach the heights and be seen of men Who, somehow, could not see it when It toiled its way through mud and mire, No guide but truth's own signal fire- Once started truth cannot turn back, And truth is coming — clear the track ! 89 THE CANDIDATE. He ran for office; and, alack, it really was a sin That one who had ''a perfect cinch" at last should fail to win. His head is big to bursting; His appetite is gone; And so his ^'boodle" is; and more, his diamonds are in pawn ; The shoutintr of his rival's gang grates harshly on his ear ; He swears he's done with politics for many a long, long year ; He murmurs oft a wicked word beginning with a ''d," For ''one of his legs is longer than it really ought to be." AFTER THE ELECTION. Of all sad words heard round the town The saddest are these : "Dey t'run me down.*' 90 THE RED MEAL TICKET. Say, Jim, do you remember, before we made our pile, That little chop house kept by what's his nameV He fixed no fancy dishes and he didn't put on style, Hut for solid grub he got there, just the same. After puttin* dow^a a dinner that deserves all kinds o' prai«e And costs an even fiver at a clip, My mind it goes a wanderin' to those hungry, hustlin' days And the red meal ticket owned in partnership. The firm, though, never kept no books. Whichever had the coin Would buy a ticket once a vveek or so ; And we'd have our cup o' coffee and a bit o' tenderloin If we'd happen to run out o' ready dr>ugh. Now, since that all is over, and we have made our pile, And can fill our faces full of wine and game, I recall that red meal ticket. Oh, we didn't put on style But we seemed, somehow, to tret there just the same. 91 MAIDEN OF BUCKEYELANI) Here's to you, maiden of Buckeyeland, Jiosy your clieek and soft your hand, Cherry your lips, your eyes how blue, Tresses of daintiest golden hue ; Yours are we ever to command, Beautiful maiden of Buckeyeland. Here's to ynu, maiden of Bufkey eland. Child uf a commonwealth more than grand ! Gentle ^ou^' voice as the wand'ring breeze Which bends the boughs of our buckeye trees Yours are we ever to command, Beautiful maiden of liuckeyeland. 92 EUGENE FIELD. An angel stands at the Dream-Ship's helm, An angel stands at the pro-v, And an angel stands at the Dream-Ship's side With a rue-wreath on her brow. —From one of Eugene FieWs later poems, As ooward the ghostly Dream-Ship sailed An angel wreathed with rue Tost forth a dream of dreamless rest, That fell with the morning dew. A dream of a land that mortal eye Never, perchance, may see ; Where pain and sorrow are never known, A land of mystery. It floated avvay from the Dream -Ship's side The mists of morning through, And tears are in a nation's eyes — For the dream that came wa-^ true. FINIS. INDEX. A Flirtation <)2 A Fortunate Flower 56 A Memory 41 A Protest 13 A Slave to Habit 59 A Song of Bohemia 37 A Sweet, Sad Story , 20 At Eventide 46 After the Election 89 After Thirty Years 34 An Old Man's Reverie 24 An Old-Timer Talks 72 An(>ther View 19 Awav Off 25 Bereft 84 Bell of the Kearsarge 38 By Your Couch Last Night 88 Camiile 79 Caspar Collins 43 Clear the Track 88 Confidence 49 Daddyism 15 93 INDEX. Enchanted , ; 42 Encouragement ,, ... . 11 Esca}>e 12 Establisliiiig a Piecedent , 17 Eugene Field. 92 Faith 40 Fate 29 George William Childs 64 Haunted 45 Heard in Heaven , 39 Here's to You, Tom Moore 66 Hope's Message 42 I Cut the Cards 85 In a Pawnshop 47 Ingenue „.,..... 25 In the Apache Country .- 36 I'm Sorry You're Going A^^ay 49 Jiggered 59 Love's Ambuscade .c.. 68 McClellan's Farewell 35 Maiden of Buckeyeland , 91 Moods 31 My Route Book 51 Not a Good Saddle Horse 29 Old Whiskers . .. 26 On the Stage and Off. 28 Only a Brakeman 69 Opportunity.. 86 94 INDEX. Recompense 60 Refuge 14 Regret 14 Rex Est Mort 71 Requies Veiiiet 55 Resignation 61 Rosina Vol